A Hue of Blu

Year Four/Week Twenty-Seven – Present

“You seriously skipped the last two weeks of school?” Carter’s eyes were wide, sipping on a Belgian Moon.

“Yeah.”

“For a boy, Blu. You skipped because you didn’t want to see a boy.”

My response was tired. “For a boy.”

He might as well have patted my head and handed me a binky. “You’re acting like a kid.”

“The most intelligent minds bloom late,” I jibed, sinking my teeth into a breadstick.

Ordering food was never a standard for me at bars. Honestly, it was kind of embarrassing. The thought of people watching me eat, surveying the way I took bites and judging me for it… Despicable. Heinous.

But over the last fourteen days, I consumed maybe eight-hundred calories per day. I’d lost a noticeable enough amount of weight that my own mother asked if something was wrong.

“If you only knew,” I wanted to say.

“No,” was what I told her.

Carter cleared his throat. “What ever happened to that guy Vince? Maybe you should start talking to him again, you know, get your mind off all this Jace shit.”

Ah, Vince.

After our one anti-climactic hang out, I deduced that the only use he’d be to me was for in-class entertainment.

I thought he was interested. Maybe he was. But interest wasn’t enough to keep something steady.

Choices were.

Hard work, strong will and fucking choices.

So many marriages failed because of lazy choices. It was easier to leave than it was to work things out.

I wondered sometimes, if I would be the one to exit or the person who would try. Sometimes, I was both of those people – sometimes I was neither.

“It fizzled out.” I hid my mouth behind a napkin as I took in a mouthful of carbs. It was a big bite – one that screamed I was emaciated beyond belief but didn’t want to show it.

“Why don’t you give therapy a go?”

I halted mid-bite.

“Maybe you’ll find out the cause behind all this,” he used two fingers to air-quote, “Fizzling out.”

My fingers dropped the breadstick. “What the hell is a therapist going to tell me, Carter? I could literally sit in front of a fucking mirror, Google-search therapist questions and ask them to my damn self.”

“I’m in therapy.”

“And look how you turned out.”

His eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself, Blu. I’m just trying to help.”

My cheeks heated. I took in a breath.

Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale. Inhale.

“I’m sorry.” I was constantly apologizing to the people I cared about.

When would they see through it?

When would they decide they’d had enough?

He leaned back into the chair, running his fingers through his blonde curls.

Carter was sort of beautiful, in a way that I’d never admit out loud. He ran in yearly marathons for charity, worked a six-figure marketing job in the heart of downtown and most importantly, he was loyal.

Loyal to me.

Even when I was a dick to him.

I reached out for his hand. “I don’t deserve you.”

He snorted, patting my fingers gently. “On the contrary, I think I’m exactly what you deserve and more.”

“Then why won’t you date me?”

He almost choked on his beer. “Whoa.”

I knew the question was out of pocket but I wanted to hear his response anyway.

“Why?” I pried. “We’ve known each other for so long now. We’re great friends. I find you attractive, you find me attractive.” The last part was an assumption, one I was hoping he’d agree with.

“Blu,” he laughed in discomfort. “Don’t start.”

“I want to start.”

“And this is precisely why you need to talk to someone.”

“Because I’m not normal?” My fingers slipped on the sweat of my palm as I picked for skin, scraped for flesh. “Because I need help?”

“Damnit, Blu!” If we’d been alone, it would’ve been a shout, or something of the sorts. But it was a warning.

He’d had enough.

I’d pushed him.

“Are you going to leave?”

“Keep talking the way you are and I just might.”

Tears burned my eyes. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“I’d be right around the fucking corner and you know it. But Christ, Blu –” His throat bobbed as he strained for words, but I knew even before he opened his mouth that I wouldn’t be able to hold the sadness in.

“Your dad died when you were thirteen. Your mom barely looks in your direction and if she does, it’s because you didn’t clean a mess that she fucking made! You were in the worst relationships with the worst fucking people who treated you like trash from day one and you stayed –

“You stayed and you toughed it out for pieces of shit who never deserved you, broke you and you stayed because a part of you wants to feel like you did something right. That you made something work. That you tried. Because if nothing redeemable came out of your commitment, then you burned for nothing.

“You want a relationship with the only parent alive to have one, but she’s an alcoholic just like your dad and a part of you wants to keep distance because if you got closer, you’d lose her just like you lost your father.”

“Carter –” My throat was dry. I shut my eyes to prevent the sting.

“And you chase these men, these unavailable men because a part of you hopes they’ll assign value to you and then, only then, you’d feel worth it.”

I buried my face in my hands, pushing back the plate of food, thanking the Gods above that we were one of three tables occupied in the whole restaurant.

Carter removed one of my hands, placing it steady in his palm. “Show me your emotion, please. Show me the real you. I don’t think you show her enough.”

And so I did.

I cried, holding Carter’s stare.

I cried, letting his words cascade over my body and touch the parts of my soul that struggled for air.

I cried, letting myself cry, knowing that crying was a solution and not a sign of weakness.

I’d been weak for too long.

I’d never move forward if I stayed stuck in the past.

After ten minutes of silence, Carter brushed his thumb over my skin and passed me a scratchy brown napkin. The tears dried on my face.

“Who needs a therapist when I have you?” I chuckled, blowing my nose.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not licensed.”

I pulled back the plate of breadsticks, not caring if anyone saw me eating, and crunched the crusty layer.

“I think it would be a good career path for you. I’ll be patient zero.”

He shook his head, clinking his glass against mine and said, “Eat your damn breadstick.”