The Duets

by Quinn, Meghan

  Wildly in lust,

  Rory

  Dear Rory,

  Fuck . . .

  I don’t know what to say, other than this. I need to see you. We finish classes this week with finals, we have our assembly to see if we got into flight school, and then we’re out for winter break. I’m staying with Stryder and his family, but I want to make time for you. My number is 719-555-2417. Text me when you’re available.

  Fuck distractions.

  Fuck my fear.

  Fuck HIM.

  That hug you’ve been wanting? Craving? I want the same damn thing.

  Text me.

  Colby

  Chapter Thirteen

  COLBY

  Eleven years old . . .

  Pounding footsteps make their way down the hall, my nerves jumping back and forth, the fresh shirt I put on for school already absorbing a coat of sweat that’s slowly dripping down my back.

  I scan my room. Everything is out of sight, either in the attic or tucked away nicely. Bed is made. Clothes are folded and hung in the closet. All planes and toys are nowhere in sight.

  It’s the way he likes it.

  It’s the way he demands it to be.

  Heavy footstep after footstep draw near, my heart pounds rapidly, my lungs constrict, and my hands fidget at my side.

  I did everything right, I know I did. I double-checked.

  The feet stop at my door, and I hold my breath as it’s flung open. Ted stands on the other side, coffee in hand, business shirt pristinely pressed, his tie expertly tied around his neck. The shoes I shined for an hour last night are on his feet, the lights glaring off them.

  He doesn’t say a word when he does his check in the morning; he doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he travels around the room his eyes roaming, looking for any form of indiscretion.

  There shouldn’t be any. I made sure of it. Stopping at my bed, he eyes it up and down, taking a sip of his coffee. From his pocket, he pulls out a coin and flips it up in the air.

  On bated breath, I watch as it falls to the mattress, barely bouncing up.

  Eyes squeezed shut I say an oath, just as the coffee cup is set down on my dresser. Ripping the blankets back, he inspects my tuck job on the sheets, his eyes narrowing in on the corners. Once upright, he circles around me, the hairs on the back of my neck at full attention.

  Standing behind me, towering over me, I wait for the moment that he—

  His large hand grips the back of my neck, pushes me down, shoving my face inches from the mattress.

  “What the fuck is this?” he sneers. “Do you call this a properly executed corner?” I don’t answer as he squeezes his hands around my neck. His fingers dig in as my shoulders tense around him, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “How the fuck do you expect to get anywhere in the Air Force if you can’t make your goddamn bed correctly?”

  Forcefully, he pushes me forward, my forehead hitting the edge of the bed before I topple to the floor. Grabbing the mattress from the bottom, he flips it over, scattering my nightstand and covers all over my room. It’s not the first time he’s done it. Knowing his tendencies, I’ve become wise about where I store my things and know where to keep them out of harm’s way.

  Head pounding, I lift off the floor and stand, going to pick up my mattress. The back of Ted’s hand connects with my face, catching me off balance, and sends me flying into my dresser.

  “I expect better tomorrow.” Picking up his coffee, he adjusts his tie, steps over me and heads out of my room, slamming my door.

  Hand holding my stinging cheek, I lie on my floor for a few seconds, allowing the tears to fall.

  I couldn’t care less about the bed, about the mess he made, about the backhand to my face. That is what I’ve come to expect from Ted, my stepfather.

  What makes me cower in the corner—causes my sorrow to fall from my eyes—is the visible bruise the backhand will cause.

  I won’t be able to see Gramps today or for the next few days.

  They don’t let me see Gramps if I have a bruise.

  They don’t let me talk to him about what happens in the house, and I wouldn’t dare because I know if I did, I would lose Gramps forever. That’s what they told me.

  And I can’t lose Gramps, not after how I almost lost him when Dad died. Gramps barely survived his heart attack. I don’t want to cause him any more stress.

