"You don't have to. I covered it. Birthday present. Early."
"My birthday's in July."
"Consider it an advance." She grabbed my hands, squeezed. "Please. One night. No dancing, no grabbing hands, no pretending. Just music. Loud music. And maybe a drink or two.You used to love music, Had. Remember? Before everything went to shit, you used to blast that old CD player in your room and dance like nobody was watching."
I remembered. God, I remembered.
"I don't know..."
"One night," she pressed. "If it sucks, we leave early. I'll even drive you home myself so you don't have to take the bus at three a.m."
I looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were bright, hopeful, a little scared I'd say no again. Zariah didn't ask for much. Not from me. She gave more than she took, always had.
I sighed. Long. Defeated. "Fine."
Her face split into a grin so wide it looked painful. "Yes! Oh my God, yes. You won't regret it. I swear."
"I already do."
She laughed, punched my arm lightly. "Liar. Tomorrow, at seven. I'll pick you up. Wear something cute. Not club cute, normal cute."
"I don't own normal cute."
"Then borrow mine. I got you." She hugged me quick, perfume and hairspray and relief. "Thank you. Seriously."
"Yeah, yeah." I hugged back anyway. "Don't make me regret this."
"Never."
I left her there, still buzzing, while I pushed through the back door into the alley. The desert air hit me like a slap, cooler than inside, dry enough to crack my lips. I pulled my hood up, walked fast past the smokers clustered near the dumpster, past the valets flirting with the cocktail girls. My bus stop was three blocks away. I kept my head down, hands in pockets, counting the bills in my mind. Enough for rent if I stretched it. Enough for Eli's new meds if the pharmacy didn't hike the price again. Not enough for anything else.
The bus was late. Always was on Fridays. I sat on the curb, backpack between my feet, and stared at the neon sign across the street flickering "Girls Girls Girls." It felt like a joke aimed right at me.
When the bus finally screeched to a stop, I climbed on, paid with crumpled ones, found a seat in the back. The ride was quiet. Most people were drunk or exhausted or both. I leaned my head against the window, watched the city smear past, casinos, pawn shops, wedding chapels with heart-shaped signs. Vegas never slept. Neither did I, most nights.
My stop came too soon. I got off, crossed the cracked parking lot of the apartment complex, climbed three flights of stairs that smelled like curry and mildew. Key in the lock. Quiet turn. Door creaked open.
The living room light was on low. Eli was curled on the couch under the quilt I'd bought at a thrift store two years ago, blue with little stars, his favorite. He didn't look up right away. He was focused on the tablet propped on his knees, earbuds in, watching one of his train videos. The same one he'd watched a hundred times. Maybe more.
I set my bag down soft. "Hey, buddy."
His head jerked up. Eyes wide behind his glasses. "Hadley!"
He scrambled off the couch, quilt dragging behind him like a cape. I dropped to one knee so he could crash into me. Arms tight around my neck. He smelled like shampoo and the peanut butter sandwich he'd probably had for dinner.
"You're home," he said into my shoulder. Voice muffled.
"Yeah. I'm home." I hugged him back, careful not to squeeze too hard. He didn't always like pressure. But tonight, he did.
He pulled back, studied my face. "You smell like glitter."
I laughed, real, surprised. "Yeah. Work was sparkly tonight."
He nodded seriously. "Glitter is messy. But pretty."
"Sometimes." I stood, offered my hand. "You finish homework?"
"Most. Math is stupid."
