Blue

by L. E. DeLano

  Before Devon, I would have rolled my eyes if a girl told me her boyfriend did that. But Devon changed me. He made me notice all the little things and not just brush them away and consider them stupid and oh my God, do I miss him. I miss him so much.

  I miss my boyfriend, but more than anything I miss my friend.

  Maybe I’m giving myself way more credit in his thoughts than I actually deserve. Whatever is going on in his life, he doesn’t want me to be part of it. And after what I said to him, I probably don’t deserve to be a part of his life at all.

  I can’t keep thinking about this, or I’ll open the car door and just jump out. Okay, that’s dramatic, and I wouldn’t do it. But I can’t keep thinking about him. About us.

  Enough. I need to concentrate on my homework. I skim through Mindfulness Over Matter yet again and it’s just so boring.

  I wonder what Mrs. Linza would do if my presentation featured Pirate Rogue and the Seas of Time. I’m sure the class will understand the need to preserve a story about a time traveling pirate and the deadly female assassin who was sent to kill him but instead falls in love with him. He does spend half the novel shirtless. Mrs. Linza should appreciate that, at the very least.

  I slam my notebook shut with a disgusted sound. This whole project is useless.

  “What are you working on?” Mom asks over her shoulder from the front seat.

  “This stupid project for English Lit. We had to read Fahrenheit 451—”

  “Great book!” Dad interrupts.

  “You read it?” The only thing I ever see my dad reading are his business books, and stuff on his computer. He actually reads for pleasure?

  “It was a long time ago,” he says. “But I loved reading all of Ray Bradbury’s stuff. Just about any Sci-Fi, really.”

  My dad likes Sci-Fi? Bizarre.

  “You know how in the story, the new government is burning all the books and everybody picks one book to memorize so it can be preserved?” I ask. “Mrs. Linza wants us each to pick a book and give a presentation about what we love about the book and why we think it needs to be passed down.”

  “What’s your book?” Mom asks.

  “I haven’t picked one yet. I mean, I sort of grabbed one of your books thinking I could make it work, but—”

  “Really?” She looks surprised. “Which one?”

  “Mindfulness Over Madness,” I reply. “I thought I could get something out of it, but it’s just not working for me.”

  She makes a face. “Yeah, that one’s pretty dry.”

  “I thought you liked all that motivational stuff.”

  “I try to keep myself inspired,” she says. “But some of these women—” She makes the face again. “They’re just so preachy and full of themselves. You don’t have a book of your own that you like?”

  “Nothing I want to share with the class,” I say. “Do you have any other books you can recommend?”

  What the hell, it’s worth a try.

  “You could do an old classical book,” Mom says. “Teachers always love it when you choose a classic.”

  “Any one in particular?” I ask.

  She purses her lips, considering. “Something from Jane Astin?”

  “Austin. Her books are long. This thing is due on Tuesday.”

  “And you’re just now starting on it?” Dad admonishes.

  “I’ve got enough put together about Mom’s book that I can finish up if I want to. I just don’t want to do that book. But I don’t want to do any of this stupid project.”

  “Hmm,” Dad says thoughtfully. “How about Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World? Or maybe George Orwell?”

  I wave a hand. “Overdone.”

  “Well, I’d suggest something I’ve enjoyed reading,” Mom says, “but it’s all self-help and the occasional romance. What about those books with the vampires and werewolves? God, I loved those.”

  My jaw drops. “You’re a Twilight fan?”

  “Every single time you and Jack went down for a nap, I was buried in those books. Couldn’t get enough of them.” She sighs.

  I have to ask. “Team Edward or Team Jacob?”

  “Team hot wolf boy any day of the week,” she says, and I feel myself inwardly cringe.

  “Yeah, I got the benefit of her reading those books, too,” Dad says, waggling his eyebrows and reaching over to squeeze her knee.

  I’m now cringing so hard I think my body is going to invert completely. This is not the direction I intended for this conversation.

  “Of course,” Mom says, “I wasn’t reading those books to you back then. Maybe you could do your book report on Goodnight Moon. You loved that one!”

  I smile at the memory. “Yeah, I did.”

  “It’s very soothing. You wanted it every night. Or maybe that funny book with the sheep.”

  “Ugh, the sheep book,” Dad interjects.

  “You were stuck on that one for a while before you fell in love with Goodnight Moon,” Mom says.

  “I’m not doing my presentation on Moo Baa LaLaLa.” I reply. “I guess I’ll just stick with what I’ve got.”

  “I was a big fan of Everyone Poops,” Dad says.

  “I’m not doing that one, either.”

  “That’s a great book to preserve for all posterity,” Mom says with a laugh. I picture Mrs. Linza’s face as I walk the class through Everyone Poops, and I laugh too.

  “You could bring in some visual aids,” Dad suggests, and we all laugh harder. God, when was the last time we all laughed together?

  “Hey,” I say. “When Jack mentioned Uno, I was thinking—we should try to do some stuff together sometime—the three of us. Uno isn’t as much fun with just three people but, maybe we could go to a movie or something?”

