Late to the Party ✔

5. The burning ring of fire

The first time she'd met Jeanie, she'd been on the hunt for a shooting star.

She'd been at some barbecue with her parents and siblings, sulking behind a shed, root beer in hand. Just before, her mother had chastised her for hanging out with the toddlers and told her to find some kids her own age.

Mary hadn't liked kids her age. They were unnecessarily mean, changed their minds every two seconds, and never listened to a word she said. No, thank you. She'd rather sit here, all by herself, and watch the cloud formations drifting by (most of them were bears or sharks or scorpions chasing various depictions of her parents).

Later, she wouldn't remember what it looked like. She imagined it must've been a streak of fire disappearing behind the low-hanging clouds on the horizon, blazing like a fireball, since she did remember the way she'd leaped up and ran to the adults, her skin tingling with wonder and amazement. She'd seen a falling star, she'd said. Had they spotted it too? Her question had been met with fond laughter and rubs on her head and jokes about girls drinking too much root beer. "A trick of the light," people had said, and, fuming, she'd left whoever's backyard it was and peered at the bright blue sky from the street level, determined to find her star and make a wish.

"It's gone now," another voice had said, and she'd looked up and found a girl perched high on a tree branch, arms and legs full of cuts and scrapes.

That image was one she'd forever keep, couldn't forget even though she tried, because life had never been as full before the moment she'd befriended Jeanie Lucas.

The next day, her dad read in the papers that a small airplane had crashed a few towns over, but she didn't care — it'd brought her Jeanie, so it'd acted like a shooting star, and that was good enough for her.

Tonight, it was several lit cigarettes that burned in the twilight, hanging from the mouths of a group of college kids. Behind them, on top of a picnic table, sat Jeanie. She had her elbows on her knees, her head bowed down, arms curled around it as if to protect herself. Mary couldn't see her face, but she'd recognize those curls anywhere. A sigh of relief escaped her — no matter what she told herself, she'd never stop worrying about that woman.

She hesitated, her mouth set. She could still leave. Jeanie would be hurt and need time to move past her betrayal, but she would — they could live without each other; they'd proven that in the past eighteen years. One less problem to worry about, right? She could turn around right now, take Sheldon and her mom and drive home, and cut any chances for Jeanie to return to her life. The easiest thing.

And yet, she found herself asking the students for a cigarette and a lighter and, blowing out smoke, taking place on the bench next to Jeanie's feet. Finally, she felt herself relax. This was what she'd been longing for all day.

Slowly, Jeanie lifted her head. Her beautiful brown eyes were watery, and tears had traced a path among her many freckles, down to her chin. Mary was glad for the cigarette because she'd had no idea what to do with herself otherwise. Jeanie's gaze settled on it, or maybe on her mouth, and she felt a long-forgotten familiar tug at her chest.

She offered her the cigarette.

Jeanie declined. "I only smoke on special occasions now," she said, the ghost of a smirk lifting the corner of her lips.

"This ain't special enough?"

A full smile now, only for a second. The tears in her eyes glimmered. "Other kind of special."

It took her about ten seconds to catch her meaning, and by then, she was coughing, Jeanie chuckling beside her.

By the time she'd recovered, her mind was foggy, like the smoke had risen to her head.