Lullaby
Drip. Drip.
Droplets splattered onto the wooden flooring as Lonnie heaved her way through the window pane. Lightning cracked behind her, briefly illuminating the sparse attic.
"Sam!" she hissed, tumbling further into the room. After a few moments scrambling in the dark, her eyes adjusted to the soft glow of red lights—their only source of light in this room, besides a single lamp they'd moved to the table around the corner.
She wasn't sure what she'd do if Sam hadn't sneaked up here tonight. She'd have to sneak down and edge her way past her mom and dad's bedroom to get to her—not something she wanted to risk again.
Her eyes adjusted to the sights of the attic—the crumpled sleeping bag, the fluttering pictures—and spotted a faint glow from the far hallway. Her shoes squeaked as she moved, and Lonnie broke into a smile as she turned the corner.
The white lamp flooded the table, pooling around Sam and her notebook as if the light itself protected her from the steady storm outside.
"Saa-aaam," she tried again, voice teasing.
The blonde-haired girl dropped her pen as she flipped back. Her face light up and she sprinted to meet her, pulling her into a hug.
"I didn't think you'd come," Sam said. But she didn't move, and instead wrapped her arms tighter around Lonnie.
"We live in Oregon," she laughed. "Rain's not stopping me. And I've walked through worse," she said, raising her hands to wring out her wet hair. And yet water darkened her sopping clothes, and her shoes squeaked with every shift.
Water dripped from Lonnie's red-tinted hair, and Sam pushed it back. "You know, we have towels," she said. "Stay here. I'll be back." She pulled away, slipping back through her darkroom and then disappearing down the hatch.
Thunder boomed in the distance. The rain picked up, clattering against the windows. Lonnie simply examined the photos, attention catching on a print she hadn't seen before.
They'd taken it on an unusually clear and sunny day, the light casting crisp and distinct shadows. Sam had paused on the edge of a driveway, taking a picture of the dark shapes on the concrete. Lonnie had stuck her hands out in an universal 'rock out' symbol, and Sam had simply held her camera.
She moved her hand away, picture gently swaying on the clothesline among all of the other processed pictures.
Footsteps echoed as Sam climbed her way back up the stairs, dry towel loosely wrapped around her shoulders. She gave a final heave as she pulled it closed again and made sure the lights still glowed both downstairs and up. With a slight smile, she tossed the towel.
"Thanks," Lonnie said, easily catching it . She dabbed at her clothes and then patted at her hair, drifting back towards the photos. "You know, these are really good."
Sam gave a slight smile.
"I mean it," she said, gesturing to all of the pictures—of them, of their locket, of their clasped hands. "They're beautiful," Lonnie said, studying Sam's face for a long moment and grinning.
Sam pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, softly shaking her head. She hugged an arm tightly across her chest. Once again she fell quiet, trailing her hand against the table as she stared at the fluttering photographs.
"Look at these," said Lonnie. "You see things that no one else can, and you're always with your camera. You'd be the best photographer."
Sam didn't respond, and instead rubbed at her elbow. Her gaze drifted back to the slight alcove and to the window, still opened a crack from Lonnie entering.
"You didn't close it all the way," Sam said, absently trailing off as she moved across the room. The wind and angle of the rain had let water spray in, dotting the dark floors and sprinkling across the wrinkled sleeping bag. Her shoulders ached and the house gave a groaning creak as she pushed on the window pane until it slammed down. Sam's knuckles banged against the window sill.
"I hate this house," she hissed, wiping off her hands on her pants. She sunk down to the floor, using the side of her hand to wipe off the sleeping bag they shared each night they could.
Wordlessly, Lonnie plopped down beside her. She rested her arms around her knees, rocking forward slightly.
"I meant it, you know," she said. " You're telling just as much of a story with your camera as you do with words. You're just so good with both."
Sam plopped her chin onto her knees. "Writing's my dad's thing. Not mine," she said. "I've tried. I've tried so hard with Captain Allegra—"
"—and her First Mate," Lonnie piped in.
"—but it just never comes out right. I write it again and again and it just never works. And I've seen that letter that my grandpa wrote, telling my dad just how much of a disappointment his book was," she said, giving a slight shrug. "I guess it just runs in the family."
