“Well, she should worry when I’m around you. Some of the crazy stuff we do … I’m surprised we haven’t gotten into trouble yet.”
“Give us time.” She nudges my foot with hers when I frown at her. “I’m kidding. Everything we do is safe.”
Safe?
The word still feels so foreign to me.
Nothing like the word fear.
Fear is like air.
Breathable.
Because I know it.
I fear the things I don’t know.
Like friendship.
And losing it.
Loss.
Like the loss of my memory.
My childhood.
I lace my boot up then stand up, and she has to angle her chin to look up at me.
“Fine, I’ll go with you, as long as you promise that I’ll come back in one piece for Mrs. Gregory’s sake.” I don’t know why, but the woman seems to like me. Everyone in the house does, even though I rarely talk.
“All right, getting you back in one piece is doable,” Lyric muses then spins around and runs through the kitchen, swiping up a dab of frosting from the cake on her way around the island.
We find Mrs. Gregory in the living room, and after a little bit of persuasion—mostly from Lyric—she lets us go.
“Just be careful,” Mrs. Gregory says, moving in toward me with her arms out, as if she’s going to hug me. Like always, I tense and she promptly backs away. “And be safe, please.” She smiles, but it’s laced with concern.
I’m still getting used to the whole caring-about-my-wellbeing thing, so I hesitate as my mind catches up with the scene and the emotions connected to it.
I nod then clear my throat and lower my voice so Lyric won’t hear me. “Um, I’ve been meaning to ask you if you found out how my brother and sister are doing.”
Sympathy masks her expression. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I couldn’t find anything out. They said the files were confidential.” She comfortingly places a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe when they’re eighteen we can start looking again. It’ll be more possible to find them then.”
Smashing my lips together, I nod then rush after Lyric and out the front door before Mrs. Gregory says anything further.
My chest is still pressurized from last night’s dream, and now the whole thing with my brother and sister bears down on me. But after we’ve been in the fresh air for a few minutes, the pressure starts to alleviate. Always does. Houses do that to me. Rooms. Walls. Confinement.
“All right, here’s what I’m thinking,” Lyric announces as we hike up the driveway toward the open garage of her house. “Today, we are going to fly.”
I gape at her. “In case you haven’t noticed, people can’t fly.”
She grins back at me. “Oh, ye of little faith.” She squeezes into the garage between the two ridiculously awesome cars that belong to her parents, ones I long to touch, but have never worked up the courage to.
I notice she has an iPod tucked in her back pocket that I’m sure will serve some sort of purpose later on. When she emerges again, she has her bike.
“We’re going to take this bad boy down to Cherry Hill.”
“No way. That hill is freaking steep. Plus, aren’t we a little too old for bikes?”
“We are never too old for bikes.” She juts out her lip. “Pretty please. With a cherry on top.”
It’s really hard not to say yes to her when she looks like that. Still, I’m torn between coming back to Mrs. Gregory in one piece and making Lyric happy.
“All right, I’ll do it, as long as we wear helmets. And take my bike.”
“I’ll agree to the helmets, but we have to take my bike. Yours doesn’t have pegs.”
“Why do we need pegs?”
A mischievous grin lights up her face, and I know I’m in for something really iffy when we reach that hill. “You’ll see.”
Ten minutes later, I’m riding a purple bike, wearing a helmet, and Lyric is standing on the back pegs. She has her hands placed on my shoulders, and I’m both content and uneasy about the touch—always am.
“Okay, stop the bike right here,” she says, pointing over my shoulder at the center of the street on top of Cherry Hill.
I aim the bike in the direction and plant my feet onto the asphalt when we arrive at the spot. The inclined road, bordered with lofty, narrow homes, makes me dizzy.
“Are you sure about this?” I warily eye the bottom of the hill, which is an intersection.
Nodding, she pops an earbud into my ear while placing one in her own. “I have to do this, Ayden. It’s important to my musical inspiration.”
As the lyrics of “Fire Fire” by Flyleaf fill my head, I summon a deep breath, pick up my feet, and position them on the pedals. I don’t even have to put pressure on them. The bike takes off on its own and descends quickly down the hill, gaining momentum the further down we go. I start to grow nervous, and my nerves only escalate when Lyric’s hands leave my shoulders.
“What the heck are you doing?” I peek back at her while grasping onto the handlebars.
“Flying.” She has her arms spanned out to the side, her head angled toward the sky. Her long blonde hair blows out behind her as the wind dances through it. Moments later, she shuts her eyes.
Everything pauses. The freedom she carries is a beautiful, enthralling sight. So enthralling that it feels like I’m falling …
“Ayden, look out!” Lyric shouts, her eyes wide open as her hands clamp down on my shoulders.