Keegan
I shouldn’t have asked Blue to stay. It wasn’t fair to him.
It’s been a long, stressful week, and I haven’t been able to shake off my anxiety and guilt. I wanted someone to talk to.
But I could have called my dad. Or Megz.
Not that Megz would have given me much sympathy. She’d have told me to get my privileged shit together.
But instead of doing that, I practically begged Blue to stick around and comfort me.
Pathetic.
The truth is, I didn’t want to talk to Megz or Dad. I wanted Blue.
I wanted to see that tender look he gets on his face when he’s talking to me.
It feels so good, just being with him. I feel like a different person—a better person—around him.
It doesn’t make a lot of sense. I’ve known the guy for all of one week.
Maybe all I’m feeling for Blue is plain old lust.
I mean, a warm rush surges through my body the moment I lay eyes on him. Every part of me starts tingling, just thinking about him. And when he’s close to me, I feel like I can barely breathe.
That’s lust, isn’t it?
I’ve had sex with exactly one person: my high school boyfriend, Tyler.
Our first time—on my 17th birthday—was so awkward. Tyler was sweet and gentle and eager to make me feel good. But it was still kind of icky.
And even after the first time, after we got better at it, I never felt with Tyler the way I feel around Blue.
And Blue and I have never even had sex.
Why the hell am I thinking about this right now? It’s so inappropriate, given what we’re talking about.
Right now, Blue is telling me how his dad died in a plane crash while Blue was serving in Afghanistan.
He’s telling me that because, earlier, I somehow found myself telling him about my mom dying a year ago of ovarian cancer.
I didn’t mean for things to get so heavy. We started out just talking about my job at the newspaper.
But now, it seems like Blue needed to pour out his story to me as much as I needed to pour out mine to him.
“So anyway,” he adds, finishing up, “they said it was pilot error.”
Max, curled up next to me with his head in my lap, sighs in his sleep.
“Your dad was flying the plane? He owned the plane?”
Blue nods.
“It was brand-new,” he explains, “had all the latest bells and whistles. Cost a fortune. But my old man wasn’t quite as good at flying as he thought.”
I register a little surprise that Blue’s father could afford an expensive private plane. He doesn’t come across as being from a wealthy family.
“That was typical,” he adds, interrupting my thoughts.
He shakes his head as his mouth twists into a bitter smirk.
“My dad always overestimated his own abilities.”
“I’m so sorry, Blue.”
My words feel inadequate and trite, and I know from experience how little they help. Still, I need to say them.
“I know how you feel,” I add, sounding lame even to myself.
Max yips a couple of times in his doggie dream; his eyes pop open as I absentmindedly drag my fingers through his fur and then immediately close again.
“The thing is,” Blue says, his gaze shifting away from me toward a framed picture on the desk, “when he died, my dad and I hadn’t spoken in over a year.”
I watch his Adam’s apple slide up and down as he swallows. I notice how tight the muscles in his neck and jaw are.
“God,” I whisper. “How awful.”
I can’t imagine losing a parent like that, without being able to say the things that needed to be said.
Without having a chance to put things right.
I sometimes used to think it would have been better for everyone if my mother had gone quickly.
The months of pain and dread and helpless, sick rage that I felt as I watched her suffer made losing her even worse. Or so I thought.
But maybe it was also a blessing.
Mom and I spent more time together in the last year than we probably would have otherwise.
And knowing my mother was dying meant a lot of things that were hurtful and stupid and petty—mainly between me, my grandmother, and my brother—were stifled.
We all behaved better than we would have otherwise.
Blue lets out a heavy sigh.
“It’s a long, stupid story,” he says with a grimace, “but basically, I was mad at my dad. I spent years being mad at him. He put me through hell when I was a kid. He put my mother through hell.”
Tears prickle my eyes at the haunted expression on his face.
“He tried, in the last year or so, to make it up to us. Kind of. But I wanted him to feel a little of the pain I felt, growing up. I thought there’d be plenty of time later on for us to resolve all our shit.”
“Obviously,” he adds in a hoarse, ragged voice, “I was wrong.”
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