Blue Dream

by Xavier Neal

  Frustration flashes on her face. “That's not why I picked it.”

  “Hey boss lady,” a male voice causes me to glance around Katherine’s slim figure at a face that I don't mind seeing. He's a splash of paint in this overly primed environment. The kids themselves are quite lively and a mixture of personalities, but their parents are carbon copies of one another. Same stale story on repeat. He reminds me of myself. Someone who doesn't come from the world of tiaras and tuxes. Someone who has to work to live. Even if money flows now like it never has before, I don't take it for granted. By the way he smiles, neither does he, “How are you?”

  “I'm good,” I reply. “How are you?”

  “Won't complain.”

  “I like that.” With a soft smile I say, “All the classrooms are empty except for Rainbow Bright room. That room only needs the clouds touched up. The Jungle Gym needs the cougars. There's also three ducks in The Pond that need it. You've got a good eye, it shouldn't be hard for you to spot it.”

  He smirks. “You know, I could easily repaint those murals.”

  “And you will,” I inform him of a decision I've been toying with since right after Christmas. “But not yet. When Spring Break lets out, we're closing for that week for you to do just that. So don't make plans.”

  His eyes light up as does his smile. “Do you have an idea of what you want done?”

  “A few. We can get together next week. I know you're enrolled in the art program at Ashwin. I wanna see what your personal style is.”

  “Oh you're an art student?” Katherine joins the conversation.

  “I am.” He extends his hand. “Merrick McCoy.”

  “Quite a name,” she coos as she shakes it. “You like to paint.”

  “Live to,” he corrects and takes his hand away.

  “Merrick painted The Disney Frozen mural we had on the building at Christmas,” I remind her. “He also helped paint the background for the family Christmas photos as well as the one we have up now for Valentine's Day.”

  “You're very talented,” Katherine compliments before she turns to me. “Where'd you find him?”

  I shrug. “He found me.”

  “I was driving by and saw the Halloween mural. The painting wasn't even. The artists had clearly painted at several different times of the day. I could tell between the varying shades of colors and shadowing. I told Presley the next time she needed one done, I could do it in one go and probably save her a few bucks.”

  “And he did.”

  Glancing at my cell phone that's vibrating, I internally debate whether or not to hit the ignore button. Every time I do, I know I should feel guilty, but I don't. I don't feel anything. That's part of the problem. I rarely feel anything as far as he's concerned. Some of my married friends say that just happens when you get this comfortable, when you've been together this long, when you've been around each other for years. No matter what they say, something inside of me says it doesn't have to be that way.

  When it finally stops ringing, I look up. “Besides, he's wonderful to have around. Maybe you should use him for your book. I'm sure he's got a great story to tell.”

  “Me?” He nervously chuckles. “I doubt that.”

  “Doesn't matter,” Katherine brushes him off. “It's not your story I wanna hear. It's hers. She's going to tell it to me, don't you worry your pretty blue eyes about that.”

  Merrick gives us another smile, pulls his keys to the supply closet out, and strolls away.

  Doing my best to further avoid being her guinea pig, I sigh, “Shouldn't you grab your daughter from her classroom?”

  “Lizzie has her. You know Angel can't get enough of that woman.”

  “She's six months. She likes anyone who coos at her and pretends to disappear.”

  Babies. Something I thought I would've had by now. I wanted them so bad when I was younger. I wanted to have four or five of them surrounding my feet at any given moment. I wanted to hold them and nurture them. I wanted little bundles that were combinations of me and the person I loved more than I loved myself. Dreams change just like people do. Not sure that one did, but now there's no place to put that many dependents outside of classrooms and no desire to procreate with the man I co-exist with.

  “Please,” Katherine politely begs. “I really need this. I didn't ask anyone else, Presley. I knew I could trust you. I knew you would take this seriously. This is my career on the line.”

  Not her career, her favorite hobby. Her beloved never ending project. Taking the uninhabited ideas most of us leave for dead and creating entire books around them. She feeds other socialites studies about subjects that will help them sleep easier with their double dose of Ambien. It's not to say I don't think she has merit. I just don't want to be used to make some point that in the long run I may or may not agree with.

  On a sigh I ask, “What do I have to do?”

  “We just have to talk,” she quickly assures. “I have a few subject lines I wanna discuss in my book. My questions are going to sound similar to a therapy session and I'll record it. Your audio will be locked in files. No one will have any idea that I used you. My word.”

  Seeing Janice's mother arrive, I press the intercom button for her room. “Lizzie, Janice's mother has arrived. Please have her ready to go.” Immediately I look up and warmly say, “Good evening, Mrs. Leonard. How are you?”

  “Beautiful. They were having a sale at Neiman Marcus and I went home with the most splendid array of new heels. In fact.” She pauses and turns her body to display her recent purchase. I stand to get an actual view of them, which is when she declares, “Aren't they fantastic?”

