Fly Away (Firefly Lane 2)

Tully said a lot of pretty things and her eyes filled with tears, but in the end, the answer was no.

Marah wanted to cry, she was so disappointed. “My mom said I could count on you. When she was dying, she said you’d help me and love me no matter what. ”

“I’m trying to, Marah. I want to help you—”

“As long as I do what you want. Paxton was right. ” Marah said the last words in a jangle of pain. Without even waiting for Tully’s response, she ran out of the condominium. It wasn’t until she was in the bus station in downtown Seattle, sitting on a cold bench, that she knew how to solve her problem. Beside her was one of those celebrity magazines. It was open to a story about Lindsay Lohan, who’d been pulled over driving a Maserati while she was on probation. The headline read STAR OUT OF CONTROL ONLY DAYS AFTER LEAVING REHAB.

Marah picked up the magazine, called the hotline number, and said, I’m Marah Ryan, Tully Hart’s goddaughter. How much would you pay for a story about her drug problem? Even as she asked the question, she felt sick. Some things, some choices, you just knew were wrong.

“Marah? Check this out. ”

She heard her name as if from far away. She came to slowly, remembering where she was: kneeling in Tully’s closet.

Her godmother was in the hospital, in a coma. Marah had come here to find the iPod that held all of Tully’s favorite songs so that maybe—just maybe—the music could reach through the darkness and help Tully to wake up.

Marah turned slowly, saw Paxton holding a half-eaten hamburger in one hand while he pawed through Tully’s jewelry box with the other. She got slowly to her feet.

“Pax—”

“No, really. Check it out. ” He held up a single diamond stud earring nearly the size of a pencil eraser. It flashed colored light, even in the dark closet.

“Put it back, Paxton,” she said tiredly.

He gave her his best smile. “Oh, come on. Your godmother wouldn’t even notice if this went missing. Think of it, Marah. We could go to San Francisco, like we’ve been dreaming of. You know how stuck I’ve been in my poetry. It’s because of our money and how we don’t have any. How can I be creative when you’re gone all day, working?” He moved toward her. Reaching out, he pulled her close to him, pressed his hips into hers, moving suggestively. His hands slid down her back and settled on her butt, then tugged hard. “This could be our future, Mar. ” The intensity in his black-rimmed eyes scared her just a little.

She pulled out of his arms and stepped back. For the first time, she noticed the selfishness in his gaze, the thin rebellion in his mouth, the pale hands that were softened by laziness, the vanity in his dress.

He took the silver and black skull earring out of his earlobe and put Tully’s diamond in its place. “Let’s go. ”

He was so sure of her, so certain she would fold her will into his own. And why wouldn’t he be? That was what she’d done from the beginning. In Dr. Bloom’s office she’d seen a gorgeous, troubled, wrist-slashed poet who’d promised her a way through her pain. He’d let her cry in his arms and told her that song lyrics and poems could change her life. He’d told her it was okay to cut herself—more than okay, he said; it was beautiful. She’d dyed her hair and cut it with a razor blade and painted her face white in grief. Then she’d followed him into the underbelly of the world she’d known and let its darkness seduce and conceal her.

“Why do you love me, Pax?”

He looked at her.

It felt as if her heart were hanging from a thin, silver hook.

“You’re my muse. You know that. ” He gave her a lazy smile and went back to pawing through the jewelry box.

“But you hardly write anymore. ”

He turned to her. She saw the anger flash in his eyes. “What do you know about it?”

And there went her heart, tearing free, falling. She couldn’t help thinking about the love she’d grown up around. The way her parents loved each other and their kids. She took a step forward, feeling strangely as if she were both breaking free and growing up at the same time. She imagined the view from the living room, of Bainbridge Island, and suddenly she ached for the life she once had, for the girl she’d once been. It was all still there for her, just across the bay.

She let out a deep breath and said his name.

He looked over at her, impatience etched in his jaw, darkening his eyes. She knew how much he hated it when she questioned his art. Come to think of it, he hated to be questioned about anything. He loved her most when she was quiet and broken and cutting herself. What kind of love was that? “Yeah?”

“Kiss me, Pax,” she said, moving close enough for him to take her in his arms.

He kissed her quickly; she held on to him, pulled him close, waited for his kiss to consume her as it always had.

It didn’t.

She learned then that some relationships ended without fireworks or tears or regret. They ended in silence. It scared her, this unexpected choice, showed her the depth of her loneliness. No wonder she’d been running from it for years.

She knew how wounded he had been by his sister’s death and his parents’ abandonment. She knew that he sometimes cried in his sleep and that certain songs could turn his mood as black as ink. She knew that just saying his sister’s name—Emma—could unsteady his hand. There was more to him than the poet or the goth or even the thief. Or, someday, there could be more. But he wasn’t enough for her now.