Page 32 of Lost Lyrebird

I walk away, ready to put some much-needed distance between me and the man who has the power to turn me back into the woman who was too weak to survive on her own.I’m not that girl anymore.And if being around him brings her to the surface, then distance is exactly what I need to keep her at bay.

CHAPTER 8

When our inner compass keeps spinning, we’re left without a direction to move forward.

I fight like the damned to hold on to the dream.I want nothing more than to sink deeper, to pull more details into focus, to see her face clearly—the girl who haunts most of my nights.But it’s no use.She’s a wisp of smoke, slipping away when I reach for her.

I’m tugged into consciousness, chest heaving, sweat coating my skin.I cling to what remains.Nonsensical pieces.Riddles with no rhyme or reason, as if surrendered from a fractured kaleidoscope.There are too many potholes to navigate in my waking hours, too many dead ends.

I’m fucking lost.

A Road Captain with no map.

Unable to move forward for fear of what I’m leaving behind.

Like always, the dream leaves me devastated, filled with longing and regret, as my heart rate begins to regulate.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, pushing my fingers through my hair.For a good while, I sit there and try to hold on to the details.Then I reach into my nightstand for my journal and pen out everything I can remember.More puzzle pieces.Breadcrumbs.And feathers to follow.

I attempt to make sense of the fragments, these small windows into moments from the past, twisted with fantasy, mixed with flashes from my tours of duty and childhood.Sometimes I don’t know what’s real and what shit my brain has made up.However, one thing stands firm, she’s there in some way, hiding in the details, a ghost at the edge of my consciousness.

When I finish jotting it all down, I pull out my highlighters.Green for the Army shit.Purple for the fantasy crap that doesn’t seem real.LikePuff the Magic Dragonshit.Blue for my dad, since it was his favorite color, and pale pink for her.Always pink for her.Because when I think of her, I see a sea of pink details, her bird tattoo, flowers, heels, and pink lemonade in her glass.Even her lips, as plush as they were, were a pretty petal pink, which is the only part of her face I ever get a good glimpse of.

Line by line, I highlight it all.It’s a ritual, and my way of navigating the madness inside my head.

When I’m finished, I drop the journal into the bottom drawer of my nightstand and send up another prayer to the man upstairs.Not God, but my father.Because God may have given up on me long ago, but I know for damn sure my old man hasn’t.He’s throwing me guidance.I just have to be smart enough to pay attention and recognize it when it comes.

I check the time on my phone and see it’s a little after eight.I don’t hear any movement outside my door, so I quickly tug on some jeans and head to the window, buttoning them as I go.As expected, my ‘70 Roadrunner and two bikes sit in the driveway.

After crossing the loft, I bang on Mateo’s door.When there’s no response, I swing his door open.I’m greeted by the rank smell of teenage boy, gym socks, with the recent addition of sex.His mom is going to have a field day when I tell her, but fuck, it’s not like I can judge him when I was doing the very same thing at his age—sneaking girls through my bedroom window at night to get my rocks off, all under the parental radar.

However, with the number of hours I spend at Wet Tips and the clubhouse, it’s not like I can put him on lockdown or monitor his goings-on.

As suspected, Mateo is sprawled facedown on his bed, his head under a pillow.He’s so tall now that one foot hangs off the end of the twin bed.

But in my defense, when he first moved in, it was supposed to be for a few weeks.Now it appears as if he’s here for the foreseeable future, instead of moving back in with his mom.

With no clear path to the bed, I toe shit out of the way—discarded clothes, and crumpled sheets of paper.My gaze drops to the sketchpad lying open on the floor.There are lines of text in chicken-scratch penmanship, but most of the page is covered in a drawing of a skeletal face screaming.Its mouth gapes open as if it’s using every fiber of its being to yell to the heavens.There’s also black smoke and debris shooting out from its body.

Dark shit, but I’m honestly happy he’s getting it out in some way.This exact thing worked for me.I’m hoping it does the same for him.

I jostle the bed with my foot.“Mateo!”

A groan and a grumbled “Stop” come from under the pillow.He grips it tighter, pressing it down over his head.

“You’re late.”

“I’m already failing my Chem class.What does it matter?”

“You’re failing because you keep missing the first hour and don’t make up the work.Your mom’s not gonna let you stay here if your grades keep dropping.”

He mutters something that I don’t catch and continues to lie there.

“Get moving, or you’ll be taking a bath in ice water again.”

He curses under his breath, knowing I don’t make idle threats.In the next instant, he flings the pillow at the floor.The glare he hits me with is lethal.His irises are brown and deep pits of anger.But I’ve dealt with far scarier men, so his attempt to stare me down has the opposite effect and causes me to chuckle under my breath.

He throws the duvet off, revealing long, hairy legs and black briefs.Thank fuck he doesn’t sleep nude, or it would be awkward as fuck.Though yeah, with his morning predicament, there’s still that.So I turn and walk out.