  So I keep my mouth shut, and I do what I’m told. I keep everything hidden, and I stay out of Ted’s way. I commit the moments I get to see Gramps to memory and hold them close to my heart, because the moments I share with him are what get me through the long stints when I’m separated from him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  COLBY

  Forty-five degree angle and tuck.

  Smooth out all the wrinkles.

  Tuck and smooth.

  Have to make it perfect.

  Taking a coin from my pocket, I flip it onto my mattress and proudly watch it bounce up.

  Good.

  I take a deep breath and sit on my desk chair, eyeing the corners of my bed. They’re tucked; they’re fine. You’re not adjusting them.

  As I’m reaching for my boots, my phone buzzes on my desk next to me.

  Rory.

  I plugged her number into my phone the other day, just in case she decided she wanted to text me. If even after everything I put her through, she still wants to see me.

  I have a little time before I have to be at breakfast, and Hardie is in the shower, so I have some privacy. Spinning in my chair, I face the desk and open up the text.

  Rory: Hey Colby, it’s Rory. Just got your letter. I forgot to check my mail last night. I figured you were awake . . . You’re awake, right?

  There is a small tug on the corner of my lips as I text her back.

  Colby: Yes, I’ve been awake for a while.

  Not knowing what else to say, I send the message, feeling like a dickhead. She doesn’t take very long to respond.

  Rory: Did you sleep well?

  Colby: As best as I could. We find out today if we made flight school.

  Rory: OMG! That’s so exciting. Are you nervous?

  Colby: Yeah. Everything I’ve been working toward will be validated today. If I worked hard enough, I made it, if I missed a step, it’s going to show.

  Rory: I bet you make it. I just know it.

  Colby: I hope so.

  Rory: Does your offer of wanting to see me still hold true?

  I pause and bite my bottom lip. I want to see her—badly—and I think it’s time I make that known, more than in the letter I sent.

  Colby: Yes. Desperately.

  The little dots on the screen bounce as she types, and my breath catches in my lungs waiting for her answer.

  Rory: I legit just squealed. When? Where? I’ll be there.

  Colby: Does tomorrow work? I’ll be done with classes for winter break and on my way to Stryder’s house.

  Rory: Tomorrow is perfect. I have classes in the morning and massage appointments until two, but I’m free after that.

  Colby: Meet me at Garden of the Gods, the main garden at three. Dress warm.

  Rory: Can’t wait.

  Neither can I.

  Just as I black out my phone, Hardie walks through the door, freshly showered and shaved. “Today’s the day, man. Excited?”

  I finish putting on my boots. “Nervous as shit.”

  “You’re going to make it. You’ve had F-22s in your blood since you were born. If I don’t get put on helos, I might die. Hell, I went to the chapel last night and prayed for an hour.”

  Hardie has wanted to fly helicopters ever since sophomore year. He switched from wanting to be a fighter pilot when he went in a helicopter and felt the lift of the machinery, how it careened into the sky. It’s a different feeling than flying a jet, and the minute he felt it, he was addicted. At this point, I couldn’t imagine Hardie doing anything else.

  And for the record, Hardie isn’t a religious person. So h
is praying garners a huge eye-roll from me.

  “You know it doesn’t work like that? God isn’t a genie waiting for your three wishes.”

  “Well, like the dick I am, I treated Him like one last night.” Sighing, Hardie takes a seat in his chair as well. “I can’t believe we’re halfway through. It’s almost over, and everything we’ve been working toward is coming to an end. We either made it or we didn’t.”

  And that’s what it really comes down to. These last four years have been a culmination of preparing us for this day. Hardie is right; we either made it, or we didn’t.

  Let’s hope I fucking made it.

  * * *

  Ring. Ring.

  “Please, pick up. Please, pick up,” I mutter into my phone as I sit in my car, affording me some much-needed privacy from everyone else, from the celebrating going on around me. “Come on . . .”

