Keegan
“Keegan, my name is Frasier Bryson.”
He’s standing in front of Blue’s car, clutching an envelope, the Coupe keys looped around his finger. I can see Blue’s guitar in the passenger seat.
“I know who you are,” I snap, not caring if I sound rude. “Why are you driving Blue’s car?”
My breathing is shallow, and my heart’s pounding in my ears; there’s a whooshing sound in them, too, like I’m underwater. My mouth’s gone dry, and it feels like I’m glued to the porch swing.
I knew it was Frasier Bryson the moment he got out of the car. He’s much older than in the framed pictures on Blue’s bedroom wall, but I still recognize him.
Bryson looks from me to Kendra and back again, his face troubled. Then he casts his gaze down at his fancy cowboy boots for a long moment, the lines on his forehead deepening.
I make an impatient, strangled sound, and he looks up. “Are you all right?” he asks, taking a step toward the porch.
“Just tell me where Blue is!” For the life of me, I cannot bring myself to be polite right now. It feels like my whole world is collapsing.
Bryson doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks up the porch stairs, gently folds the envelope he is holding into my hand and steps back.
I stand there staring at him, unable to move, unable to think; my mouth opens, but no words come out.
Finally, my eyes drop to the envelope now in my hand.
“Open it,” Bryson says, keeping his eyes fixed on me, an expression of sympathy on his face that only deepens my irritation.
I tear open the envelope; I swear, the sound hurts my ears.
There’s a piece of notebook paper inside, along with a thumb drive. I can tell the paper is covered in handwriting.
And I know, of course, whose handwriting it is.
What the fuck are you up to, Blue?
I look back up at Bryson, blinking away the threat of tears, determined to stay angry. Because it’s better than feeling devastated.
“He spent all day recording in my studio.” Bryson’s voice is drenched in sorrow. “The songs, they’re incredible. And they’re for you."
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, blinking even faster to keep the tears at bay. I’m lying, though. I know. Maybe not all the details yet. But I know what’s going on here.
“Just read the note,” Bryson says.
Pulling the paper out of the envelope, I unfold it, trying to keep it from flapping in the wind.
My fingertips run over whatever Blue has written to me, but I can’t see it clearly. I swallow hard a couple of times and curl my shaking hand into a fist.
“Keegan.” Kendra gets off the swing, speaking with as much compassion in her voice as I’ve ever heard from her. “Sit here.”
I don’t want fucking compassion right now. But I sit in the swing because I don’t trust my legs to keep me upright.
My vision finally clears. And I start reading.
Keegan:
By the time you read this, I’ll be on a bus to Fort Sill.
I can hardly make myself write these words. I never wanted to hurt you and now I can see your face as you’re reading this and I know how bad I am hurting you. I hate myself for it. But I have to do it.
I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you. I wanted to go through with it, let your grandma get me out of this. I was willing to do anything I had to if it meant getting to stay with you.
But I couldn’t stand the thought of you giving up a journalism career for me, Keegan. Not when I know how much it means to you.
I went to Bryson’s house early this morning to record these songs I wrote for you. I started the first one the day we met. I was going to give them to you for Christmas. I hope you like them. Bryson said they’re really good. I think he meant it.
Did I ever tell you I used to wish he could be my father instead of Bill?
Thing is, last night, staring up at the ceiling, I realized nothing Bill ever did was as bad, as cowardly, as what I’ve been doing for three years. I realized I can’t go on like this, lying, running away. I can’t let the families of those men who died believe a lie any longer.
I can’t let you pay the price for what I did.
I have to tell them what really happened in Afghanistan. I have to face this.
I’m sorry not to tell you this in person. I wasn’t sure I could walk away from you if I did. I didn’t trust myself even to tell you over the phone.
There are several written lines that have been scratched out, marked over and over with blue ink so that the page is torn in spots.
I look up for a second at Bryson. His head is bowed, his eyes closed, and the lines on his face look even deeper.
I press my lips together to stop them from trembling and go on reading.
I started to write that I’ll be back. That you should wait for me. And then I realized how fucking selfish that is. Because I don’t know if I’ll be back, Keegan, and how can I ask you to wait for me? So I will not do that.
You have a life to get on with. Do not wait for me. Do not waste time crying over me. Forgive me. God, please forgive me. And then, forget me.
I love you. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. I want you to know that. And again, I am so sorry.
Blue
P.S. Could you take my car and guitar to Tulsa, leave it with my mother and tell her everything? Tell her I’ll call her as soon as they let me. I know what a shit thing it is, what a coward’s move, leaving you to tell her something like this, but she would try to stop me from turning myself in. And I just want to get it done.
I love you. So much. Please, please follow your dreams. I need to believe you’re doing that.
“Goddamn it, Blue!”
I leap out of the swing and crumple the note into a ball, clutching it against my face and losing my battle to keep the tears from spilling down my face. “What the fuck have you done?”
I’m gasping for breath like I’ve just been running for a long time. I set the note on the porch railing and try to smooth it out.
“What have you done?” I say again, full-on sobbing now.
Kendra is next to me. She tries to put an arm around me, but I shove her away.
Bryson clears his throat. “There’s got to be something I can do.” His voice falters as he twists his hands and shakes his head.
“I will do everything I can to help,” he goes on. “Blue has become like a son to me. I just can’t believe this has happened to him. But there has to be a way to fix it.”
I say nothing. My mind’s full of cotton, and my tongue feels too big for my mouth. Again it’s like I’m frozen in place.
But then, as if I’d grabbed an electric fence, a shock jolts me. I run into the house and up the stairs to my room, still carrying Blue’s note. I kick off my slippers and yank on my boots, then grab my coat and purse.
I’m pulling my keys out of the purse by the time I get back to the front porch. “Where’s the bus station?” I yell at Bryson, running toward my car.
“Corner of Birch and Sequoyah,” he calls back, sounding alarmed. “But it’s too—”
I slam the car door and turn the key, shoving it into Reverse and backing into the driveway.
Then, remembering the Coupe, I lower the window and call out to Bryson, “Will you put Blue’s guitar and keys in my room?”
I don’t even wait for him to answer. I just shift into Drive.
“Keegan!” I hear Kendra shout. But I press hard on the gas and tear into the street.
~~~
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