The Duets

by Quinn, Meghan

  He shrugs, his eyes closing as he speaks. “Didn’t need pets. I had my model airplanes, and they kept me busy enough. I sanded, built, re-built, and painted every airplane kit my gramps ever gave me. It was my sanctuary. No need for animals; I had everything I needed in my planes.”

  My heart squeezes, images of a young version of Colby flash through my mind, his hardened features softened, his chocolate-brown hair ruffled, and his brown eyes wide and innocent, focused intently on his planes.

  “That’s really sweet.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve called me sweet tonight. I think I’m giving you the wrong impression.”

  “Yeah? And what kind of impression do you wish you were giving me?”

  He folds his hands over his stomach, eyes still trained on the stars above, staring into what seems to be his safe haven—the sky and open air. “A hard-ass, someone you should stay away from, someone you shouldn’t be sitting on a balcony with while there’s a party going on down below.”

  “Yeah,” I drag out, “You’re doing a terrible job if that’s the kind of impression you want to be giving me. Sorry, but your soft side is showing.”

  “I don’t have a soft side.”

  I press my foot into his leg. Slowly, he rolls his head toward me, those sharp eyes connecting with mine. “I see it differently. I think you’re a softy inside, a truly sensitive guy, but try to hide it with this tough, impenetrable veneer.”

  He scoffs at me and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the stars. “And why would you think that?”

  Leaning forward, I hook my finger around his cheek and force him to turn his head toward me. When his eyes focus in on mine, I say, “For one, you could have easily told me to fuck off by now and walked away. Secondly, you brought me up here for a quiet place to talk and offered me a blanket to stay warm. And thirdly . . . even though your eyes seem to be weathered and worn at a young age, I can see a glimpse of joy in them when you joke around, like the little boy in you is trying to peek out.”

  Studying me, his eyes searching mine back and forth, the wheels in that handsome head of his going a mile a minute, he pulls away and sits up on the couch, hands folded together. “You don’t know me, Rory. Sorry to say, but you’re wrong.”

  Pushing off his legs with his hands, he stands, getting ready to leave. But I stand with him, snagging his hand in mine, keeping him firmly in place.

  “Don’t leave.” It’s a simple request—just spend some more time with me—but from the distraught look on Colby’s face, my request is starting a war of indecision in his head.

  There’s something holding him back, something preventing him from enjoying his time. I want to know what it is.

  Tugging on his arm, I turn him toward me. His large hand runs down his face, his expression pained. He’s avoiding every opportunity to look me in the eyes.

  “Why won’t you look at me?”

  “Because,” he says, his voice terse, resembling the guy I met at the beginning of the evening.

  “Because why?”

  “Because you’re a distraction.” Stepping out of my grasp, he heads toward the bedroom.

  A distraction? From what? From school?

  Not able to let this go, I chase after him and wheedle my way in front of the bedroom door before he can leave.

  A deep, heavy sigh escapes him as he spins around, gripping the back of his neck, his bicep a boulder stretching out the fabric of his shirt.

  “Damn it, Rory, just let me go. I’m going to tell you right now, there is nothing here worth waiting for.”

  “Why don’t you let me make that assessment myself?”

  He shakes his head and faces me. Distraught and confused, his shoulders tense, his lips press into a thin line. “What do you even want to do with me? I’ve barely been a decent human to you all night. You should be downstairs enjoying yourself, not up here with a guy closing himself off from you.”

  “I want to talk to you, Colby. I want to get to know you.”

  He laughs, but it’s not the kind of laugh that’s filled with humor; it’s more menacing, doubtful. “You want to get to know me? Fine.” He holds up his hand and starts ticking off his fingers. “I’m a senior at the Air Force Academy. I’m waiting for my acceptance into flight school, and once I get that, I’m out of here. I have one goal in life, and it’s to be a fighter pilot. I don’t have time for anything but school and my studies. Despite how goddamn beautiful you are, inside and out, I can’t let myself get distracted from my goal, and you’re a distraction. A huge distraction, the kind of distraction I know will turn my world upside down.” He shakes his head. “I can’t afford to be distracted, Rory.” His voice softens. “I can’t.”

