Goodbyes and Second Chances (The Bleu Series Book 1) (6 page)

There’s
always been a solid bond between the two of us from the very start. At around
the age of ten, I remember an eight-year-old Dillon coming down with an awful
bout of the stomach flu, so severe that the boy couldn’t even keep water down.
Cora was told to either show up for her work shifts or never come back. She had
no choice but to leave her sick little boy in Aunt Evie’s care. He was too weak
to even speak those few days. Aunt Evie had Kyle stay with the twins in the
hopes that he would be spared, but I refused to leave.

I
wanted to help tend to Dillon, but Aunt Evie kept warning that I would get myself
sick, if I didn’t stay away. I still didn’t listen. The few times she would
step outside to check the mail, I would hear him in the small living area,
crying. He tried to be brave, but Dillon really wanted his momma. And who could
blame him? What sick child doesn’t distinctly want his mom when he’s sick? When
my aunt would sleep or wash those few days, I would sit on the floor by the
couch and hold his hand while he slept. I just couldn’t stand to be away from
him, knowing how miserable he was.

Three
days later, Aunt Evie asked if Dillon felt up to eating something, and he
requested two pimento cheese sandwiches. At that point she declared him better.
Unfortunately, by sundown I was puking my guts out. I felt like I was dying.
Aunt Evie told me in so many words that was what I got for not staying away
from Dillon. I was exiled to my room with a trashcan placed by the bed. Each
night of my three-day virus, I would wake up to Dillon on his knees by the bed,
holding my hand and begging God to heal me. We have always hurt when the other
hurts and it started way back then.

I’m
laying here now, near tears at the helpless situation we are in, when I notice
the music has stopped. I peep out the window and find Dillon gone. The next
thing I know, he is pushing through my door. He sits on the floor, his back
against the bed. I’m still perched on top of the bed, so I slide down to the
floor and sit by him. It’s a tight fit. His feet actually touch the opposite
wall of the bed.

He
says nothing. Just sits here in the dark. It’s a bit cloudy out tonight, so I
can barely make out his somber features in the muted moonlight. “What’s wrong,
Dillon?” My instinct is to always want to protect and soothe him.

“You
just been on my mind tonight,” he whispers as he looks over at me. “You
alright?”

I
don’t say anything because I don’t want to lie. His hair slips in his eyes, so
I reach over and brush his soft locks away. He gives me a weak smile, and I see
concern in those deep dark eyes.

“You
want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Not
really,” I whisper as I tear my gaze away from his and stare off into the dark.

He
nudges the bag I gathered earlier with his foot. “What’s this?”

“Just
some junk I’m gonna try to sell to the thrift store tomorrow.” I brush it off,
but I can tell he’s not buying it.

He
shakes his head in aggravation. “It isn’t always gonna be this tough. Things
will get better.” I hear him making a promise, but has no business doing so.
How can he be so sure? I know I’m definitely not sure. Seems to me things just
keep getting worse.

We
sit here with our sides pressed together. Dillon slouches down some so he can
rest his head back on my mattress and I lean my head on his arm. Things are
better, just knowing he’s here for me. Sometimes that’s all I need.

“Let’s
make love,” he whispers after a while.

I
have to smile at his tempting suggestion. I give it some thought and decide
it’s a perfect idea. I always feel better afterwards. I scoot over to the
dresser and grab my notebook and pen, and after I switch on the small lamp, we
set out to writing a new song. Dillon always refers to composing music as
making love. It’s sort of our inside joke. As we work on a song that entwines
disappointment and dreams for nearly two hours, I feel the worry and anxiety
slowly recede away.

Hope fell down
and drifted so far away

Until the dream
came along and showed her

A better way

Nowhere to be
found on the real, drowning

In the real, so
much more than lost

Only then the
dream appeared but at a great cost

When the melody
fades on dusk of a

Misplaced day

Doubt and fears
drift in and hope is called

So far away

We’ve
crossed out more than not and have gone through over a dozen sheets of paper. I
look over the lyrics, and I realize I ended up talking about what was bothering
me anyway. The guy is too young to be so wise. He pulled my worries right out
of me in only the way he could—through lyrics. I start yawning, and Dillon
takes this as his cue. He gives me a sideways hug, slides back out of my door,
and returns home.

I
listen to him play a new melody from his porch, and I know it will eventually
go with the song we just created. He sensed me needing him tonight. He showed
up and did what he does best. He made me feel better and forget about my
worries for a spell. Sometimes that’s the best gift a girl can ask for,
especially if you live in these parts.

Morning
finds me reluctant with the bike ride. I unenthusiastically go through my
morning routine, trying to talk myself into wanting to pedal to work. Unfortunately,
it’s not working, but I have no other choice. After I’m dressed in my cleaning
lady uniform of worn-out jeans and tee, I grab my bag and grudgingly stalk out
towards my bike. I’m surprised to find a bag draped on the handlebar. I peep
inside and find some of Dillon’s belongings—an old watch, a pocket knife, and a
couple dress shirts that I’m pretty sure his mom would skin him over if she
knew he got rid of them. I smile at the sweetness of this. That boy knows I
need some quick cash and has willingly given up some of his things to help me
out. As I said, we have always had each other’s back. This thoughtful gift
gives me just enough encouragement to climb on the bike and pedal my broke self
to work.

