Tangled Up in Blue

by J. D. Brick

  He barely spoke on the drive to his sprawling, Tudor-style house in Tulsa. We’d just parked in the circular drive when Blue’s mother, Maria, rushed out the ornate front doors and pulled me into her arms. She was plump and warm and pillowy, her eyes the same heart-stopping color as her son’s.

  “Mama, give her a chance to get in the door!” Blue sounded impatient, on edge. His mother placed her soft hands on my face.

  “Blue told me about your mama, you poor little thing.” Her accent was pure Okie, just like my Grandpa’s. And my dad’s. I closed my eyes for a moment, wanting to melt against her comforting body like a little kid would, my breath snagged by the sharp pang that sliced through me as she spoke.

  “You sound just like my Grandpa,” I murmured, the words mangled by Maria’s palms squeezing my cheeks.

  “Mama doesn’t really do boundaries,” Blue had said apologetically.

  Maria planted a kiss on my forehead, then turned away from me to throw her arms around Blue, burying her face in his chest just like I’d done a zillion times. “It’s about time you came home.” She pulled back and put her hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. “I’ve missed you.” She said it gently, without a trace of bitterness, but Blue still flinched as if she’d slapped him.

  “I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t really mean to stay away so long.” A look of shame had settled over his face. Maria tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, obviously puzzled.Then she touched Blue’s cheek and smiled.

  “I know you’re busy, son, setting the world on fire with your music and all. It’s okay. Just try to occasionally remember your old mother.” Her cheerful words only seemed to make Blue more miserable. He’d given her a wan smile, then pulled me up the grand staircase on the pretext of giving me a tour of the house. He could barely look his mother in the eye the whole time we were there.

  We’d spent one night there, and this time it was me sneaking into Blue’s room, although I doubted Maria would have cared if we’d just openly shared the same bed. I could sense that Blue’s mom, underneath her warm exterior, was sad and lonely. Blue felt it too. “You should sell this place, Mama, move into a condo or something so you can be around other people,” he said as we were leaving the next day. She’d made a little shushing sound to dismiss his words, then hugged him so long I thought she wasn’t going to let go.

  When she finally did, she turned to me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “Take care of him,” she whispered in my ear. “I know something’s wrong, but he won’t tell me what it is. Just take care of him.” Her voice wavered, and I nodded, squeezing her hand.

  “I really like your mother,” I say as we’re driving back to campus, desperate for something to fill the gloomy silence between us.

  Blue nods, but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Yeah, everybody does.”

  After several more silent moments, he adds, “She liked you too, bar girl. A lot.” His voice has warmed up, and he gives me the ghost of a smile. He takes one hand off the wheel and raises my hand, kissing it. Then he picks up his phone and taps the screen with his thumb. “We need to get back to your tune teachin’ young pupil. You’ve still got a lot to learn.” He says it with an exaggerated twang.

  I groan, happy that his mood seems to be brightening. “Not more Bryson, I beg you. I can’t take any more!” I want to keep this playful mood going.

  Blue gives me one of his grins. “Nope, we’re getting back to the Man in Black.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I haven’t seen one of those naughty grins in a while, and I’ve missed them. I know enough now to be aware that Johnny Cash was the Man in Black, so I smile at Blue and sing along to Ring of Fire as it blasts out of the car speakers.

  “Very good, bar girl. You know all the words.” Blue runs his fingers down my cheek. Then we sing along to Jackson, Sunday Morning Coming Down, I Walk the Line, and, of course, A Boy Named Sue. Except that I say Blue each time instead of Sue.

  We’re almost back to Hickory Flat when my phone dings. A text. I haven’t heard from the stalker in a few weeks. But now, I hesitate to pick up the phone. “Want me to look?” Blue’s eyes search mine. He can read me so easily. I shake my head.

  “No. I’m tired of being afraid of my own damn phone.” I turn the screen up and squint to see it in the sunlight. “It’s from Kendra.” I can hear the relief in my voice. “She says she just walked out on the back porch and caught Virginia crying her eyes out.” I shake my head again. “I can’t figure that woman out. She acts all pissy Thanksgiving Day, treats you like crap, then is all nicey nice before we leave. She even asked me about the stalker thing, said she wanted to be sure I was safe. And I’ve never seen Virginia shed a tear, much less be ‘crying her eyes out’ where people can see her. It's weird. I don't know what's going on with her.”