  Stepping toward him, unable to stop myself, I press my hand against his chest. Sucking in a sharp breath of air, his eyes fall to mine, his body tensing, the beat of his heart running wild beneath my palm.

  “I just want to talk.”

  Holding his breath, he shakes his head. “Talking is what’s going to destroy me.” Taking my hand in his, he lowers it to my side and pushes past me. “I suggest you leave me alone, Rory. Trust me. Stay away.”

  Walking out of the bedroom, his shoulders slumped, his hand in his short hair, Colby leaves me. I have so many questions running through my head. The most prominent one is why? Why did he become so intense? Why does he believe he needs me to stay away? In many respects, I admire his resolve. But his words keep rattling around in my mind . . .

  Despite how goddamn beautiful you are, inside and out, I can’t let myself get distracted from my goal, and you’re a distraction. I can understand not wanting a distraction, but what I can’t understand is why I would be that to him.

  Unfortunately for him, I’m not done. He thinks I’m beautiful, and I’m far from done with him.

  Chapter Seven

  COLBY

  Ten years old . . .

  “Take this box to the curb, will you?” Mom places a box full of Dad’s clothes in my hands. This morning, she wandered around the house gathering all of Dad’s things, stuffing them in boxes. It feels like she’s clearing out every memory I have of him.

  It’s been a week since we buried him next to Grandma. Only a week. Gramps hasn’t been around. Mom says he’s sad and can’t bear to be around me since I look just like Dad.

  I called him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. I left him a message asking him to call me back, or come visit me.

  “Hurry up, Colby. I need all these boxes out of the house.”

  “Why are you getting rid of Dad’s things?” I ask, feeling a lump in my throat starting to form. “Don’t you miss him?”

  Frustrated, she huffs out a long breath and snaps at me. “Of course I miss him, but we have to say bye and move on. We’re moving on, Colby.”

  “But . . . I don’t want to move on, Mom. I don’t want to forget Dad.”

  “Colby, I don’t have time for this,” she yells. “Take the goddamn boxes to the curb or I’ll take all your planes and shove them in the trashcan along with your dad’s belongings.”

  Tears welling up in my eyes, my throat so tight I can’t breathe, I scurry out of my mom’s room before she can see how much I care about my planes. It’s not the first time she’s used them against me, that she’s punished me by taking them away, or threatened to throw them away. I’ve gotten smart now, and I hide some of them in the attic. She doesn’t know because she doesn’t go up there. When I told Dad about my little secret, he squeezed my hand and told me my secret was safe with him.

  Moving down the hallway, I look behind me to see if Mom is watching. The coast is clear, so I take the box into my room and start digging through it, like I did with the other boxes, only keeping some of the things that are most important to me.

  So far, I have Dad’s wallet, his Air Force sweatshirt he got from Gramps, and his watch. Scanning through the box, sifting through the clothes, I spot Dad’s old college gym shorts. I bring them close to my chest, re
membering all the days before he got sick when he came home from racquetball wearing these bright red shorts and a huge smile on his face. After pressing a kiss to Mom’s lips, he then tackled me to the floor where he tickled me for what seemed liked forever.

  Stashing them away with my other things, I do another dig, wanting to keep it all but knowing I can’t. Mom will know and use Dad’s things against me as well. Only the most important items can stay with me.

  Closing the box, I peek out my door before hustling down the stairs, taking the box to the curb with the rest of his stuff. This feels so wrong. I want my dad to come back. Why do we have to throw his things away? Will they be buried with him? I hate this. I hate that he died and left me. I close my eyes, channeling my dad to the forefront of my mind, and tell him I’m sorry. A car suddenly pulls into the driveway, the sharp turn it made scaring me into the grass.