  The six inch pumps don't look special to me. They look like every other pair of shiny shoes that struts in here, looks down at me like the overpaid help, and then saunters off to pick up the accessory they had to have. Sometimes I feel like those shoes. Like I was on sale, someone grabbed me, loved how shiny I was in the beginning then put me in the closet with all the other shit they know they have, but don't care if they wear or not until someone else points it out. Then they're important again. Then they're worn for a day, falsely idealized once more, only to have the sick cycle repeat.

  With a painful painted smile I agree, “They are.”

  “Kat?”

  She hates to be called Kat. It makes me snicker when we're out and about, but at work I try to remain professional. She feels the name makes her sound juvenile, like a meager adolescent no one would ever take seriously. For the most part to me a name is just a name. Another card you're dealt. Another card you play. Your name doesn't define you or destroy. Those are the other cards in your deck.

  She folds her arms across her chest. “I bet Kathleen's ready for you.”

  “You're probably right. David wants us to go out to dinner, so I need to hurry and get her home to the babysitter.” She scampers away completely forgetting the conversation she was having with us.

  As soon as she's around the corner, Katherine snaps, “If I ever turn into that use a big wad of ones to slap me.” When I giggle she sighs, “First session tonight. We'll have dinner at La Perfection. On me of course. Let me get Angel to her father. Meet in an hour?”

  I nod and she taps the counter pleased to get her way. Reliving my past isn't the way I wanna spend my time, but it beats going home to run a bath, read a book, and crawl into bed next to someone who barely registered I'd even walked in the room. At least walking down memory lane will spark a heartbeat into the lifeless existence my emotions have fallen into.

  **

  There's something about restaurants with more white in them than colors that makes me grateful that I work somewhere filled with so much life. The crispness of it all reminds me how easy it is to become something someone looks at but never touches. The dreaded Trophy Curse. My life outside of work has become that. How anyone enjoys feeling like if they become touched that they are less valuable, less worthy is beyond me. I don't belong in this glass case I've been wedged into, yet I can't seem
to convince myself to use the key to slip out.

  The waiter pours the champagne Katherine prefers, the bubbles being the most lively thing on the table. “We're going to jump right in. The first topic I wanna discuss is Love is An Addiction.”

  I raise my eyebrows honestly perplexed. “Are you sure you wanna use me for this Katherine? In the five years you've known me, I've been with the same guy. Maybe you should use someone like Keri. Maybe Nel? Someone who is actually dating.”

  “I don't want to demonstrate that slutting around is an addiction. Just trust me.” She raises a hand to demand my silence. “You once told me a story about a guy who you kissed in the rain.” The description alone is enough to wake up every taste bud on my tongue. “There was something in your eyes I've never seen since. You wouldn't talk more about him-”

  “There wasn't more to say.”

  “There's an entire story there,” she quickly declares. “And I wanna hear it. Something tells me it has had effects so deep you've forgotten they were there. I want to bring those shadows to the light.”

  Looking down at the menu, which hadn't looked appetizing moments before, suddenly looks like the perfect mirage to a dying woman wandering the desert. “Can we have something to start? Bread maybe. I love French Bread.”

  “When'd you start using food to deal with your emotions?”

  In a whisper I deny, “I don't.”

  “You and Xander fight, you grab something to munch on. Mints. Chips. A cookie. It's your natural default. You clam up your emotions and then shove something inside your mouth like you're silencing yourself. When did that start?”

  “I don't know,” I mumble and fight down the urge. If only she knew how much better about it I've gotten. Talking situations out has never worked for me. Listening. Waiting. Playing the odds, that's what I do. That's what I've done for years. Fully opening yourself up for another person, exposing your essence for someone to empty their own opinions, judgments, and baggage into you? For you to carry that weight? For you to keep it even when they exit abruptly? Never again.

  “The guy you kissed in the rain,” she leads. “Did you eat when you two fought?”

  “We didn't fight,” the words pour out of me while my finger runs around the rim of the flute.

  “You didn't fight?”

  I look up sharply. “Do you fight with your Chardonnay?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Because the point of it is to relax you. To make you feel good. That's what dating Ryder was like. All he ever wanted was to make me feel good...”

  “Almost,” I whimper grabbing onto his t-shirt. “Almost..”

  “That's it Pres,” he encourages, his hot breath dripping down my ear, as my muscles tense around him. “Come for me, baby. Fall apart...”

  That's all it takes. My body explodes and I claw for something to steady me while I arch up towards the heavens that are calling me home. Soft moan after moan flood out of me as Ryder's legs, which are cradling me, hold me tighter, trapping me in the moment. Trapping me in the exhilaration of ecstasy. Turning me from the tamed tiger I'm known for being into the primitive animal that only knows survival. Every orgasm feeds that need. I need Ryder to survive.

