One Last Dance

~The picture is Lyla~

Lyla Andrews watched the police car, hidden in the shadows of the town’s local library. Cool bricks pressed against her back. The soft breeze tugged gently at the edges of the black hood pulled low over her face. The low rustle of the leaves from the maple she stood under calmed her pounding heart. 

She had spent sixteen years slipping in and out of the background, which had made staying hidden and unnoticed second nature. 

The cops eyes swung in her direction. She slunk farther back into the darkness. Her dark attire would blend into the evening shadows, but still, she couldn’t quench her paranoia or the pounding of her heart. Had they seen her? She glanced down, relieved to find herself blended in so well she couldn’t even make out the black combat boots, black ripped up skinny jeans, or baggy black hoodie. Safe. At least, for now.

Her senses heightened with the adrenaline running through her veins. The chatter of the crowd moving along the city street in front of her a subtle undertone to an ambulance’s shrill cries in the distance. The faintest whiff of the hotdog stand the cops were at mixed well with the scent of the freshly watered grass beneath her feet.

Lyla didn’t relax until the cops got their lunch, climbed back into the cruiser, and drove out of sight. With a small, bittersweet smile, she stepped out from the shadows. Her head down, she blended effortlessly into the crowd. 

The hot dog stand was her goal. She knew she could flirt her way past the young man running it with ease. She was six steps away from the glory of food, when out of nowhere a phone began ringing loudly in her backpack. She tripped a little, growling as anger knotted her stomach and rid her of any desire for food. She pulled the worn bag off her shoulders and did a quick search to find the culprit.

It took a few moments, but soon enough she pulled out her brother’s phone. When the hell had he gotten the money to turn it back on? 

She spat out a low, unintelligible string of profanity, flipping it open. 

“What?” She hissed, expecting Leo to laugh, drunk off his ass, and hang up. 

“Ly-Ly?” She paused at the sound of his smooth, rich voice, like chocolate and coffee combined. He sounded like the Leo she had known before their parents had died.

“What?” Her voice was softer this time. 

“Where are you?” He was quiet and calm, with just the barest hint of desperation in his voice, as if his head was his own. 

“Why does it matter?” Her words were barely more than a whisper, as her composure cracked and a little of her hurt and vulnerability seeped through.

 Leo swallowed loud enough that she could hear him, and her heart skipped a beat. “Listen, Ly-Ly, I got us a nice little two bedroom house, and I’ve had a steady job at the hardware store for just over six weeks now. Would you please come back home?”

Six weeks? Wow, that was a record, normally Leo couldn't handle more than six days. But how the hell did he get a house? Only one person she knew would give Leo a job and a place.

 Stuffing down the hope rising in her chest, she hung up and dialed the number of the local hardware store in Province, Colorado. 

Lyla fidgeted, her nerves frayed and tattered, until Tucker came on the phone.

 “This is Tucker McCarthy speakin'.”

“Hey, friar Tuck, it’s me.”

“Lyla? 'Ow are ye, swee'heart? It's, been wha', three months now since ye left? Are ye doin' alri'?” 

She smiled. She'd forgotten just how heavy his Scottish accent had been, and it warmed her up like a hot bath, and soothing off her stress and worries.

“Well, that depends a lot on you, Friar Tuck. Listen, how long has DaVinci been working there, and how did he get a house?” She held her breath, her near future depending on his words. “Jus' o'er six weeks, an I’m ready to promote the lad to manager. I been watchin’ him for mont’s, since ye up an’ left. He really woke up after tha’ Lyla. Tha’s why I se’ ‘im up in one o’ me ol’ places an’ gave ‘im a job. I t'ink he’s finally beaten that darkness inside o' him.”

Lyla let out a sigh of gratitude. If the burly rough old Scotsman was under the impression that Leo was better, then he had come a very long way. Friar Tuck was rarely wrong, and she trusted him with everything. Her life, her hopes, dreams, everything.

She hung up then, and started walking to the nearest bus stop, lost in thought. Did she dare hope that this time, after so many failed attempts before to make it work, it was real?