  From my perched position, music booms through the car, loud and obnoxious, the smooth-looking car unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The engine dies down, and a polished loafer steps onto the concrete of the driveway. Rounding the front of the car, Dr. Ted surveys the house, straightens his tie, and then tucks his sunglasses through his button-up shirt. His loafers clack along the sidewalk leading to the house. He doesn’t see me as he makes his way to the front, walking in without knocking or ringing the doorbell.

  What is he doing here?

  Last time I saw him was at Dad’s funeral, where his arm was wrapped around my mom, whispering into her ear every time she let out a loud cry.

  Getting to my feet, I brush off my pants, and quietly make my way toward the house. I stop halfway when I hear a booming voice come from the top of the stairs. Scurrying toward the door, I listen in.

  “I thought all this shit would be gone by the time I got here. What the hell have you been doing all day?” Dr. Ted’s voice rises. So angry. Scary. “If I go in the garage, am I going to find the same mess?”

  “I haven’t been able to go in there yet,” my mom’s weak voice answers.

  “It’s not that hard. You just trash everything.”

  Trash everything? Why would he trash everything of my dad’s?

  My mind quickly calculates what’s in the garage that I might want to keep.

  Dad’s baseball glove. It’s in the garage.

  Heart pounding, not wanting to get caught, I rush through the house, through the laundry room and into the garage, straight to the sports bin where we keep all our gear. Sweat starts to drip off my forehead as I dig, frantically searching for the glove. It’s not here. Ted’s voice grows stronger and stronger as he gets closer to the garage. Where is it?

  I have to find the glove before it’s thrown out with the rest of Dad’s things.

  Where could it be?

  Searching the space, my heart in my throat, I spot it on a shelf near the side door. As fast as I can, I run to the glove, bring it close to my chest, and slip out the side door just as I hear the garage door open and Ted begin to toss things around.

  Why does he care about Dad’s things in the garage? Or in the house? I don’t understand.

  Reaching into my pocket, I open up Mom’s cell phone. I stole it from her purse earlier when she started making me take boxes to the curb. Hiding behind a bush next to the house, I find Gramps’s number and dial him.

  It rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  When he doesn’t pick up, I listen to his voicemail and wait to leave him a message.

  Tears in my eyes, clutching my dad’s baseball glove, I speak. “Gramps, it’s Colby. I . . . uh, I was hoping you would answer. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. Dr. Ted is here, Mom is getting rid of everything Dad owned, and I . . . I miss you. I’m sorry if I look like Dad and make you sad, but I really need you. Please come get me. Please come play planes with me.”

  I miss Gramps. I miss his hugs, and the way he smells like mint and soap. Why won’t he come play with me? Why won’t he come and hug me? I’m so sad and need him so much. Please, Gramps. Don’t leave me too.

  Hanging up, I drop the phone in my lap and let the tears fall.

  Chapter Eight

  COLBY

  Forty.

  Forty-one.

  Forty-two.

  The door to the pool house swings open, and without even waiting for a welcome, Stryder strolls in, coffee mug in hand, hair disheveled, and wearing nothing but a pair of black sweat pants and moccasins. He shuts the door with a push of his foot, keeping the cold air from spilling into my small space.

  “Pushups? Don’t you think you should take a break?” Stryder steps on my ass as he passes by and takes a seat in a wingback chair in the corner of the room, legs spread, slouching.

  Pushing up from my position, I lean back and start doing crunches. “What do you want?”

  “Come on, are you still salty about the other night?”

  It’s been two days since the night we went to the party. Wednesday and Thursday were filled with Sheppard family Thanksgiving rituals, long meals, conversations with relatives about the Air Force Academy, and story after story of the many years Stryder’s family spent in the clouds, from his grandpa to his dad, to his uncles.

  Unlike Stryder, who’s heard the same stories over and over again, I welcome them. They’re a distant reminder of what I’m striving for every day, the person I want to become.

  But because we’ve been so busy, I haven’t spent much time with Stryder. Until now.

  “I’m not fucking salty.”

  “Really? Could have fooled me. Tell me about the friend you made at Tom’s party.”