Lonnie gave an inadvertent snort. "Sam, we've both read what your dad writes," she said, bringing back memories of them fighting over a copy of one of his books. They'd take turns giggling and laughing at the cheesiness of his dialogue, of the overall absurdity of his plot. One time, Lonnie had dropped her voice and dramatically read a passage aloud, only ever managing a few lines before they burst into laughter.
"You're already better than him," she said. "And if he can get published—well, so can you. Just get out there and live your life. Don't let anything hold you back." A few drops of water slid from Lonnie's forehead, rolling down her nose and splattering onto the floor.
"You're leaving. Why does it even matter to you, anyway?" Sam said, giving a soft sniff and shifting her forehead to rest on her knees.
"I know," she murmured. "But I know what I want to do. I feel so at home in that uniform, and I know that I could be great at it too. So I just want you to do the same thing. Go follow what you love."
"But I love you," Sam said, her voice almost pleading. She flopped down on the sleeping bag and gave a shaky exhale. She clenched her eyes closed and pressed her palms into them. She couldn't break down now. They were still happy and together and here, and she had no reason to cry. Not yet.
"Don't go. Please don't go," she said. This wasn't like one of her stories. She couldn't scribble lines through her writing and crumple it up, then pull out a fresh sheet of paper to write and rewrite their stories until she crafted the perfect ending for them.
This wasn't a fairytale. They had a month left. A month. And Sam knew this time was but a speck compared to the life she wanted with Lonnie.
Lonnie's expression softened, and she slid to the ground beside her. "I'm not going anywhere," she murmured. "At least, not tonight. But I can't change what's going to happen."
Sam gave another shaky heave and buried her face in Lonnie's side. She twisted her fingers into the fabric, wondering what she'd cling on to in the summer when she'd be miles and miles away.
Lonnie slipped her arm around Sam's shoulders, holding her close. Her own clothes were still damp, and Sam's tears blended in seamlessly. Just another drop of rain, she thought. Just another splatter from this storm outside. And maybe that downpour would clear, and maybe one day things would be okay.
Lightning cracked. The house creaked.
The two high school girls froze at the groans and faint movement beneath them. Lonnie straightened, propping herself upright and listening for a long moment. "It's just the house," she sighed.
Sam gave a hesitant nod before giving an exhale of relief. Still, she couldn't shake that twisting feeling of unease that clung to her. She turned and curled back into Lonnie's side, seeking out her warmth and comfort.
"Just let me go with you," Sam said, reaching up a hand to wipe her eyes.
"To basic training?" she choked. "You know you wouldn't last fifteen minutes." She reached down to stroke a hand through Sam's hair. "And they can't know about us, Sam. They just can't."
She cried, her sounds muffled by the fabric of Lonnie's shirt.
"Shh," Lonnie murmured. "It'll be alright."
This wasn't like the time when Sam had broken down while talking to Daniel, when all of her fears spilled out. He'd tried his hardest to reassure her and to tell her that everything would be alright. But his words had sounded so hollow, so canned.
But when Lonnie said them, she almost believed it.
"Everything's going to be okay," she whispered again. Lonnie took a deep breath to steady her own breathing, then leaned down to kiss Sam's forehead. She straightened and cleared her throat, then hummed a few shaky notes. It took her a moment to slide into a softer melody—a sound completely unlike her normal, more exuberant singing voice.
There weren't any crowds to shot to here. No cascading applause would greet her when she finished. In this attic, there was only Sam and the roof above their heads to shelter them from the storm outside.
But that didn't matter to Lonnie. Crowds and bands couldn't compare to the blonde-haired girl leaning against her.
Sam closed her eyes again.
The song drifted on. Lonnie gently hummed her best guess at a lullaby, listening to the notes mix with the softening sounds of the rain outside. Beside her she felt Sam gradually relax, though she still clung on to her, too afraid to let go.
"What's going to happen to us?" she whispered.
Lonnie slipped her arm back around Sam's shoulders. "I don't know," she said, reaching up to wipe a single tear from her own eye. "Maybe one day we'll find a place. Somewhere just for us. But no matter what happens," she said, "we'll end wherever we need to be."
Dedicated to Sarah.
One day we won't have to hide, either.