A Hue of Blu

Present

“Please give me one good reason why you’re meeting with him again.”

Carter’s annoyance reverberated through me, instantly dampening my mood. But he was right. He was always right.

After I finally settled into my new place, I decided to give Hamish Cartwright a call. Even if Jeremy, my momentary Irish lad, was lying about a potential job position. What did I have to lose?

As it turned out, the job really was legit but the position had been filled a few weeks before I decided to call. It was disappointing, but he asked me to send over some photos as Jeremy ended up telling him about our little encounter.

I did exactly that, and Hamish ended up loving them. So much so that he set me up with one of his Canadian colleagues who was local to the area, and got me an interview with Toronto Pix magazine travel blog.

Parker Mickelson, the head journalist under “TTC Travels” called me in a month ago to tour the streets with him, taking photos of things I deemed relevant to the public.

“My opinion actually matters?” I queried, curious about the objectivity when it came to press articles.

“Hun, your opinion is irrelevant. It’s us journalists that can’t document bias.” He seemed to survey my blue hair as he said, “Photos are not a problem. Now go snap some shots while I order us lattes.”

God, what was with everyone and coffee?

But I did exactly that and by the grace of some celestial fucking being, I landed a position under Denise and Courtney, two of the lead photographers at TTC Travels.

If I was being honest, my job thus far had just been beverage runs and organizing camera equipment, but I had my own desk – and my own desk meant I had a job – and having a job meant I had a purpose and I wasn’t just cruising through life abusing my dead dad’s inheritance.

What a fucking sentence.

But despite all the loss, my psychologist pushed me to work on appreciation.

“You have so many things to be grateful for,” she’d told me.

I rolled my eyes. What a birthday card thing to say.

“My dad’s dead, my mom might as well be, I spent the past year of my life travelling and ended up back in the same spot I used to be in, Stacy. In love with a boy who reminded me that I was hard to love.”

“Why do you think that is?” she asked.

A stupid. Fucking. Question.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that? Is that not what I pay you for?”

… Yeah. I was a bit of a bitch in the beginning, I could admit. But wasn’t everyone who needed healing? Did we all not find confessing our problems to some stranger not the least bit odd?

“There’s a lot to unpack in what you just said,” Stacy sipped her tea, eyeing me like a baby bird.

I scoffed. “Try living with the trauma.”

“Try facing it, Beatrice.”

She wiped the smug smile right off my face with that comment. A bit of me was taken aback at her words; as if she knew the only way that I’d finally listen was if she put me in my place.

Maybe therapy wasn’t so bad after all.

So I continued to attend the weekly sessions, but she never said anything like that again.

Two weeks ago, I asked her why she used that tone with me. “And why did you never use it again?”

She simply replied, “Because you enjoyed it.”

“And you’re depriving me of what I enjoy? Are you not supposed to help me?”

“Precisely why I refuse to speak with you in that manner again.”

“Why?”

She leaned forward, her palms pressing against her grey pleated pants. “Beatrice, you’re used to getting what you want, not what you need. Because you don’t chase after kindness, you chase after challenges.”

“So you challenged me,” I glared, a bit wounded. I felt like an experiment.

She shook her head calmly, fishing for a paper in her black folder. When she handed it, my eyes scanned over the long questionnaire that had no heading or title, just…

“What is this?” I asked, crumpling the sheet.

“Homework.”

“I’m not in school anymore.”

“No, but you’ve taken on some responsibility by coming here, by choosing growth. I’d like to learn a little more about you since you don’t seem too keen on telling me much right now.”

I opened my mouth to combat her, but she was honestly right. Trusting anyone, regardless of their professional status, was tough for me. I’m sure I wasn’t the only person on this planet who remained sewn shut during therapy sessions.

So I took the paper and shoved it in my coat pocket, forgetting about it until now as I threw on my beige trench and fished it out.

“You didn’t answer me,” Carter said over Facetime. I completely forgot he was still there.

I silently skimmed over the list of questions, typed out in neat font. It was too much work for me now; I’d get to it later.

“What did you ask again?”

His tone was laced with irritation. “Why are you meeting up with Jace again? Do you seriously want to rewrite what happened last year?”

“I’m not a writer,” I jibed, then tapped my phone screen. “I got to go, Carter. I’ll update you.”

“Don’t,” he practically barked, ending the call.

“Well goodbye to you too,” I grimaced, speaking to air.

His exit stung, but I couldn’t blame him. My relationship with Jace had been a rollercoaster ride from the beginning. If someone asked me to list a timeline of events that occurred between us, I’d truly blank. Because everything that happened blurred into one thing and one thing only –

Trouble.

