Goodbyes and Second Chances (The Bleu Series Book 1) (7 page)

“I’m still not
over the last time we broke into the church. Your momma nearly beat the mess
out of us, and Aunt Evie actually let her,” I say as I glare at the road.

When I was not
even eight and the boys barely old enough to ride their bikes without training
wheels, we decided to pedal our adventurous selves out to the small clapboard
church to hang out. We crawled through a back window and spent the day
pretending it was our castle. I was queen for the day, up until they finally
found us, and Cora took to spanking each one of us with the first thing her
hand got ahold of, which was none other than a Bible devotional book. Talk
about being beat by the word!

“Please,” he
whispers as he peeks from under his tattered hat. His face is glowing in the
dim dashboard lights. Those eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes giving off the
illusion he is wearing eyeliner, summon me to give in. They actually have power
over me. Humph. Dillon just won, and he knows it because he flashes his dimples
when he detects me relenting.

I finally agree
as we get closer. “Why not? It’s your butt if you miss curfew and not mine.” I
wheel in and park in the back.

The church has a
spare key hidden under a flowerpot at the back door. Dillon is privy to this so
he can practice the piano anytime he wants since he plays for the church every
third Sunday. I’m not sure the church knows Dillon normally brings the twins to
practice, too. Dillon has helped both the boys hone their music skills. He gave
it his best shot with Kyle, but my poor brother is in the same boat as me. We
are tone deaf.

Dillon fishes
the key out and unlocks the door before we push through and head to the small
sanctuary. The familiar scent of lemony furniture polish lingers in the air and
invites us on in. It’s always such a reverent feeling to be here when this
place of worship is silent and dark. I’ve never been freaked out as some may
be, though. I have always felt welcomed—busy day or silent night. This cozy
little church, with short rows of pews sitting on a worn wood floor, can only
hold about one hundred people. The tiny altar can only hold a podium instead of
a full size pulpit. Instruments scatter along the wall behind it.

I take a seat on
one of the front pews and settle in as Dillon sets himself behind the piano.
The guy instantly looks at home. His fingers stroke the keys slowly and quietly
at first as though they are thinking. He then takes off in his own rendition of
Billy Joel’s “Mr. Piano Man,” dramatically singing about singing a song and
feeling alright.

The quiet space
instantly becomes alive and tangible with Dillon’s vivacious energy pouring out
of the instrument and mingling with his deep, silky voice
.
I feel the goose bumps rise along my arms as my body reacts to
the chemistry he emits through his music. He plays the piano by ear, which
blows my mind. Really! How can someone do such a thing? I am at awe over the
talent this one single person has been gifted with. Dillon ends this part of
the concert and stands abruptly. He does a quick silly curtsey as he seeks his
next instrument selection. I laugh in spite of myself as I watch on.

Next on this
private gig is a well-worn banjo. Dillon fastens the strap over his broad
shoulder before plucking twangy notes on the instrument. He glances up at me
with a grin before launching into “The Ballad of Jed Clampett,” the theme song
to the
Beverly Hillbillies
, making me
laugh. He is aware that this show is on a time clock, so he quickly grabs up a
violin. He slashes the strings with the bow before deciding against it with a
slight shake of his head and a wrinkled nose, and sets his attention towards
the drums. He slides his hat on backwards before picking up the sticks and
getting down to business.

The place comes
alive again with the rapid drum solo from the song “Wipe Out.” Let me tell you,
that’s one long and fast drum solo. I’m almost certain the boy didn’t miss one
beat in it either. I see a fine sheen to his skin as though the music is
seeping out of his pores. That wild drum performance made me tired just
watching it, but seems to energize him even more.

“Woo-hoo!” I
shout, and he stands and bows dramatically before placing the sticks back on
the floor beside the humble drum set that he just made sound like a million
bucks.

Dillon pauses
long enough to fumble with the pearl snap buttons on his cuffs and roll up the
sleeves of his black-and-white plaid shirt, but not long enough to catch his
breath. I still see the energy bouncing around his deep-blue eyes and know this
performance isn’t over quite yet.

My friend has
saved the best for last, hands down. He straps on the old black electric guitar
and turns the amp on low. Testing the chords, he adjusts the strings before
turning towards me. He strums the first few chords, and I know immediately he
is playing one of my favorites, “Alive” by Pearl Jam. Dillon croons the lyrics in
a velvety rasp, and I am in awe.