Chapter Four

Fall has been creeping up on us for a
while now, but the weather has fought it all the way to the bitter end. I was
beginning to doubt fall was going to pull it off, to be honest. October has
arrived, and I am now becoming comfortable at being a freshman in college. The
community college is just across the road from the university. Both campuses
are located over on the other side of the lake. It takes me a good
thirty-minute drive, which I’m not thrilled about. But what choice do I have?
No dorm or apartment close by is in this here girl’s budget. Classes are
typical basics, but I am taking a creative writing course, which is the
highlight of my life at the moment. If I’m not working, I’m in class. It is a
rarity to do anything else.

I get a reprieve
tonight, although I’m nearly too tired to take it. I have gotten an unexpected
invite to the other side of the lake. I spent a good portion of my summer over
there, cleaning condos so I could pay Aunt Evie back. She didn’t want the
money, but the poor woman has already done enough for me and Kyle by taking us
in and making us her own. I can never repay her for that. Times have been
tight, so she reluctantly accepted the money plus a bit more just last week.

Anyway, I made a
few friends, and I sometimes bump into some of them near campus. I wouldn’t say
I’m close to any of them, but I guess friendly enough to be invited
occasionally to a social gathering. The boys took the invite as to include
them. Whatever. They deserve some fun too. They have already headed over, but
I’m dragging my feet.

“Come on, slow
poke.” Leona checks her watch. “It’s getting late.”

We are both in
my closet-sized bedroom as I hesitantly get dressed. I stand in front of my
small mirror checking the back view of myself in a pair of almost too-tight
jeans that I have finally decided on. I slide on a black lacy camisole and push
into a chunky pair of scuffed black boots. Nothing special, but that’s me. My
leather jacket is waiting in my Mustang. Leona is rocking maroon-colored
bellbottom pants that went out at least forty years ago, paired with a colorful
halter top. She found this outfit down the road at the thrift shop we frequent
pretty often. She is rocking it as only Leona Hill can. Her legs are a mile
long, so the pants look like they were made for her. There’s no way my short
self could ever pull that look off.

“I’ll go for a
little while, but you will have to find a ride home.” I flip my head forward
and finger comb out my wavy blonde locks. I like sporting the natural, sort of
unkempt, wavy-locks look. It works for me and is very low maintenance.

“Deal,” she says
in agreement. I grab the keys and we head out the door.

The other side
of the lake only takes minutes to get to by car. We pull up, around nine, to
music thumping in the night and a shore speckled with dancing drunken
teenagers. Totally not my scene at all. I immediately scan the crowd for Kyle.
He has a can of Coke in his hand, thank God. If he were drinking, I would kill
him. He knows better, though. A lesson we’ve learned from living in the trailer
park is alcohol can be the ruin of you. Several washed-up men and women hermit
themselves away in their little trailers after losing everything, and
everybody, due to their heavy dependence on the vile stuff. It’s sad, and is an
absolutely wasted lifestyle I want to steer clear of.

Leona is pulled
away almost immediately by some hot guy. This always happens. It’s like the
girl has a hidden beacon that navigates all the cute ones right to her. She
seems happy about this, so I give her a quick wave before she disappears for
the rest of the night.

A long period of
time passes with me speaking with a few guys while the preppy girls in
miniskirts and high heels glare at me. I glare back at them and smirk as they
stumble around with their stupid designer shoes bogging down in the sand. What
sense do those outfits make for a night beach party when it’s relatively
chilly?

 
I know I’m not welcomed, so I cut my visit
short at around ten thirty. I still have no idea what even enticed me to spend an
evening out here anyway. I have no desire to stay here in some social
competition with the high and mighty. They have already won, obviously. Don’t
they realize this?

I spot Kyle
sitting on some truck’s tailgate and head over to let him know I’m out of here.
He is all about some Goth girl dressed head-to-toe in dreadful, bulky black
that seems to be swallowing her whole. It’s like she is hiding in the darkness
of black. Oh yes, I am already writing a story in my head with her as the lead
character. Her eyes are masked in thick, dark eye shadow and liner, but it’s
still clear that she is glaring at me. With her chunky jewelry and interesting
piercings, she seems like some piece of abstract art that needs to be studied.
I get why my brother can’t seem to look away from her. I just don’t care for
the intensity at which he is studying her, though. It’s too funny, because he
is her total opposite. He’s wearing a light teal, long-sleeve T-shirt with
light washed jeans. His dark blond hair is perfectly styled. If you didn’t know
him, you’d think he was from this side of the lake. I did get the outfit from
the rich thrift store over here. Kyle is all light and breezy and his female
companion is all dark and brittle.

“I’m gone,” I
say as a way to get his attention.

“See ya.” He
doesn’t even look up, so I to turn to leave.

