Blue

by L. E. DeLano

  There is no making this better. There is no hiding this wound anymore.

  We hold each other for a very long time, until Devon at last pulls away, wiping at his eyes and nose with the hem of his tee shirt.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Sorry for all the snot,” he says thickly.

  “It’s okay. You needed to let it out.” I push his unruly hair out of his eyes. “I’m your girlfriend, remember? That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Pretty sure you didn’t sign up for excessive snot.”

  My thumbs gently wipe the remaining tears off his cheeks. “I signed up for you,” I tell him. “Snot and all. Secret twin brother and all.”

  “I should have told you sooner.” His eyes drop down, and he’s ashamed. I nudge his chin up so that he’s looking at me again.

  “You had me so worried. I didn’t know what was going on—first with the hand being bandaged and that bruise on your head—”

  He looks surprised. “I punched a wall,” he confesses. “I was having a rough couple of days, after I started school. All I could think about was how much Dylan would have loved Audubon. And Pennsylvania.”

  “Better than Florida? Better than the beach?”

  “The beach isn’t that far away here, and he always wanted to learn how to ski.”

  “I can ski. We have a cabin up in the Poconos, up at Camelback ski resort. I’ll take you sometime.”

  “I’d like that.”

  I reach up and push his hair off his face. “What about the bruise on your head?”

  He looks embarrassed. “The cat really did try to kill me. You thought I was being abused or something?”

  “Yeah, I kind of did. Maya saw you—saw Dylan—at the hospital in the emergency room. And you would never let me come over and meet your parents.”

  He nods. “I guess it does seem suspicious. I was just afraid that you knowing all of that would change things between us. Make you look at me differently.” He sighs. “And after a while, it got awkward—you not knowing. I didn’t know how to bring up the subject without sounding like an idiot or an asshole. I knew I should have told you, but then I’d have to explain why I’m such a head case for not telling you sooner.”

  “I don’t think that. I would never think that. I just wish you felt like you could trust me.”

  “I do!” He blurts out. His hand comes up to cup my chin. “I do. It’s just—you get to a point where you really don’t want to talk about it anymore—the situation. I had a year of talking about it and nothing makes a difference.”

  “This can’t be easy to talk about.”

  “No, it’s not. People look at you differently. Or worse, they start telling you about every miracle cure on the internet.”

  “I know what it’s like to have people treat you differently over something that isn’t your fault,” I remind him. Emotion flickers across his face and my hands slide to his shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. “This wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”

  His mouth tightens. “Logically, I know that. But that doesn’t stop my brain from going back and remembering that scenario a thousand different ways. If I had just told him not to climb the tree. If I had been paying attention to him while he was up there instead of lying there, trying to get a laugh out of everybody. If I had caught him before he hit the ground. So many ‘ifs’ but none of them make a difference now. They’re just here to haunt me.”

  “Oh, Devon.” His eyes close as I lean up and kiss his forehead.

  “I felt guilty for a long time,” he confesses. “I still do. It could have been me. It should have been me. I had a good therapist—she helped a lot. It was just one of those shitty things that happen to people, and it happened to Dylan. And me. I can’t spend my life reliving all that, living in the past. Life doesn’t come with a guarantee, Dylan taught me that. I’ve only got right now, and I’m going to live right now hard enough for both of us.”

  “We’ve only got right now,” I agree softly. “And right now, you’ve got me.”

  Now he kisses my forehead. “Dylan was always the brave one,” he tells me. “The tree climber. The adventurer. He was always looking to top himself. At the beach he was the one running hard into the waves no matter how cold the water was. He was the first one to try a new jump on his skateboard. I was always the one hanging back, watching him, cracking jokes and trying to get people to like me because I wasn’t as exciting as he was.”

  “I don’t believe that. And anyway, you don’t have to be,” I assure him. “You and Dylan are different people. Closer than most, because you’re twins, but still different people.”

  The pain he’s going through cuts me like a knife. Losing a brother is hard enough. Losing a brother who’s been your best friend—your other half for as long as you can remember? Devastating. My mind drifts to Jack. His accident could’ve easily gone the other way, and I could’ve lost my brother that night. The thought punches into my chest and my eyes well up again as they meet Devon’s gaze.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Devon. What can I do? What do you need?”

  “Just hang with me for a little while,” he says, squeezing my hand. “My dad is on his way back to pick me up. I came home to get a shower, and Dad had to grab some stuff from his office, so I won’t be here long. The nurses say Dylan is in process—his body is shutting down. We don’t know how long it’s going to be, but probably sometime tonight. Mom’s staying with him until we both get there so we can all be . . . so he won’t be alone when it’s time.”

  I lean in, kiss his cheek. “I’m here for as long as you need me. And whenever you get back, I’ll be here again. All you have to do is let me know.”

  He settles back on the couch, pulling me in and tucking me into his side. I can hear his heart beating as I lay my head on his chest.

  “Tell me about him,” I ask, as his finger plays with my hair. “Tell me every little thing you feel like sharing.”