  “Hello?” I let out a long, pent-up breath. His voice instantly soothes me, taking me to the good moments in my life. With Gramps. I wouldn’t have made it this far in life without him, without the good times we shared together. I miss him.

  “Gramps?”

  “Colby, my boy.” He coughs into the phone. “Excuse me. How are you?”

  “I’m good.” My leg bounces beneath me, hitting the steering wheel, yet the pain doesn’t even make a mark on my numb body. “I . . .” My throat grows tight. “I wanted to tell you”—I choke down a sob determined to make its way up my throat—“I made it into flight school, Gramps. I fucking made it.”

  I can’t hold them back anymore. Tears fall from my eyes, as I rest my forehead on my steering wheel, relief washing over me.

  I fucking did it.

  There is silence on the other end of the phone and for a second, I think I lost him . . . until I hear a sniffle. “Colby, that’s . . . that’s so great.”

  My throat grows even tighter. Gramps is the only person I really wanted to tell, the only one who’s been there for me from the very beginning, encouraging me, and telling me no goal is too hard for me to accomplish. He’s the positive voice I’ve attempted to hear over the negative.

  “I’m still in shock. You’re my first and only call, Gramps. You were the one who encouraged me, who told me I could do it if I put my mind to it. You were the driving force behind this.” He’s the only one I want to share this with.

  “I did nothing. This was all on you, Colby.” He sniffs again. “I’m so proud of you, son, and your father would be too. He would be so damn proud of the man you’ve become.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut again, but allow the tears of pure joy to run down my cheeks. “I know he would be.”

  “When are you going to stop by? Classes are over? Bring me some pizza, and we can celebrate.”

  “How about this weekend? I’m staying with Stryder, but I’m sure he’ll want some time to himself.”

  “Did he get in?”

  I pause, feeling the weight of his hurt on my shoulders. “He didn’t.”

  "Oh no. No wonder you think Stryder will want time alone. Yes. Come this weekend. I'm always here for you."

  And that I know with all my heart. I'm still in shock that Stryder didn't make it.

  And for the life of me, I don’t know how to talk to him about it. When he found out, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at any of us. Instead, he walked off toward his dorm, silence in his every step like a man walking the plank to face the beast before him. In this case, his dad.

  Chapter Fifteen

  RORY

  When Ryan and I drove to the bowling alley a few weeks ago knowing Colby would be there, I was nervous, probably more nervous than I’ve been in a long time. There was a shake to my hand, a tremble in my step, a flutter in my stomach, but it was nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now.

  It’s like a tumultuous storm is brewing in the pit of my stomach, skyrocketing my nerves into overdrive. I’m hot, I’m cold, I’m shaky, and I’m every mixed emotion you could imagine.

  This is Colby, the man I met over Thanksgiving, the man I’ve felt so attracted to—as if there’s a place in my soul that’s simply his. I’ve slowly been able to dig under his wall and reach a part of him I feel no one else has been able to penetrate. I want to make sure my feelings aren’t just a fantasy written out on pieces of paper or conjured up in my head. I want to make sure they’re real. So damn real, that when I’m around him, I’m sucked into our own little universe.

  Stepping out of my car, I adjust the scarf I have under my green wool coat while taking in the giant red rock formations that are a famous landmark in Colorado Springs. It’s a beautiful tourist destination that brings in flocks of people from around the country, especially during the summer.

  But in the winter, it’s mainly locals—just the way I like it—devoid of swarms of people, leaving me with the rocks and Mother Nature.

  There are only a few cars in the parking lot, which gives me plenty of options, so when I park next to a big black truck, it’s intentional. From the Air Force sticker on the back window, I’m taking a wild guess it’s Colby’s truck.

  It’s not too large or obnoxious, but it’s large enough to fit his tall body. The sides are dirty, like he went off-roading, but from what I can see the interior looks spotless. I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.