As I walked out my front door, sliding my key into the lock and turning it sideways, I realized that I had a thirst for trouble.

I mean, why else would I be walking to Aroma at 4:47pm meeting up with the man who put me in a goddamn psychologist’s chair?

A thirst for trouble? Maybe.

An unquenchable thirst for Jace Boland?

Definitely.

***

“I went ahead and ordered you my usual.”

Jace was already sitting down, his hair a tad shorter than when I’d last seen him; trimmed neatly on the sides, but generously wispy.

He wore a black long sleeve, his muscles stretching against the fabric and black button earrings to match.

Memories of us at the campus coffee shop flashed in my brain; a time when we were just getting to know each other.

A time that felt much easier than this.

Who knew he’d ever be this important?

I wondered then, as I slid into the wooden chair across him, if he still lacked that sense of importance within his family. He hadn’t spoken about them at all in our last encounter, mind you he was wasted and I – well, I was trying to prove that he didn’t mean much anymore.

A pity, being so deceiving to even my own brain. Such a hypocrite, I thought. Such a liar.

My eyes travelled to the dark liquid in the white cup. “Isn’t your usual order two shots of espresso?”

He chuckled. “No, it’s a latte with oat milk.”

I ran my finger along the curve of the drink, pinching the plastic lid. “Interesting.”

“You could say thank you,” he suggested, pushing the cup closer to me. “I think that’s the polite thing to do.”

I didn’t ask for this, I wanted to say. “You’re right, thank you.”

God, would I always harbour such resentment towards him? It was my choice to be here, my fucking decision. I wanted to be here. Why did I act like I didn’t?

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted something to eat but,” he pulled out a rice-crispy treat from his pocket, “I got you this anyway.”

“Oh.” His hand touched mine as he pressed it into my palm. The warmth burned. “That was kind.”

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“Yeah.” I didn’t. I placed the treat down.

He cleared his throat. “Look, Blu, I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”

I pushed my shoulders forward, biting back the attitude. But it was no use. It was bound to come out regardless.

“You always say that after something awkward happens between us.”

“What happened between us?”

“What didn’t?” I combatted, already feeling the tipping point of anger approaching.

“Alright,” he began unwrapping the rice-crispy, splitting its gooey texture in half. “I’ve come to the realization that every time we talk about us, we end up fighting. So let’s talk about anything but,” he offered me the torn piece, and surprisingly, I took it.

“Cheers,” I said, nipping at the crunchy coating.

For thirty minutes, he caught me up on his year; all his work troubles, his lack of motivation, Lily.

“When did you guys end?” I sipped on the latte, not quite enjoying the nutty taste, but it was bearable.

He snorted in amusement. “Of course you’d pick out that part from everything.”

“You were in a relationship,” I reminded him. He seemed to forget that. “That’s a big deal.”

“Is it?”

“I mean, kind of.”

“Aren’t you talking to someone right now?”

How did he know that? My cheeks heated. How did I forget to mention that?

Kade was a junior editor at TTC Travels, working underneath Parker. A week and a half ago, we’d bumped into each other while I carried boxes of film tape out into the hall.

“My bad, I wasn’t looking,” he’d said, like every start to a rom-com movie ever.

“Clearly.”

My hostility apparently turned him on, because two days later he kept “accidently bumping into me” on purpose.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he persisted. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

It was the fact that he had a decent career with room to grow, some facial hair [that Jace lacked] and an endearing smile that pushed me to agree. He wasn’t ugly, he was safe.

That’s what I needed, right? Stability?

Needed.

Not wanted.

Stacy’s observation battered my skull.

While we chatted over wine and Italian, I realized I was relatively calm and non-threatened by the fact we were on a date. It wasn’t something I was used to; boys asking me out because they wanted to get to know me, not just sleep with me.

But Kade Clement was a twenty-six year old man with his shit together. He held every door open, picked me up from my apartment, and never insisted on getting too fresh while leaning in close.

We kissed one time, one time, and I was the one who initiated it.

That was three days ago in the break room. He still had peppermint tea lingering on his tongue.

Although the kiss was swift, I decided to tell Fawn about it, blanking on the fact she’d recently rekindled her friendship with Bryce.

In that moment, I put the pieces together.

“I’m assuming Bryce told you that,” I guessed, though he solidified my assumption with a nod.

“Figured.”

He stared at me narrowly. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“That I know you’re talking to someone.”

“Why would that bother me?”

He shrugged, “You can talk to me about other guys. It’s not weird for me.”

I scoffed, “Thank you for your permission, but it’s nothing to ride home about.”