  My mother looks at me for a solid five seconds with her mouth open. Dad even turns his head to look, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. Finally, Mom nods her head.

  “That would be nice. That would be really nice.” She says.

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” Dad says automatically.

  “Maybe it would be relaxing to take some time away from work once in a while,” I suggest. “Have some family time that isn’t happening because of a jail sentence.”

  “You don’t really have much of a work-life balance anymore,” Mom agrees.

  Dad chews his lip as he mulls it over. “You’re right,” he says. “Absolutely right. I need to get some life back. Let’s make it happen.”

  “I’d like that,” I tell him. And I mean it. And as long as we are having this strange family bonding moment, I decide to ask. Ever since Devon mentioned his parents, I’ve had a question in my mind.

  “Um, I was wondering . . . where did you guys meet? I know it was college, but what’s the story? You never told me.”

  “Didn’t we?” Mom scrunches up her nose. “I guess we skip that one, since it’s not exactly a romantic story.”

  Dad barks a laugh. “You won my heart that night,” he says.

  She smacks his arm lightly in response. “Stop.”

  I lean forward into the gap between the two front seats. “Okay, now I have to know.”

  “We were at a dive bar in Philly,” Dad begins the story. “It was karaoke night, and I won.”

  I stare at him as though I’ve never seen him before. I mean, I knew he liked to sing—I have memories of him singing to me at bedtime when I was a kid.

  Wow. I forgot about that.

  He still sings along with the radio anytime we’re in the car together. He’s got a good voice, though I’d never tell him that.

  “He was singing Bon Jovi,” Mom says, trailing her fingers through the hair at the nape of my father’s neck. “What girl could resist?”

  “Actually,” I interrupt. “It kind of does sound romantic.”

 
“After I was done singing, I saw her from across the room,” Dad goes on. “Her eyes locked with mine, and she made her way through the crowd. When she got right in front of me, I was so nervous, it was all I could do to ask her name.” He gives a dramatic sigh. “And that’s when she threw up on me.”

  Mom puts her hand over her face. “I’d had a few too many,” she admits.

  “And you hooked up after that?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

  “No, I ran out of the bar,” Mom replies. “I was so embarrassed. But I went back the next week for karaoke night, anyway. And he was there. So I bought him a drink to apologize. Seven years later, we were reading Everyone Poops to a couple of toddlers.”

  “How’s that for romance?” Dad asks.

  I smile and lean back in my seat, turning my eyes to the road and the passing scenery. I actually like that story. That’s a story that should be passed down. A snapshot of my parents before they got bogged down by jobs, and bills, and kids, and life.

  I have a vision of myself someday telling a kid, well sweetie, I was on this playground in the middle of winter, and I punched a slide . . .

  There’s a dull ache in the center of my chest, and the warm feeling I had turns to a cold emptiness, the same emptiness that hollowed me out the entire ride up here.

  I know I shouldn’t have said what I said. But we didn’t actually break up.

  Did we?

  It doesn’t feel like we officially did, but maybe that’s just my heart wishing it away. Wishing my words away.

  This isn’t like Devon.

  He’s always been the patient one. The thoughtful one. The respectful one. He wouldn’t just leave things like this. Even if it was over—

  Please don’t let it be over.

  Even if it was over, he’d show me the respect of officially saying so. He just would. I know him.

  But you don’t, my traitorous mind reminds me. I lean my head against the window, blinking hard to keep the tears at bay.

  Devon, where are you?

  30

  Can you come over? Now?

  Devon's text comes out of nowhere an hour after we get home. After the way we left things—and three days of silence—I wasn’t even sure he would ever speak to me again. We’re probably broken up. That thought makes my chest hurt and then slides down lower, into my gut.

  Do you think he has a gun? Jules’s words dance through my head, and I shove them aside. No. I’m not going to think that. Something is wrong, and he needs me. I’m not going to focus on anything but that until I get the rest of the story.

  I let Mom know I’m going out and jump in the car. He may live in the neighborhood, but I don’t want to give up the extra ten minutes it would take me to walk there. He needs me. And he said now.

  I park in front of his house and run to the door, my heart pounding. What if I find him broken? Bleeding? Torn apart on the inside but not showing me any physical wounds? What if his parents are there—shouting or threatening? What if he meets me at the door with a bag in his hands, needing a safe place to go? How will I explain that to my parents?

  Enough. I’ve got to stop second-guessing this. I ring the doorbell.

  The door opens almost immediately and a wave of relief washes over me at the sight of him looking mostly normal—except for his eyes. They look bloodshot and he has dark circles under them. There’s a wariness in them as he meets my gaze.

  “Hi.” He says.

  “Hi.” I answer. “I’m here.”

  He opens the door for me and I step inside.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he says.

  I am your girlfriend, after all, I want to tell him. But I’m not sure of that at the moment. Oh shit. Did he want me to come over because he wants to break up with me face-to-face?

  “You needed me,” I finally make myself reply.

  He sucks in a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He shuts the door behind me. And I take a moment to look around. From what I can tell, we are the only ones here. The house is quiet.

  “So . . . this is what your house looks like on the inside.”