  “He would have loved you,” Devon said. “You probably would’ve dated him over me. Dylan had a way with the ladies.”

  “I still would’ve chosen you.”

  He gives me a squeeze. “I don’t know where to begin,” he says.

  “You had to have pranked each other,” I suggest. “Tell me about some of the ways you used to torture each other.” My mouth twists into a smile as I remember some of the ways Jack and I got each other.

  Devon lets out a soft laugh as he remembers. “Oh, our pranks were epic. Epic. There was this one time, I think we were seven—maybe eight. Dylan laid awake until like, two in the morning, waited for me to fall asleep, and then he hid in the closet. He started scratching on the door. I woke up and I’m whispering at him, trying to get him to wake up, too. I didn’t realize I was talking to a pile of pillows under his covers. The next thing I know, he steps out of the closet, wrapped in a blanket like it’s a death cloak, and he throws an entire bowl of homemade slime onto my face. I screamed like a goat in a woodchipper. I was sure my face was melting off.”

  He laughs again, and I laugh with him. It feels good, returning the gift of laughter he’s given to me so many times, even if it’s at a time as sad as this.

  “Epic,” I agree. “Tell me another one.”

  He squeezes me again and kisses my forehead. And for the next half-hour, I get to know Dylan, just a little bit.

  31

  The tone of the house is somber. People mill about, sampling from the food spread out across the dining room table, talking in hushed tones. There are flowers everywhere. Devon’s parents are stationed in matching armchairs in the front sitting room, facing the door. I meet them briefly, and their eyes light up when Devon introduces me as his girlfriend. They are warm and friendly and it’s clear they have questions, but now is not the time.

  The funeral was small, just a memorial service.
There will be no grave. Dylan will be cremated, with his ashes scattered at sea somewhere off the coast of his favorite beach in Florida.

  Devon stands silently beside me, a plate of food in his hand, untouched, just like mine is.

  “He’d hate this,” he says under his breath.

  “What?” I ask.

  He gestures with his free hand at all of the people standing around. “This. People making small talk, all sad and everything. I wish I could crank up one of his Spotify lists and start a food fight. That would be more his style.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m guessing that would be frowned upon.”

  “Which is exactly why he’d like it,” Devon says. “It would be like giving Death a stiff middle finger. Like he didn’t win but he didn’t give a shit, either.”

  Something niggles at my brain and my mind goes back to one of our first conversations.

  “That’s the villain in your story,” I say. “Death.”

  He nods, then sets down his plate on a nearby end table. “Come on,” he says.

  “Shouldn’t you stay? Your parents—”

  “Have got a dozen people in their faces. We’re just going up to my room. I need to get away from this for a while.”

  “Okay.” Setting my plate down, he tugs me by the hand up the stairs. I didn’t see his room the other day when I was here, and I don’t know what I was expecting—colorful posters, maybe some artwork or framed quotes—all optimistic of course. But the room is sparse. No pictures on the walls at all. He notices me noticing.

  “I haven’t really decorated yet,” he says with a shrug. “I’ve been too busy between school, and the hospital . . .” His voice trails off. “Oh, and I’ve got a girlfriend, you know.”

  I step closer and slide my arms around his waist. “I know. I just wish your girlfriend could do more today.”

  He pulls me in close, and his fingers thread through my hair, stroking.

  “You’ve done plenty. This is all I need. This is life.”

  And he’s right. I feel it. His chest rising and falling, his heart beating, pressed against me. His fingers in my hair make my scalp tingle and the warmth of his body and mine together make a warm cocoon of comfort. In the face of death, in the face of this monstrous loss, there is still life.

  He pulls back to look at me.

  “I know it’s not the best time, exactly, but I didn’t give you your last Valentine’s Day present.”

  “There was more?”

  He grins. “I’m all about more.”

  “I had a present for you, too,” I tell him. “It’s a gift card to BurgerMania.”

  He puts his hand to his mouth, and actually manages to force a sheen of tears to his eyes. “That’s the most beautiful gift anyone’s ever given me,” he whispers.

  “Too bad you missed dinner. I’ll have to cook it for you again sometime soon.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he says. Then he grabs a package off his dresser and hands it to me.

  “You want me to open it now?”

  He nods, so I tear the paper off. It’s a photo frame, but instead of a picture he took, it’s a picture he drew.

  “I did that in graphic arts,” he said. “Kind of a side project, but I think it turned out pretty good.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  My fingers trace the figures in the picture. It’s a perfect snapshot of the moment we met, complete with the playground, and me sitting on the bottom of the slide. I’m cradling my sore hand and looking up at him. Devon stands with hands in his pockets, and a beanie on his head, gazing down at me, a slight smile curving his lips.

  “The sun is shining,” I say, pointing up at the sun shimmering at the top of the picture. “Or is that supposed to be the moon?”

  “No, it’s the sun.”

  “But it was nighttime,” I remind him. “And it was winter, not summer.”

  My finger moves down, tracing the green grass and flowers he drew around all of the playground equipment on the ground.