  “She’s not my friend,” I bite out, lifting up and down, my stomach starting to burn.

  “That’s kind of dickish, man. She was just trying to get to know you.”

  “And I told her not to waste her time. There’s no point in starting anything up with a girl when I have a few months left at the academy and an undetermined future. You know better than anyone that we have no idea what we’ll be doing after graduation. I don’t want to complicate that.”

  “Dude, she’s just a girl. Have a little fun. You don’t have to date her, but you can sure as hell have a good time until we graduate.”

  “She’s not that kind of girl.” I sit all the way up and wrap my arms around my legs. Staring at the floor, I say, “She’s the kind of girl that buries herself deep inside your bones, makes you ache for her touch, for the sound of her voice. She’s different, and I knew it the minute I looked her in the eyes.”

  Silent, Stryder sips his coffee. “You’re such a damn romantic, man. No wonder all the female cadets are desperate for you to look their way.”

  Rolling my eyes, I stand and head toward the bathroom to turn the shower on. “They’re not desperate.” Stryder gives me a pointed look. “Okay, maybe a little.” I inwardly roll my eyes. Stryder knows I avoid those girls as well. I refuse to jeopardize my future.

  Chuckling, he turns in his seat, legs hanging over the arm of the chair. “Bowling tonight?”

  I put a dollop of toothpaste on my toothbrush and stick my head out of the bathroom door. “So just like that, we’re done fighting?”

  “You know I can’t have you mad at me forever, sweetheart.” Stryder holds his heart. “The quicker we can kiss and make up, the better. And for the record, I’m not quite sure why you were mad at me in the first place.”

  I spit in the sink. “For taking me to the party.”

  “Oh, well get the fuck over it because we’re going bowling tonight. Cosmic bowling.”

  “What are we, twelve?”

  “Only if we wear white shirts so the black lights reflect off us.”

  I rinse my mouth and ask, “Hardie and Joey going to be there?”

  “Yeah, of course. Think I just want to date it up with you by myself at cosmic bowling? Come on, dude. I like you, but not that much.”

  Leaning past the wall that separates the bathroom from the bedroom, I say, “I’m about to take a sho
wer and you’re still here. You tell me how much you like me.”

  Chuckling, Stryder stands. “Fuck off, man.”

  * * *

  “Why am I the only one who got the clown-looking bowling shoes?” Hardie asks, staring down at his multi-colored bowling shoes sporting hues of red and olive green.

  Stryder and I both rented straight black bowling shoes that look more like Vans than anything.

  “It’s because you have tiny-ass feet,” Stryder says, slapping Hardie on the back.

  “Fuck you, I don’t have tiny feet. We wear the same size shoe, asshole.”

  “Oh killer shoes, Bambi,” Joey says, sitting next to Hardie, a giant, teasing smile on her face.

  Bambi is the name Joey gave Hardie during our first year at the academy. It was after his first flight in the glider. He stepped out of the plane, knees wobbling, legs shaking, looking like a brand new baby fawn learning how to walk. He blamed it on the wind whipping off the Front Range, but we knew better. He was terrified. He’s much better now, but Bambi has been his nickname ever since. Poor bastard.

  “You need to get a bowling ball?” Stryder asks me.

  I finish tying my shoe and stand to join Stryder. “Why did we get two lanes?”

  “So we can bowl more,” Stryder answers as if I’m stupid. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the shirt you wore tonight.”

  “It’s the only thing I had left.”

  “It’s white.” He gives me a pointed look.

  My voice turns gritty as I repeat, “It was all I had left unless you wanted me to wear PT gear.”

  “You’re going to be so goddamn pretty under the black lights tonight; you very well might get lucky.”

  “In your fucking dreams.” Pulling out the bowling balls, I test the weight and thumbholes. The fourteen feels like a good fit for me.

  Stryder eyes my ball and shakes his head. “You couldn’t have picked a more boring ball. It’s black. That shit isn’t going to glow under the lights. Grab that neon orange one.”