His voice is
just as brilliant as Eddie Vedder’s. I say that reverently because I’m in love
with Eddie Vedder, and Dillon knows this. He gives me this small, exclusive
gift tonight, and I am reminded of how dear he has become to me over the years.
He is my best friend, even though I am a little bit older than him. I know our
friendship is not common, but as I’ve stated before, our circumstance has bound
us together. We have always had a deep connection.

The song eases
to a close and I quietly ask for just one more. Dillon says nothing, just takes
off into another one of my favorites by Pearl Jam, “Black.” I let the melody
and lyrics overtake me. I appreciate the moody intensity that alternative rock
bands create in their melodies and lyrics. It feels more real to me than the
cheesy pops songs my generation seems to crave. Not me. I live in a harsh, real
world, so I guess I can relate more to this music. Pearl Jam, Creed, and
Soundgarden are some of my favorites. Creed’s front man, Scott Strapp’s deep
voice is another one I could listen to all day. Dillon can sing one of their
songs, and I swear he sounds just like Strapp. Dillon owns all of their stuff
and says Creed creates the type of music he wants to be able to create one day.
I personally think Dillon already does. He is definitely a Pearl Jam fan as
well, due to me, I think. All the guys have had to listen to whatever I want in
my car over the last few years, and most of the time, it’s been Pearl Jam all
the way. I close my eyes and listen to Dillon drone out lyrics full of a somber
mood. It makes me think about disappointments and regrets and desires and
confusion, how some are rewarded with a beautiful life and not understanding
why others do not.

As the song fades,
I open my eyes and find his staring back at me. A sly shudder creeps along my
body and makes me feel uneasy. I know one day, and I feel like it’s going to be
sooner rather than later, Dillon Bleu will walk out of my life and on towards a
better one. He’s too talented not to. This little moment between us is
bittersweet for me and causes tears to prick at my eyes.

He seems to pick
up on it too and decides to make a joke instead of us addressing it seriously.
“I wasn’t that bad, Jewels. Don’t get all weepy about it.” He rolls his eyes as
he puts the guitar away. I grab a hymnal and hurl it towards his head, but he
catches it in midair and grins at me. “No need in getting physical. You already
beat me up one time tonight. Now how’s about you chauffeur me home?”

We make it
outside and I take a deep breath of the cool, crisp night air, as I try to
shake off the uneasiness that has taken hold of me. Dillon replaces the key
under the flowerpot after he locks up. He glances at his watch again. Curfew is
getting dangerously close for him now, but he seems hesitant. I lean against
the side of the church and tilt my head up to check out the clear night sky.
The moon is full and the stars are in abundance. I love these fresh peaceful
nights. I’m in no rush due to not having a curfew, so I’m being a bit mean to
Dillon by making him ask to go home. He’s not crazy about having to point out
his dependence on me. He has a driver’s license, but Cora has refused to let
him drive much yet. I know the main reason is she can’t afford a vehicle for
him.

“You ready?” he
asks casually now.

I glance over to
him. He has his hands shoved in his jean pockets and is looking towards the
Mustang. I shrug my shoulders as I gaze back up to the sky. “Hmm… I think I’m
not quite ready to head home just yet. Let’s go somewhere.” I know he has to
get home. Truly I do, but this is too fun. He’s starting to get fidgety. Cora
is home waiting on him tonight. He can’t just sneak in as he does when she’s
working.

I’m still gazing
up at the night sky, when he pulls me towards him, abruptly. Before I know it,
his mouth has met mine in anxious excitement. I’m stunned at first. Dillon has
never tried anything like this. I stand here in his arms as his lips move
fervently over mine, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I am kissing
my best friend. I know I should push him away, but I don’t. I know it’s going
to cost me, but I’m willing to pay the consequences later. Or that’s what I’m
telling myself in this moment. It feels too exciting and incredible to stop.

The kiss
continues, but the anxious rush is replaced by a sweet slowness that makes me
shiver all over. Dillon holds me gently, with his hands threaded through my
hair. My hands are resting on his chest and I can feel his heart hammering away.
He begins this unexpected kiss passionately, but ends it slowly on a
whisper—just as he would with one of his songs. He doesn’t release me, but
eases back enough to look at me. It’s as if he is awaiting my reaction, but I’m
stunned and can’t speak. I stare back at him with my eyes wide in surprise. He
just pushed us over an invisible line and there’s no going back.