  His fingers slide out of me at the same time he kisses the side of my forehead. “I don't know if I'm addicted to your moans or you coming.”

  Giggling, I wiggle my shorts back into place, thankful the blanket is still covering us. “Both?”

  “Both,” he agrees with a slow nod.

  Casually I look up to see his bright blue eyes shimmering, shining as if he was just given three wishes by a Genie, as if he's hit the billion dollar lottery. The glisten is one I live to see. One I'd give my last drop of blood to become an immortal image. Whenever I'm around, there's always that light. That light reminds me I don't have to look like other girls to be wanted. That light that reminds me it's not about race but romance. Not the volumes of skin tone, but thundering roars of body language.

  “You know when you look at me like that it just makes me wanna marry you faster.” Ryder kisses my left hand on top of my promise ring. “God, I can't wait to marry you.” He kisses it again. “I can't wait for you to become Mrs. Collins and have tons of kids.”

  “Ryder was intoxicating,” my face helplessly smirks. “Everything he said, all the pictures he painted, the amount of love he poured out of him and into me, was like drowning in euphoria. I don't remember if I ate when things got tough. I don't remember consuming anything more than him whenever he was around.”

  “Sounds like he was an addiction.”

  Seeing her point come to light, I lean back and lift my glass. I stare at the bubbles remembering how bubbly I was once known for being. How these bubbles will fade like I did.

  “Do you feel over time you became dependent on him?”

  “I think often in relationships when couples fall in love they do. Especially when you're young.”

  “Have you ever felt dependent with Xander?”

  “No.”

  “What about the men since Ryder? Do you feel you had dependency issues with any of them?”

  I hesitate to answer. “No.”

  “What do you feel made Ryder special?”

  Once more my face seems to deny my brains instructions. My lips curl upward. I whisper, “Everything...”

  Katherine doesn't smile in return. Her serious doctor face reminds me of how distant she was when we first met. She was cold. Professional. There wasn't any indication to imply we would ever develop a friendship. It's funny how life takes unexpected turns.

  “How did the two of you end?”

  Sometimes I'm not sure we ever did. Watching the fire of our relationship starve for oxygen to continue to grow nearly killed me. The things that happened, things that even ten years later I find myself looking for justifications to forgive what should be unforgivable, were flames, burning more than our skin, leaving more than scars, severing our vitality. By the end of our final time together, I wasn't sure there was even an ember left. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if the wind blew on it just right. Would a spark be found?

  “Did you actually end?”

  I remain silent.

  “This only works if you talk to me, Presley.” The waiter starts to speak when she raises a hand to stop him. She insists we will order shortly, for now refills would be all. Her eyes never leave mine. “I need you to answer some of these questions.”

  “I don't have those answers.”

  Surprised by my response she tilts her head. “I'm assuming at some point you saw him with other girls.” The words cause a sting to my system. An immediate need to create a callous calls to me. My hand twitches for the bread that I don't remember being delivered. “Other females relishing in the love that was once yours. Being fulfilled by the bliss you swore was only intended for you. Do you remember the first time?”

  I fiddle with my skin tight jeans and tank top which is underneath my black spirit team jersey we made over the summer like we do every year. Being the captain of “The Spirit Club” I’m expected to be at every game, so if I would've missed it, I may have lost my title. “Was this really necessary to wear?”

  One of the best things about The Spirit Club was the sisterly bond we prided ourselves on creating. I'd been doing it since freshman year. It was how I met Carmen when she transferred from the private school she got kicked out of. While cheerleaders were expected to make the signs they held up at the games, it was our job to decorate the hallways, the cafeteria, and the ones to hold up signs in the crowd during the game. We were to be the cheerleaders off the field without the seven pounds of makeup and ability to do flips or spell really loud. Carmen hates all the school spirit but loves spending time with me, so she deals with it.

  “You have a killer rack and it needs to be displayed to catch some new meat.”

  I don't want or need new meat. I need more sleep. More darkness in the solitude I've started to call my bedroom. More Oreos from the stas
h hidden in my night stand next to the latest DVD cases, which hold the movies I cry myself to sleep to. Most likely that will be how I spend the rest of my life.

  She tosses her copper colored hair around and slides on her sunglasses. “Those jeans are so hot they could hurt somebody.”

  “Yeah like me,” I sigh and watch her make heads turn with every step we take closer to the stadium.

  It's hard enough keeping self-confidence when you're the spot in the snow storm, the token minority people want around so they feel less racist, the girl with woman curves that make others feel inferior. Add having a best friend who is easy on the eyes and easy to get in the sheets, just makes me even more invisible. Ryder always saw me. Ryder always saw only me.

  I take a long deep breath as I approach the team who has been waiting for me to show my face.