  “I remember. But I also remember how I felt when I saw you. This is what I felt. And it was the first time I’d felt anything like that in a really long time.”

  He pulls me in, and touches his forehead to mine. We stand that way for a moment, just breathing each other in.

  “So what now?” I ask hesitantly. “Are your parents going to move back to Florida?”

  He straightens up. “They sort of left that up to me. I mean, they both found jobs up here, but they were willing to try and move back if that’s where I wanted to be.”

  “And—?”

  “And this is where I want to be.” I start to speak and he mashes a finger against my lips. “Before you say anything, I’m not making this decision entirely because of you. You’re a factor—a big factor—but I like the idea of a fresh start. Someplace where I don’t have to see all the places Dylan used to be. And to tell you the truth, I’m kinda liking the snow.”

  I feel every kilowatt of the sunshine in that picture now, filling up my insides and shining out of my eyes.

  “You want to crank up that playlist?” I ask.

  He grins. “On it.” He pulls out his phone, finds what he’s looking for and sets the phone in a docking station.

  He pulls me down on the bed with him and we snuggle into the pillows, facing each other. U2 hums out of the speakers with “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

  “Dylan was a U2 fan?” I reach up to push his hair out of his eyes.

  “He liked them okay. But he loved this song. It’s like they cut his veins open and bled him out in the notes and words.” His eyes go out of focus, remembering. “Dylan was always so restless. Curious. He wanted to know everything. See it all. Do it all. Life was this—this wild ride and he never wanted to get off.”

  “Like you,” I say softly.

  He pulls my hand up, twines his fingers with it. “No, not like me. At least, not back then. You know how there’s always one outgoing twin and one introvert?”

  “Zack and Cody?”

  He lets out a chuckle. “If I had a dollar for every time somebody called us that—”

  “You could open your own burger buffet,” I suggest.

  “Goals. But seriously, I know you think I’m super friendly because I latched onto you so easy. But that’s not really my first instinct. I had friends, but Dylan made friends—and easy. I did stuff, but Dylan did it first. And it was never a contest with him, it’s just how we were.”

  “I wish I had known him.” I say, and I mean it.

  “You do,” he says. “I’m living life for both of us now. I made him a promise while he was lying in that bed that I would wring every single second out of every single day. That I’d make friends, ask the pestering questions, run into the waves, climb the trees—”

  “Carefully.”

  “Carefully,” he repeats. “I’m living every day twice as hard. Life can change in a heartbeat, and while you need to have plans, you also need to embrace the unplanned stuff when it comes around. Like a pretty girl punching a slide.” He pulls my hand up, kisses my fingers. “Dylan didn’t get to live long, but he lived the hell out of every minute that he had.”

  “Giving Death the middle finger.”

  “Exactly. So, yeah, Death is the villain in my story. In everybody’s story. And you know how you kill Death? You live.”

  “So lots of skiing, and burgers, and popcorn fights.”

  “And beach days and picnics and laying on blankets staring at puffy clouds with my girlfriend.”

  “Mmm,” I say, closing my eyes. “I want to do that right now.”

  “Devon and Blue,” he says. “The wind and the sky.”

  “I love it.”

  “I love us,” he says.

  “I love you.” The words flow so na
turally, and I’m not even a little scared to say them.

  His eyes widen slightly, then his whole face lights up.

  “Guess that makes me the lucky guy who loves you back.”

  He pulls me in closer, and his lips touch mine in a slow, searching kiss, not meant to ignite a wildfire, but to affirm the steady burn that makes us both feel alive.

  “I like hearing about Dylan,” I say, when we break apart. “And I want you to always be able to talk about him with me. Like he’s right here in the room. He is, I mean.” I reach out and tap him right over his heart. “Right here.”

  “Hey Dylan!” Devon says rather loudly. “Did I tell you I have a girlfriend?”

  He smothers my chuckle with a kiss, but I swear I can hear laughter echoing somewhere, as U2 plays us out.

  32

  Mrs. Linza takes a seat behind her desk, and I open my presentation. The entire class gives a collective ohhhh as the cover of my book appears on the screen. There are even a few laughs.

  Mrs. Linza crosses her arms. “I hope you don’t think that by choosing a book with less than fifty words, your presentation can be any shorter or less in-depth, Blue.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking at all,” I tell her honestly. I turn to the class. “I want to tell you about one of my favorite books, and a book that I feel deserves its place alongside great literature, as something that needs to be preserved for our children, and their children.” I gesture to the screen.

  “I give you, Goodnight Moon.”

  I get a few more laughs. Mrs. Linza still doesn’t look pleased, but she’s willing to indulge me, so I go on, pulling up my next slide, which has statistics.

  “Published in September of 1947, Goodnight Moon is a beloved children’s story. It has been reprinted consistently since its release, with an estimate of over fifty million copies sold. It has repeatedly appeared on numerous top one hundred lists for children’s stories, and has been translated into over a dozen languages. This story has resonated with children for three-quarters of a century. Fun fact, Goodnight Moon was banned from the New York Public Library until 1972, because the Head Children’s Librarian hated it.”