“So it’s not serious?” His eyes flickered with emotion; whether he was pleased or displeased, I couldn’t tell.

“No, I mean, we’ve been hanging out at work and stuff but it’s not really anything.”

“Work,” he released, “Tell me about that. You didn’t have a job last time we spoke.”

And just like before, I let the words tumble out of my mouth because it felt good to talk to him, to show him that I was capable of moving forward with my life.

Maybe a part of me wanted to prove that to myself and I was using Jace as a mirror. Look at me doing shadow-work. Something Stacy would be proud of.

Jace was relatively interested, but I could tell something was wrong. He didn’t ask nearly as many questions as he did when I divulged about my photography and travels four months ago.

“What’s on your mind?” I prodded. “You seem off.”

His gaze was fixated on his hands, stretching out his fingers and flexing his knuckles. “That obvious, huh?”

I felt the urge to touch him, comfort him, soothe his pain. But every time that feeling bubbled inside of me, I’d acted on it, and that never ended well.

“You just seem so set in life,” he shook his head, lifting his eyes to mine. “I can’t even relate to you anymore.”

“Set in life?” I could’ve laughed. “I’m in fucking therapy because I have no idea what I’m doing.”

This time, I did chuckle. But it was only when I watched his gaze soften that I realized what I’d revealed.

Weakness.

Frailty.

The incapability to cope with my own emotions.

“Why is being in therapy a bad thing?” he questioned, but the tone of his voice already threw my sanity into a spiral.

“Let’s talk about something else.” He opened his mouth to contend but I interjected.

“You said you can’t relate to me anymore, but clearly you can. I’m still the same.”

He nodded, pressing his lips together in acceptance of the fact I didn’t want to address therapy. I appreciated that.

“You look different, Blu. You’ve lived a lot more than I have in the last year.”

“You could’ve too.”

“I didn’t know what to live for,” he released, immediately clipping his mouth closed.

Oh.

Oh.

My back hit the ladder of the wooden chair as I stared at him, unable to look away now that he’d admitted his struggle.

I’d been so wrapped up in my own world, my own thoughts, my own everything that I failed to see his existence beyond me. He had a life of his own. A life that was completely disconnected from mine, and entirely connected to his.

Had I been this blind to his own pain because I refused to see a human underneath it? Did I deem my own problems more important than his?

Distractions are what saved me.

But we were different people.

Maybe what healed me, hurt him.

Maybe what killed me, strengthened him.

“You didn’t tell me that,” I whispered, swallowing the bitter taste of my own selfishness.

The corner of his lip lifted into a half-smile, but it didn’t wipe away the sadness that lingered.

“That isn’t something you usually start a conversation with,” he said, “But um, yeah. Yeah, I’ve just been kind of lost.”

I leaned forward, intertwining my fingers. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

He scrunched his eyebrows, crossing his arms. “How come?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “You’re always so calm. You always seem to know what to say and when you don’t, you just kind of… You just, remain silent.”

“Sometimes silence is the best form of conversation.”

This.

This right here is why I fell for Jace Boland.

That one sentence alone.

The way he understood me, the way he read my mind. His deep introspection, the reservation of expression.

He didn’t desire for anyone to figure him out, he liked it that way. Whether it was calculated or not, he was the epitome of everything I could have ever wanted –

Not needed.

Wanted.

Maybe I liked the fact that he didn’t explode with emotions every five seconds, or at least the fact he kept it controlled.

Maybe that’s why I begged for reactions, greedy for something more than he delivered because silence was sometimes the conversation he preferred.

I was the firecracker. He lit the spark.

I was the puppet. He was the puppeteer.

I was the colour. He was the hue.

He was the hue.

My fucking hue.

My fingers travelled to his side of the table. I opened a palm and allowed him to rest his atop mine.

A transference of emotions passed between us as we looked into each other’s eyes. That’s what he needed right now. No words.

Just my company.

“Do you want to have a silent conversation with me somewhere else?” I asked, braving the potential rejection.

But he didn’t say no.

In fact, he pushed out of his chair and met my side, tangling his fingers in mine before we left the café.

You could probably guess where we went, what we did.

The lingering kisses and almost dates.

The fighting fueled by too much emotion [on my end], and the lack thereof [on Jace’s].

The blissful months that repaired my brokenness.

The pathetic months that shattered it.

Because whatever fire we had –

It always turned to ash.

And I realized since the day I met Jace, we found our way into each other’s bodies, but not each other’s hearts. For a while, it melted the ice that lodged there, but it was never enough to keep me warm.

And it never would be.

No matter how much I shivered and begged –

Some things were just doomed from the start.