  Usually there isn’t parking near the main garden lot, but since it’s winter and later in the day, there aren’t many people around. Pleased to have some privacy, I lock my car and stick my hands into my coat pockets, keeping them out of the chill as I walk down a paved pathway toward the main garden. I pass signs describing the history of the rocks and warning of rattlesnakes, and make my way toward the small hill. A rock, known as the Kissing Camels, shields me from the sinking Colorado sun, keeping it from blinding me until I get closer to the central main garden when the sun hits me again, a shining beacon, blocking my view from the west.

  Pausing, I hold my hand up toward the sky, shielding the sun, and that’s when I see him. Leaning against a wooden split-rail fence, foot propped up, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He stands tall, an Air Force hoodie covering his broad shoulders, and aviators masking his gorgeous eyes. The minute he spots me, his face lights up, the corner of his mouth tilting toward the sky. And I almost lose my breath, because I haven’t seen that smile before. It’s warm, welcoming, and it’s all for me. God, the man is . . . magnificent.

  I feel like running, sprinting into his arms, but instead, I walk, holding back my excitement, not wanting to scare him.

  It feels like forever until I’m standing before him. We both have our hands stuffed in our pockets, smiles on our faces.

  Nodding, beckoning me, he says, “Come here.”

  He steps forward, closing the distance between us, and then reaches out and wraps his arm around my shoulders, bringing me in the last few inches until I’m plastered against his chest, taking in his fresh laundry scent, letting it invade my senses. He’s sucking me into a Colby-like coma that I wish to never be woken from.

  I encircle him, pulling him in tight, reveling in the feel of his tight back muscles, in his strong chest and how it feels against my cheek. The top of my head reaches his chin, making it that much easier to be wrapped up in his embrace.

  We stand there, holding one another, the words we’ve written to each other passing over us—through us—a greater understanding of our lives cementing the bond between us. I don’t attempt to move. Who would? I keep myself grounded in the comfort of his arms, and the tension I’ve carried for so long eases with every breath we take together.

  In and out, in and out, the tension melts away into a puddle at my feet, waiting to be discarded.

  This is what I need, what I want in my life, someone to be by my side, someone to hold me when I need to be held, someone to share this crazy journey I’m going through. I want him. I want Colby Brooks as my one.

  The sun begins its descent to the west, leaving us with only an hour or so before total dark
ness. For now, it casts an orange glow around us, the red rocks adding to the ambiance, to the radiance.

  Eventually, when Colby pulls away, he lifts my chin with his index finger, my reflection bouncing back at me through his sunglasses. Reaching up, I remove the protective shields, wanting to see his eyes, the dark chocolate of his irises. I want to be able to read him.

  Gaze focused, studying, he finally says, “I’m sorry.”

  I push his sunglasses to the top of his head, standing on my toes to reach, and then glide my hand over his cheek, enjoying the light stubble as it catches the pads of my fingers. “Why are you sorry?”

  “Because, I should have done this a long time ago.” He doesn’t skip a beat.

  Bending forward, he hooks his finger under my chin again and guides me to his mouth where he pauses, our noses touching, our breaths mixing. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this, if you don’t want me,” he whispers.

  Tell him to stop? If I don’t want him? Why on earth would I possibly stop Colby Brooks, the eloquent, profound, and insightful man from kissing me? There isn’t a bone in my body that would protest having his mouth over mine.

  “I could never tell you to stop,” I answer honestly, right before he closes the space between us.

  When I envisioned a first kiss with Colby, I saw it as something passionate, so out of control that we were at a loss for finesse, hands and mouths begging and pleading for more.

  But that’s not what this is.

  Slowly, Colby brings his mouth to mine, his lips a whisper of a touch, barely connecting. A sharp intake of breath, a low, pleading hum, a burning need blossoming between us.

  Pressing forward, he grazes my mouth, tentatively feeling me out, creating a road map for my lips until he pulls me closer, closing my mouth inside his, parting my lips with a gentle swipe of his tongue.