Blue Dream (3 page)

“No.” Doc interrupts. “
You
bought into it.
You
made that choice. Start taking responsibilities for the actions you've committed. Both good and bad. Life isn't about what
happens
to us, Ryder. It's about the actions we take and decisions we make. What we choose each step of the way.”

His hippie mumbo jumbo shoves the cigarette back in my mouth and releases my hand from my sore skull. Whatever. I don't need this bullshit. I should've known better than to talk to him. What the fuck does he know about choices? Of course he would judge me. I'll add that to the list of things I hate.

“He has his own burdens that will haunt him,” Doc's perspective should move my eyes back to his, but they don't. As far as I'm concerned this conversation is over. “You made the choice because you wanted a father. You wanted to finally be more than he ever thought you could. To connect with him. You wanted what every wayward child ever has. To feel loved. To feel wanted.”

My head falls forward. The candy stick trembles on my bottom lip.

“However, like many things in the world, we believe in order to have something we truly want, we must sacrifice something else. For you. It was Presley.”

Hearing her name crushes my voice box at the same time it forces my mind to expel the words, “She was my life.” The declaration that I wish could stop there helplessly continues, “She was the only person who really fucking mattered. She held me when they wouldn’t. She helped build me up when they tore me down. When my own blood blamed me she exonerated me. Every time. Black sheep to them, shining star to her. She treasured me and I…” I shake my head, the racing of my heart so loud, I begin to rock in hopes of soothing the insatiable sorrow. “I broke her.” A choked sob comes out. “I fucking broke her....”

Doc doesn't comment. Doesn't add text book lines. For some reason his silence makes it worse. Tears begin to gather at the corners of my eyes, gluing them shut. For years I've buried the facts about what happened. The things I should've never did or said. The missed kisses and touches. The shameful secrets, that when I play back the endless list of 'what ifs' my mind skips over, because I don't ever want to admit the apprehension that comes from truth. The fact that the monster I was then, I still am now, just in older skin.

Presley wasn't super model gorgeous. She wasn't even girl next door cute. She was this odd combination that didn't make any sense, but screamed astounding. She was short but curvy. Her legs were long and her torso was tiny. Top heavy with just enough ass for my hands to palm. Soft brown skin, glowing chestnut eyes that even the coldest of hearts were mesmerized by. Glasses because she was blind as a bat, but had the hearing of an owl. She was a strangely pasted perfection.

“It was like I was a homeless man thrown out of the shelter, wandering around the streets for days, moments away from his last breath, dying for a meal, hot or cold, it didn't matter. I just needed something to fill my empty stomach. Something to fill the burning resentment that I’m still a man worth feeding. She was that meal. She was what revived me, what kept me living, what kept light in my eyes. It was like being a kid in the poor neighborhood at Christmas knowing the only gift I’m going to get is the warm bed I’m sleeping in and the cold cereal out of the box for breakfast the next morning and then being surprised with a present wrapped in shiny red paper with a big white bow and a gift tag addressed just to me. Like knowing someone took the extra time, worked the extra shift or job, just for me. That’s what her love was like. That’s what being in love with her was like, it was like…knowing there was God. Walking proof that it doesn’t matter how much of a fuck up you are, good things happen to everyone.” The back of my head hits the wall. “How could I not be addicted to that?”

“When you left her...”

“I just think we need to see other people. You know, test the waters.”

“Test the waters?” She's not buying it any better than I'm selling it.

“Look Presley, we’re young and who knows what's ahead. This was probably just a little dumb high school romance that lasted too long. I wanna be a free man. Try different things before I go to college.”

“I thought the plan was to go together.”

“You believed me?” My voice tries not to waiver. “I said what I thought you needed to hear. No dude wants to think about living together, or marriage, right now.” Before she has a chance to call me out I add, “Besides you never really let me be myself.”

The accusations strikes fear on her face that she wasn’t the perfect girlfriend when she was. She is. Every last bit of her. I can't believe I'm doing this.

“You lied.”

“Like a dummy with my father's hand up my ass.” The candy cigarette falls to the floor. “None of it made sense to me. None of it sounded like me, but there I was, saying every word I had rehearsed in the mirror.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “That was the first time I ever had a cigarette. There was a pack in my glove compartment I was hiding for a friend. I'll never forget that. I was a few blocks down the road from her house when I pulled over. I beat the fuck out of my steering wheel. Shouted. Screamed. Almost turned around to try to undo what I could feel in my bones was wrong. Instead, I reached in and pulled one out, stuck it in my mouth, and lit it. No fucking clue what I was doing. Shaky as shit. All I knew was I had heard how cigs could calm the nerves, so fuck it why not try. God, it was awful. The taste. The smell. But the choking on the smoke itself, the suffocation, the scolding burns on my lungs, all that relieved the pain that was wreaking havoc on my senses just long enough for me to take a breath.” My foot stomps on the fake imitation to put it out like I would the real thing. “It was the first drug I used to numb the pain.”

Doc nods. He doesn't write a note. Doesn't chime in his thoughts. He just stares with the blackness of his soul until I stand, take a long needed deep breath, and walk out without looking back.

Presley

Theory 1: Love is An Addiction.

I don't believe in perfection. I don't believe life is about being perfect. I think it's about making the most of what you have with what you were given. The aces as much as the two of hearts. All cards in your deck matter in different ways. I do, however, believe that once you've played that hand, it's time to move on. There's nothing healthy from dwelling on the past. Reliving it. Re-imagining the depths of the butterfly effect. No. That's a waste of time. A waste of spare brain power, which I have less and less of every day.

“You owe me,” Katherine insists from the visitor side of the desk.

My eyebrows furrow. “How do you figure?”

“Who loaned you the money to build your dream?”

Katherine isn't the type to rub money in anyone's face unless it's to help her get something she wants more. She doesn't come from money, she breathes it. Most of it is family inherited, but she married into it as well. The money she tossed to me to build my dream job stopped her from buying another yacht. To her money is just an object, but unlike others with that kind of wealth, she's typically a good person. She doesn't insist on the entire world knowing just how much cash she shells out at every turn of the corner.

“I gave it back.”

“Not the point,” she states pushing her recently caramel colored hair behind her ear. “I did you a favor in your time of need, your turn.”

Time of need is right. The few banks I had contacted in regards to a loan laughed in my face. It's not like my credit was terrible or even like I didn't have potential. My idea was golden. Child care facilities often made back thousands, what I was proposing would make millions. Katherine knew she was making a wise investment. There are plenty of day cares and private elementary schools, but private preschools geared towards those with more money to throw into their child's education from an early stand point are rare. Places that offer your children painting classes by those with degrees in it, musical classes by the future composers of our time, gourmet kid friendly meals were basically non-existent. I've created a private school that shows remarkable results as early as six months, lasting impressions from those enrolled in the after school program which stops at eight years old, as well as found a way for those who are going to school for Early Child Education and the Arts to have a steady job
in their field.
I've made quite a name for myself in the last few years. That name should be enough for me. But I know it isn't.

Folding my hands in my lap I scrunch my face. “Time of need? Really? Aren't you being a bit dramatic?”

She rolls her eyes. “It is a need, Presley. My publisher thinks this is an award winning idea. I need one more case to prove a couple of theories. I swear, I won't use your real name. I'll call you...Prudence.”

“I am not a prude.”

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.”