  Blue is tapping the steering wheel in time to the music. “I just get the feeling there’s a lot more to your grandmother than power-tripping bitch, you know?”

  I’ve just started to argue when I hear Blue’s ringtone. He takes his phone out of the center console and glances at the screen, then puts the phone to his ear. “Hi Mama.” His face quickly turns red. He keeps nodding. “I know, Mama. I know. Mama. . .” He says it several more times. “It’s not your fault.” His voice shakes. “Mama, I know you’re worried about me. I’m sorry I was so…” I can hear Maria on the phone. She is crying. “Mama. . .” Blue grips the wheel. “I’ll call you later. We’ll talk later. Okay?”

  He throws the phone into the console and stares at the road. I look straight ahead as well, for a few minutes, not sure what to say. Then I hear Blue gulp. He is swiping at his eyes. “She’s blaming herself. She always blames herself. She did it with Bill, took responsibility for every asshole thing he did, like she made him do it. Now she’s doing the same thing with me.”

  “Blue.” I blink back my tears and try yet again to find the right words.

  “I couldn’t even look at her while we were there, Keegan. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. It’s why I haven’t been home in so long. I can’t stand the way she stares at me, adoringly, like I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread, like I’m some kind of fucking hero. And she thinks she’s done something wrong. She thinks it’s her fault!”

  “Blue.” I am so worthless right now. All I can do is reach out and loop my fingers around his arm. Then I unbuckle my seatbelt and move over next to him, leaning my head on his shoulder. After a few minutes, I say the only thing I can think of. “Blue, why don’t you just tell her what happened? She’ll understand. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident. It's not your fault that they died.”

  I can hear the false note in my voice, the knowledge that what I’m saying isn’t completely true. And Blue can hear it too. My head bounces off his arm as he slams his fists into the steering wheel.

  “Yes it was my goddamn fault, Keegan!” he screams. “Yes it was my fault. It was no accident! It was all my fucking fault! And you know that!”

  The car swerves all the way off the road this time, and I can’t help crying out as my body is thrown against the passenger side door. Blue applies the brakes slowly and gets the car back on the road as an 18-wheeler passes us on the left, the driver laying on the horn and gesturing wildly at us.

  “Keegan.” Blue’s voice is shaking. “You need to put your seatbelt back on right now.” He’s panting. "Right now."

  I sit up and click the belt into place. Gradually, we pick up speed again. Blue’s still breathing heavily, his cheeks still wet, the jaw muscle working overtime. I stare at his stretched-white hands on the wheel. “I’m so sorry, Keegan,” he says after a few minutes. “I’m sorry. I just can't do this. I can't control myself sometimes.” His voice splinters. “I have to. . .” He inhales and exhales a couple of times, then goes on more calmly. “. . .this is not fair to you, Keegan. You know that. I know you know it!”

  I shake my head vehemently like I can prevent his words from entering my ears. “Don't, Blue.”
Tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t wipe them away. “Don't say it. I don't want to hear what you're going to say!”

  And so we’re silent until we pull into the Embassy's driveway. My newly painted Nissan is still parked by the tree. Blue paid for the paint job, saying it was my birthday present. I release my seatbelt and squeeze Blue's arm, then kiss it. He opens his door and steps out without saying a word, without even looking at me.

  The living room’s cold and seems even emptier than usual. We’d gotten rid of the leftover kegs and trash bags holding hundreds of red cups before we all left for the Thanksgiving break. Blue and I just stand there awkwardly for a few minutes, not looking at each other. Hunter and Megz are obviously still gone. Blue and I are alone in the house.

  Finally, he speaks, without looking up from the floor. “I need to be by myself for a little while, Keegan. I just need some time to think.” I nod, also staring at the floor. His voice pleads with me, but his words are already putting distance between us, already building a wall. I blink back tears. Do not cry.

