Before We Lit It Up

5| After

California is everything I expected, but at the same time, not. I had expected the weather, and thanks to this time of the year – when it's humid in Chicago – the change in the temperature isn't too dramatic. The airport in San Francisco is crowded at this time, it probably always is, and I try to block out the drone of voices, but can't stop from looking at everyone to the point that it's definitely freakish.

But I definitely can't stop, and as I make my way to the revolving doors, I can't help but continue drinking in the diverse outfits and appearance of everyone. Tall. Short. Mediocre. Asian. European. Hispanic. African. From the way I'm trying to memorize everyone, it's clear that I've been suffering from people-withdrawal. I have three years to make up for it.

I keep glancing over my shoulder as I exit the airport and walk to the parking lot at the side of the airport – at least a fifteen minute walk because the airport's huge – and to the lowest level. There are less cars here, so I know I'll find the car sooner. She had given me her license plate and a general description.

I repeat it in my head as I stand on the tips of my toes and survey the parking lot, some parts cast in shadows while the rest is encased in a yellow glow from the overhead lights. It smells of exhaust and fume.

Stark, bright red.

Toyota, Corolla style.

With the license plate FEARME1.

I snort at that when I see it. It's such a her thing. The number is probably only there because it had to have seven spaces, but the rest is all her.

Harlow.

Spitfire, with a creative mind and even more creative insults, and a teddy bear on the inside.

She and I coordinated everything, from the timing, to the apartment I'd share with her and the interviews I had to take tomorrow. She's a godsend, and even though I've never had a face-to-face conversation with her, I love her. She's the sister I always wished for, and the person I will always be indebted to.

I find the car soon enough, the glass dark enough that I can't see anything or anyone inside. Bending down, I knock on the glass, hoping my voice isn't as scratchy as it was before. With a low whir, the glass lowers, and I finally get to see her face-to-face. I don't know why I envisioned her to be a little... taller. Not that I am prejudiced, but she really fits the words 'though she be tiny, she is fierce' perfectly.

Simultaneously, I try to study her and pay attention to what she's saying. She seems Asian, maybe Japanese, with a hint of caucasian background. Her neat black hair is cut to her chin, with neat bangs over her brows. She has a small, pert nose, with a light smattering of freckles over them, and sharp, dramatic eyeliner adorns her almond–shaped eyes.

"Layla, right?" She gets right to it, voice light but determined, dark eyes alight with excitement and curiosity.

I nod my head slowly, and refrain from reaching over and pulling her into a hug. Even though I know her well, that was all over texts. She's even more intimidating in person and she's only said two words to me.

"Great. Just so I know it's you. Favorite artist?"

My earlier fear easily loosens at that. She's the same person I've known for the past two and a half years. "You mean one? No, I don't have one favorite artist, but the top three would be Mendes, Gomez, and Halsey."

She grins slowly at that, white teeth flashing. "Favorite book couple?"

"Again, not one, but Rhysand and Feyre are close to the top."