  “Really exciting, I know,” he says, and he tries to force a smile. It doesn’t work.

  I want to reach out, take his hand, put my arms around him. But I stand frozen, unsure.

  “Devon, what’s wrong? Is this about our fight? Listen, I’m sorry. Jules ate your dinner. And I shouldn’t have—”

  He reaches out, putting his hands on my shoulders. “It’s not about that. That was a stupid fight. We both said some dumb things. Me, especially. I’m sorry.”

  My breath comes out in a whoosh of relief and I step into him, sliding my arms around his waist and holding him.

  “Me, too. I was so stupid. I missed you so much.”

  He holds me tightly, buries his face in my neck. We stand that way for a long time. Finally, he pulls back and looks at me.

  “Can I give you a tour of the house?”

  “I thought I came here to talk?”

  His mouth tightens into a thin line. “We’ll do that, too. After.”

  He threads his fingers through mine and pulls me through the entry hallway toward the back of the house.

  The family room is large and comfortable, with a gas log fireplace on one wall, and a comfy sectional couch across from it. A host of pictures cover the wall over the couch, so many of Devon, at all ages.

  “Welcome to the family gallery,” he says gesturing at the wall with his hand.

  I feel a short twang of jealousy for all the family pictures. Lots of outings in all sorts of places. This is clearly a family that loves to spend time together.

  My eyes wander across the photos and then my brow furrows as I realize what I’m seeing. Devon. Lots of Devon. And pictures of Devon side-by-side with . . . Devon?

  “That’s my brother, Dylan,” he says softly.

  “You have a twin brother?” I turn and look at him.

  “Identical.” He smiles, but it’s not warm and sunny. The pain in his eyes pulls all the warm out of it.

  “Oh, God. You had a twin brother.”

  “He’s still alive,” Devon answers me. “For now. But he’s not doing so good.”

  I suck in a breath as the realization hits me. Somebody had better be dead, I’d said to him the last time I saw him. These past months play back and I study them with new eyes.

  “That’s who Maya saw at the E.R.,” I say.

  He nods, pulling me down to sit on the couch next to him.

  “We moved here from Florida because Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia is the best place in the country for treating injuries like Dylan’s.”

  “That’s why he’s not in school—he’s in the hospital?”

  “He was in a care facility that they coordinate with a few miles from here—but he developed complications after his last surgery—they did that the week I was out. They put him in intensive care. He’s been battling ever since.”

  Devon pulls in a breath before he rubs his palms across his knees. Then he pushes to his feet, pacing slowly as he begins his story.

  “A little over a year ago, there was an accident. It was stupid. One of those dumb-ass things that happen. We were hanging out at a local park with a bunch of other kids. There was a girl there that Dylan was trying to impress. She had a really annoying laugh, but he liked her.”

  He smiles slightly at the memory and then he shakes his head as if to clear it and goes on.

  “We all got this hilarious idea that we were going to pretend we were in The Hunger Games, choosing allies, and throwing sticks at each other like they were spears. We were all laughing. Dylan climbed up a tree to do his best Katniss Everdeen impression. I was on the ground, pretending to die a horrible, prolonged death from genetically-altered mosquitoes. We’re talking Oscar-caliber performance. Then I heard the
thud.”

  His hands ball into fists, and his voice carries a note of agony that brings the sting of tears to my eyes.

  “At first, we all thought he was faking,” he says, as if he still can’t believe it. “Dylan wasn’t that high up when he fell. He was laying on the ground, and his whole body was shaking. I ran over to him, planning to kick him or something, just for trying to outdo my death performance. But he didn’t stop. He just kept on shaking. He was having a seizure. A Post-Traumatic seizure, they called it—it’s a sign of traumatic brain injury. He didn’t fall that far, but the angle—the way he landed . . .”

  “Oh, Devon.” I reach for his hand and draw him down to the couch beside me. I wish I knew what to say.

  “He’s never really come back,” he says in a soft voice. “His eyes will open sometimes for a few minutes, but Dylan’s not in there. Not anymore. My parents have tried everything. Every therapy. Every treatment—even the surgery that brought us here. They put thalmic sensors in his brain, but it didn’t work. It’s—it’s hard for my mom and dad. They can’t just give up. They want so much for this to be fixed. Every expression on his face, every time his finger twitches, they read something into it. I know my brother. Dylan’s not there anymore.”

  I glance over at the fireplace mantle to a picture of Devon and Dylan on the beach, side-by-side with surfboards, tanned and smiling in the summer sun. I can’t tell which is which. Their faces—and their happiness captured in that moment—are identical.

  “And now he’s dying,” Devon goes on. “He’s really dying. It looked like he might be improving, but he took a turn. His organs are failing. He had a stroke on Valentine’s Day, so that’s what happened there. I thought I was prepared. I thought I was ready for this. But I’m not, I’m not . . .”

  He leans forward and buries his face in his hands. I put my arm around his shoulders and he turns, grabbing me hard as sobs shake his body. My own tears fall onto his neck as I hold him tight, sharing his anguish, wishing I could wipe it all away.