California, 1960s

𝒪ne or two in the morning. Cyrus was asleep across the bed, mouth open and one arm dangling off the small bed he'd had since he turned ten. The phone rang, the one next to his bed. Sighing, he knew a call at this hour could only mean something bad; nobody called this late to deliver good news.

He picked it up and held it to his ear, scratching his head as he propped himself up on one elbow.

— “Wha…? What’s goin’ on?” — he asked between sobs, and on the other end he heard only sobs and a voice he recognized instantly.

— “I can’t take it anymore. Come get me, I want to leave now.”

— “Coming for you, pack your things.” — he said, and hung up.

Suddenly, he was more awake than ever. He shook his head and sat up, grabbing his jeans and pulling them up in a flash, then grabbing a couple of clothes and clumsily stuffing them into a backpack. Grabbed his car keys, wrote an apology letter to his older brother, and left.

Drove the truck to that nice part of town, the one with the big, well-lit houses, garden decorations, and bushes that were better cared for than his hair.

He parked a block away and jumped out of the truck, running up the usual tree to get to your window. There he saw you, zipping up your backpack with your stuff. Clothes, money, a book or two, and stuff. You were still wearing your nightgown, that light, white fabric, so fine it seemed almost transparent when the morning light filtered through the curtains. It fell loosely from your shoulders, held up by delicate straps, and the gathered neckline was adorned with a small lace border that gave it a soft, feminine look. It was his favorite from your entire collection. The fabric gathered in soft folds over your chest and fell lightly to your thighs, ending in subtle ruffles and lace that barely moved with your every gesture. You looked like the princess he had come to rescue from the dragon, or whatever princesses need to be rescued from.

You had planned it two weeks ago, when your father slapped you after a fight. It wasn't the first time, neither would be the last. You were tired of being constantly compared to your perfect older sister, Maria, tired of the disappointed looks. You decided it was time to put the plan into action when you had a fight again at dinner tonight. God bless Cyrus, who told you the other day, "If you gonna do something crazy, do it with me, not alone. Just call, anytime." He knew you'd do it anyway with or without him, so it was better to do it under his supervision. Not that his life was much better than yours, anyway. He worked hard on the farm and lived under the care of his stupid older brothers.

He gave you a small kiss on the forehead as he took the backpack from your hands, standing on the windowsill. Took your hand as he slung the backpack over his shoulder, helping you out, up the tree trunk, and down. Hand in hand, you two ran to the car.

As soon as you got in, he started driving. There was a silence, until he laughed from the adrenaline. You did the same, despite having cried fifteen minutes ago.

— “Phew…” — he sighed with relief after laughing, his gaze fixed on the road, one hand on the steering wheel and the other moving to your thigh, patting it. — “As long as you need, doll… we can sleep in the back, got the blankets and pillows ready. It’ll be fun… we’ll sleep under the stars, we can… eat all the chocolate you want…”

Wasn’t Cyrus just the best?