Over and Run With - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Seven

I used to be afraid of heights.

I still am, I suppose, although fear seems like too strong of a descriptor.  I know fear.  I know it well.  Fear is the senseless ramblings of a best friend, it's a threat spelled out in flame, it's a brother as he bleeds out above the Atlantic.  Fear is dense, and heavy, and huge.

In comparison, my fear of heights now feels like more of an unease.  A general sense of caution.  So despite the perfectly climbable rooftop at the Goode Italian safehouse, I settled for simply parting the curtains, yearning for the days when the world didn't seem so big, and the sky didn't seem so far away.

Luke didn't make it back to me until we were already well into the night. Despite my best efforts, he caught me as I began to doze off. I had trouble sleeping, sometimes, but my mind felt unusually settled that night. The exhaustion of the day made the squeaky pullout mattress feel like a dream. For once in my life, I was pretty certain of what I was going to do before I did it. "Why is it," he said, "that I always find you in the shadows?"

I hadn't thought about it all that much when I'd snuck up to the tiny little attic office, but he was right. I had once again been drawn to the room with all the shadows. The only source of light was the warmth of the library lamp perched atop the desk, casting a series of soft silhouettes across the room. Most of the space was eaten up by dark cabinets and bookshelves to match. When I really, properly opened my eyes, there was so little difference between the shadows and sleep, and it made me want to drift back into dreamland. "Probably," I drawled, "because you're always looking for them, same as me."

His laughter was light, as though it was the truest thing he'd ever heard, and his footsteps creaked along the floorboards. One, two, three, four, until he was finally sinking down to my level, crawling across a mattress that was just as worn as he was. He shuffled in close, burying his face in fleece, and for a brief moment in time I despised him for taking me away from my sleepy pocket of warmth. But lucky for him, all was forgiven once we became a tangle of limbs and torsos, because he was warmer than any attic afghan.

From here, we could look up through the window and see the stars. It was almost as good as the roof.

My words felt physically heavy as they left my lips. "Did the great and powerful Cameron Goode get everything she wanted out of you?"

He was sprawled out on his stomach, eyes drifting shut. I could feel his words against my ear, his voice wrapped up in blankets. "Not everything she wanted," he said. "But at least everything she needed. Y'know, there was a time when I thought your dad was the intimidating one."

His hair stood up in all of the strangest places, and there was no way for me to resit. I had to comb my heavy fingers through it, again, and again, and again. "Nah," I said. "Mom's the scary one. Always has been. Which is ironic when you consider..."

And once again I heard that crack. The rest of the world was drowning in sleep, soggy with the silence that was soon to come, but that crack of my father snapping someone's spine rang loud and clear in my mind.

I felt my back tighten, my shoulders stiffen. An involuntary tick as the thought settled in my bones. My hand stopped brushing through his hair and Luke did his best to ignore it, but one of his eyes eased open and I knew in my heart that he had noticed. He always notices.

He didn't break his stride. "When you consider...?"

That was the thing about Luke. We always just picked up where we left off. He never fussed. He never worried. He never wanted to be my hero and he never placed me up on a pedestal, for fear that I would shatter otherwise. It was just honest, necessary, and normal. I felt so normal with him. I could have stayed in that moment with him for an eternity, just to feel safe and sane and simple.