  Whether he realizes it or not, Blue sounds like a guy trying to walk away. I keep my eyes on the dusty boards until I hear the quiet click of his bedroom door.

  I spent the next couple of days in a fog, that pea-soupy mental state your brain sometimes steers you into so it can avoid thinking about painful stuff. Or maybe it’s your heart that does it. Either way, I was going through the motions, cleaning my room and the bathroom, organizing my portion of the kitchen, even picking up dog crap in the backyard, just for something mindless to do.

  Max, the source of all the crap, kept showing up at my door, scratching until I let him in, then curling up next to me as if he knew that’s exactly what I needed. And after he’d been with me a while, Max would head downstairs and I’d hear him scratch on Blue’s door. When Blue opened it, I’d hear a blast of music—usually Bryson—before he closed the door again. Max went back and forth like that, a self-appointed canine counselor. Good old Max. He really tried. But I needed more than he could give.

  By Sunday afternoon’s editorial meeting—the last one of the semester—I feel like someone’s punched me in the gut. My stomach’s churning, and my head seems to be on a fault line that an earthquake’s just ruptured. I can’t focus, can’t stop scowling and snapping at the newspaper staff. I know I’m screwing up, making a fool of myself. But I can’t stop. I can barely manage to put a coherent sentence together. I am furious at myself. Focus, Keegan. Dammit, focus on what you’re doing.

  But I can’t not focus, can’t seem to think straight; I can only grab hold, metaphorically, of the thoughts swirling wildly around my head and try to hang on. I don’t know how to feel about what Blue told me. I don’t know what to do, what to say. I wish I could simply remove his secret from my brain. I wished he'd never told me.

  By the time I get back to the Embassy Sunday night with a pizza I picked up on campus, I am aching to do what I’ve done for years when I’m boiling over with emotion. I put my earphones in and pull up some good crying music on my phone. At first, I go with my go-to sad songs, heartbreak tunes by Adele, Bonnie Raitt, Amos Lee, The Fray. Then I switch over to the stuff my mom and I used to listen to together, the songs she’d play over and over again. Especially Karen Carpenter. Especially Rainy Days and Mondays.

  It’s not raining, and it’s not Monday, and it’s sure not the 1970s. But still, it fits my mood.

  I sit on my bed, stuffing one slice of pizza after another in my mouth. I pull my journal out from under my pillow. And I write it all down—starting with the Fitzgerald quote about a hero—while the music whips my every emotion to a fever pitch. Somehow, in a weird way, it’s comforting.

  I write about the trip to the ranch. About Virginia and my dad, Buick and Kendra. Every mind-blowing, heart-wrenching detail. The passionate night in my old bedroom, in front of the fire with Blue. The early-morning ride in the crisp air and sunshine. The beauty of the ranch. The cabin and all its memories. And then, Blue’s deep, dark secret. Blue's agony. And my fear.

  I can see something like film footage in my mind as I scrawl the words with my Mont Blanc pen: Blue slipping into Aziza’s village; Blue being beaten by her brothers; Blue screaming and sobbing over the bodies of his comrades; Blue staying silent over what really happened; Blue accepting a Purple Heart, hating himself for it, pretending everything was all right while his own heart shriveled up and broke into little pieces.

  I cry as I write. Like I want to. Like I need to.

  I’d just written the last line when headlights hit my windows as they do whenever a car pulls up in the Embassy’s bricked-over front yard. I can tell by the bass assaulting my eardrums that it’s Hunter's BMW. The rude SOB always plays his stereo at obscene levels. And if it’s Hunter, Megz is probably with him. I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately, and I’m determined to find out why she suddenly shut me out. If it’s because of the tension between Hunter and Blue, I want to talk it out with her. I’m not going to let Hunter come between us. Or any guy, for that matter. I am not going to give up on our friendship that easily.

  Heavy steps on the stairs reach my ears a few minutes later, followed by laughter and then whispering I can’t quite make out. I hear Hunter’s door squeak as it opens, and a second later, there’s a sharp knock at my door.

  Megz sticks her head inside and gives me a hesitant smile before I have a chance to answer. “Hey, Kee Kee.”

  “Hey yourself.”

