Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

It felt desperately solemn, this moment. He leaned forward slowly, so slowly she knew he expected her to push him away, but she couldn’t. Right now, nothing mattered except the way he looked at her. She’d been cold and dead until this second; he’d brought her back to life. She didn’t care if he was dangerous or did drugs or couldn’t be trusted. This feeling, this coming alive, was worth any risk.

His kiss was everything she’d dreamed a kiss could be.

“Let’s get high,” he murmured softly, his lips against hers. “It’ll make you forget it all. ”

She wanted that. Needed it. All it took was the smallest of nods.

September 3, 2010

1:16 P. M.

Ping. “Flight attendants, please take your seats. ”

Marah let go of the memory and opened her eyes. Real life came back with a vengeance: it was 2010. She was twenty years old and sitting in an airplane, flying to Seattle to see Tully, who had been in a car accident and might not make it.

“Are you all right?”

Pax.

“They don’t love you, Marah. Not like I do. If they did, they would respect your choices. ”

She stared out the small window as the plane touched down and taxied to the terminal. A man in an orange vest guided the plane to its parking place. She spaced out watching him, her vision blurred, until what she saw was a ghostly image of her own face in the window. Pale skin, pink hair, cut with a razor and gelled in place along her ears, and black-rimmed eyes. A pierced eyebrow.

“Thank God,” Paxton said when the seat belt sign clicked off. He unhooked his seat belt and grabbed his brown paper bag out from under the seat in front of him. Marah did the same.

As she walked through the terminal, Marah clutched the wrinkled, stained bag that held all of her possessions. People glanced at them and quickly looked away, as if whatever had turned two kids into goths might be contagious.

Outside the terminal, smokers clustered beneath the overhang, puffing away, while the loudspeaker reminded them that it was a nonsmoking zone.

Marah wished now she’d told her dad what flight they’d be on.

“Let’s get a cab,” Paxton said. “You just got paid, right?”

Marah hesitated. Paxton never seemed to quite grasp the truth of their finances. Her minimum-wage job didn’t exactly afford them the money for luxuries like a cab ride to Seattle from SeaTac. Hell, she’d had to sell her soul for the money to stop an eviction this month (Don’t think about that, not now), and she was the only one of the roommates who even had a real job. Leif sold pot for a living, and Mouse panhandled. No one wanted to know what Sabrina did, but she was the only other one who seemed to ever have money. Paxton was too creative to hold down a steady job—it cut into his poetry-writing time, and that was their future.

But when he sold his poetry, they’d be rich.

She could have said no to the cab, but lately it was too easy to make him angry. It wasn’t as easy to sell his poetry as he’d thought and the truth of that bothered him. She had to constantly reassure him about his talent.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Besides, Daddy will give you money,” he said, and he didn’t sound unhappy about the prospect. It confused her. He wanted them to have nothing to do with her family. So why was it okay to take money from them?

They climbed into a cab and settled into the brown backseat.

Marah named the hospital and then leaned back against Pax, who put an arm around her. He immediately opened his worn, dog-eared copy of Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness and began to read.

Twenty-five minutes later, the car came to an abrupt stop in front of the hospital.

It was raining now, one of those nibbling, inconsistent September rains that came and went. In front of her, the hospital was a sprawling structure crouched beneath the battleship-gray sky.

They walked into the brightly lit lobby and Marah came to an abrupt stop. How many trips through this lobby had she made in her life?

Too many. And none had been happy.

Sit with me during chemo, baby girl. Tell me about Tyler …

“You don’t have to do this,” Pax said, sounding a little irritated. “It’s your life, not theirs. ”