“Dillon…” I
whisper after a while. I feel my eyebrows knit together in confusion.

He shakes his
head, silently asking me to not say anything. So I don't, but shake my head
somberly.

He evaporates
the awkwardness in all of one sentence. “That’s for trying to make me miss
curfew.” He smiles as he leans in for another kiss, but I ease back.

I grab his arm
and look at his watch. He has ten minutes and is only one mile from home. I
push him off of me. “If you take off in a sprint, you can make your curfew,
Dimples.”

He looks at me
confused, but then with understanding. He knows he has messed up, and is
realizing I’m not about to take him home now. He lets out a long huff before
taking off in a run down the parking lot towards the road.

“You stole that
kiss, you jerk!” I holler behind him.

He keeps running
but yells back, “You can take it back anytime you want!”

I shake my head
and watch him run with all his might before he disappears into the darkness. I
don’t feel bad about making him run home. I checked to make sure he was wearing
his sneakers and not his boots first. I would have taken him home if he had on
his boots…
Maybe
.

I stroll over to
my car and prop myself up on the hood, trying to decipher what just happened. I
don’t know how to react. I’m excited and confused all at the same time.

My mind
struggles to wrap around the fact that I have just had my first real kiss with
Dillon Bleu. I’ve kissed a few guys with a quick peck after a date, but that
has always been the extent. I’ve never been with anyone I wanted to actually
make out with before. I laugh out loud as I lie back on the hood.
I just made out with my best friend.

I wait long
enough to know Dillon has made it home before I head in that direction. The
lights are off in his trailer as I park beside mine. I go inside quietly and
ease into my dark room. I swap my clothes for a ratty shirt and pair of night
pants before crawling into bed. I’m lying here still playing what happened,
over and over. My lips are a bit tingly and feel swollen from his scruffy
stubble. I run my fingers along them and smile in spite of it all.

I’m too excited
to sleep, so I pull out my short stories journal. I try to get lost in the
fictional world of a dark witch who unfortunately turns her black magic on her
own wicked self. She is transformed into nothing more than a black shadow and
drifts mournfully, waiting for someone to notice her. This is where I begin,
end, and flip several pages to begin another story that feels more inspiring.
This story is about best friends running away together on a sea adventure. They
stow away on a ship and set out to explore the world. Of course, the girl falls
madly in love with her best friend, and he in return. They spend the rest of
their days on a deserted island, living off coconuts and love. This story is
more fun to create than the witch one, and I fill page after page with their
adventures.

I’m starting to
doze off with my journal wrapped in my arms like a security blanket, when I
hear a pinging sound that’s coming from outside my window. I try to ignore it,
but someone is being pretty persistent tonight. It’s not an unusual occurrence.
The whole crowd has done this exact gesture several dozen times apiece. Someone
is always bored or needs to talk.

There are also
those manhunt nights that you just can’t get out of. I’ve been practically
dragged out of my window to participate in these late night games. The Shimmer
Lakes Farm has the grandest corn patch around, and my crowd never misses the
opportunity to take advantage of it. We have always struck out after midnight
and played tag in the pitch-black darkness of night. There’s just something so
alluring about the night air rustling through the tall cornstalks as we wander
about in the midst of them. We’ve only had a few mishaps over the years. Kyle
plowed into a parked tractor one night while trying to outrun Dillon and ended
up needing seven stitches over his right eye. This was a few years past the
church break-in incident, so Cora took to tearing each of us up with a tree
switch for that one. The other incident was minor, comparatively. We took to
playing a manhunt tournament in the midst of growing season, and the twins just
couldn’t resist the temptation of the abundant sweet corn. Those boys ate their
weight in raw corn and then commenced to spending the next two days not being
able to leave the bathroom. Their mom banished them to the bathrooms at the
bathhouse. So for those few days you could find them sitting in the shade
outside the building, normally with one either heading into the bathroom or
coming out. Those boys were miserable. I figured that fresh corn should have
flushed any worms out of them, but I’ve just never been quite sure …