  Megz is one of those girls who look just as good all disheveled the way she is now—hair a wild mess, makeup smudged—as when everything’s in place and perfect. She slips inside and closes the door with her back, her hands clutching the doorknob behind her. Her cheeks are red from the cold wind. She is wearing skinny jeans tucked into an expensive-looking pair of black, high-heeled boots I've never seen before and a red cashmere sweater. The small red Coach purse she bought right before I moved out of the dorm dangles from her shoulder.

  Megz has always been a little mysterious about where her money comes from. I know that, as a former foster child, she gets her tuition paid by the state. She says her waitressing money covers the rest of her expenses. I sometimes wonder about that. I once accused her of having a sugar daddy.

  But Megz doesn’t have parents—or in my case, a wealthy grandmother—to pay her bills, so I don’t question her too closely. Maybe I am ashamed to. I’m not proud of the fact that Virginia’s funding my college education. But my dad has no money, and my editor job pays peanuts, even though it takes up most of my time. So when Madame President Pro Tempore shocked me after the whole blog story exploded by not rescinding her offer to pay my way at Ikana, I was happy to take her money.

  It’s not the only part of my life that’s blatantly hypocritical. Maybe Blue’s right that Virginia isn’t as bad as I make her out to be. Maybe the real bad actor in all this is me.

  “Can we talk?” Megz is staring intently at me. “Um. . .is something wrong?”

  “Nah.” I wipe my eyes, realizing it’s probably obvious I’ve been crying. “I was just thinking about coming to talk to you.”

  There’s this pregnant pause, the kind of space that naturally arises between strangers. Megz and I had that space around us for a short time when we first started sharing a dorm room; it dissolved quickly as we got to know each other. But sitting there watching her lick her lips nervously and smooth down her hair, it suddenly hits me that the 'stranger space' has been growing back between me and Meg for a while, even before she met Hunter, even before I moved out of the dorm. Things had been different between us when we returned for sophomore year. I can’t put my finger on exactly why. But something has changed.

  “So, what’d you want to talk about, Kee?”

  “Hopefully the same thing you want to talk about. What’s going on between us? Why the cold shoulder lately, Megz?”

  She looks out the window toward the tree, appearing to weigh what to say next. “Oh, Kee Kee, sometimes I forget how naive, how shelt
ered, you really are.” She says it with a bitter smile, still staring out into the darkness.

  “What do you mean?”

  Megz shakes her head and walks over to the bed, sitting next to me. “Nothing. Forget it.”

  She taps my open journal with her finger. “Got your diary out, huh? Must be important.”

  Just a hint of mockery in her voice. Megz has always seemed amused by my journal writing. And kind of contemptuous of it. I try to subtly move my hand over the last few paragraphs on the page. I don’t want Megz to see what I wrote about Blue.

  “Yeah, you know how I like to write every silly little thing down.”

  She gives me that laser look again, and I stare at the mascara smudges under her eyes, wondering if she’d been crying. But then, judging by the just-fucked state of her hair, probably not. Wow, Keegan. Not a phrase you would have used a few months ago.

  Megz puts her hand over mine. Her skin is cold. “Sorry about being kind of standoffish lately, Kee. We can’t let any guy get between us. Sisters before misters, right?” She punches me lightly, playfully, on the arm. “I just forgot that for a little while. You forgive me?”

  I smile and close the journal, sliding it off my lap and on to the bed. “Sure I do, Megz. Sisters before misters. Always.”

  I pull her into a hug, and for a second, she stiffens. Then she hugs me back.

  “So,” I say when she lets go and moves back away from me slightly. “How was your Thanksgiving? What was it like at Hunter’s? What is his family like?”

  “Oh. My. God. You will not believe it!”

  She sounds like the old Megz then, and we sit there for a while, talking and laughing, just like we used to. But the pizza I wolfed down is not interacting well with my tied-in-knots stomach, and I start to feel sick. I’m pressing an arm into my body as if that’ll help when Megz notices and pauses mid-sentence. “You okay, Kee Kee?”

  I start to say I am fine, but a wave of nausea sends me to my feet.

  “Sorry, Megz,” I say on my way to the bathroom, “I think I ate too much too fast.”