I’m not worrying
about how his butt plans on getting home. Not my problem, as far as I’m
concerned. Maybe Goth girl has a broom she can escort him home on later. She is
shooting daggers at me with her glare. It’s the same judgmental look I’ve been
given all night, and it’s rubbing me wrong that she actually thinks she has the
right to be casting them at me as well.

“Oh, hold up a
minute.” Kyle stops me as I try to make a quick getaway.

I turn to see
what he wants. He has his arm slung around Goth girl and they are heading over
to me, since I refuse to move. Ugh. I’ve already seen all I want to see of this
one for the night. I don’t like her, plain and simple. The way she eyes me with
that
I’m better than you
look ticks
me off. I hate being made to feel this way. Doesn’t she realize the guy hanging
on her is from the same lineage as this piece of trash she is scowling at?

Kyle’s company
continues to eye me some more. “You clean my family’s townhouse.”

Great. I guess
witchy woman does have the right to look down on me. I don’t recognize her. The
owners are always gone when I clean. I guess their security cameras keep an eye
on me while they are away. I try to resolve which fancy house belongs to her family.
I don’t recall cleaning one with a witches’ cauldron or spell books. I shrug my
shoulder as to say I really don’t care. Really, I don’t. I have a few
townhouses I maintain cleaning year-round. It’s good money. I just don’t like
when someone feels the need to make me feel lower than I already feel because
of it. Trust me. I’m pretty good at downing my own self with no need for help.

Kyle looks at me
apologetically for being called out by his date. “Would you give Dillon a lift
home? You know how uptight Cora is about curfew.” He shrugs his shoulder and
makes a face.

I do know it. If
the boy missed curfew with her finding out, he would be out of sight for
days
. The woman is super uptight. She is
a feisty redhead, and you never want to see her feathers ruffled. Unlike
Dillon’s situation, Aunt Evie has never given Kyle and me a designated curfew.
We don’t abuse it, but we don’t ever have to be in one place right at a certain
time. Aunt Evie is the opposite of Cora, meek and easygoing. She has a
quietness that beckons respect. Cora’s personality just screams and demands
respect from the top of her lungs. She’s not my favorite person, by the way.
It’s no secret that she feels the very same way about me.

So now my agenda
includes delivering Dillon home before Cora goes all psycho-mom on the poor
boy. “Fine. Just have your date fly you home later,” I say over my shoulder as
I walk away. I hear witchy woman suck her teeth, but don’t look back to see if
she is casting a hex on me. I’m just not in the mood.

I find Dillon
amongst a group of teenage girls who are drooling all over his man-child self.
A leggy brunette looks to be just about to climb on top of him. His tattered
hat is pulled low over his deep-blue eyes, but I can still see that I have
caught their attention. He meets my eyes as he is trying to pull out of Miss
Grabby’s grasp. I give him a quick wave and am rewarded by a flash of those
darn dimples. I see him cut his eyes in her direction before looking back at me
and rolling his eyes. We are having one of our silent conversations. I smirk at
him as to say,
Yeah right, buddy; you
know you love all that attention
. He subtly shakes his head that he is not
enjoying it.
Whatever.
I shake my
head at him and laugh. He’s eating it up, and we both know it.

I’m about to go
over and try my best to embarrass him, when a guy I know stops me. I chat with
him a few minutes. His name is Hudson Williamson, and he has always been
reasonably nice to me throughout our youth. We graduated high school together
and have stayed in touch since, albeit at a distance. He goes to the
university, and sometimes we run into each other at the coffee house between
our campuses. Hudson’s dad is the bigwig real estate tycoon who owns everything
this side of the lake. If he could talk Aunt Evie into it, he would own my side
of the lake as well. He would have the trailer park flattened and replaced by a
bright and shiny new resort. Thank the good Lord, Aunt Evie is adamant about
not letting him have his way.

Dillon is just
off to the left of the bonfire from me, so I’m half listening to him and Hudson
at the same time. Hudson is going on and on about joining his dad’s real estate
team, when I see Dillon glance at his thick leather watch. It’s nearing his
curfew and he knows it. I laugh to myself about this. He is the only one that
worries about such. The twins are told to worry about it just as Dillon is, but
that doesn’t deter them from breaking their curfew on a regular basis.

Dillon gives his
little fan club one of his signature grins and says, “Ladies, I really hate to
leave you.” They all grumble their disapproval at him leaving. “But I have a
private gig I gotta get to,” Dillon says in his best rock god impersonation. I
roll my eyes at his blatant lie that they seem to believe so easily. They are
hanging on his every word, for Pete’s sake. Maybe it’s the bonfire reflecting
over his face, but I swear I see an evil glint in his eyes as he strolls over
to me and Hudson.

Dillon is
several inches taller than Hudson and seems to be looming over him
intentionally. He acknowledges Hudson with one of those male chin jerks, full
of attitude, before turning his attention towards me. “Jewels, we need to be
getting you home so you can reapply the ointment to…” He pauses to cough as
though he’s too embarrassed to finish the sentence. “It’s time to reapply it to
your rash.” As he drawls out the word
rash
,
the jerk nods his head in a southerly direction and eyes my nether regions
dramatically.

I could kill him
on the spot.

I roll my eyes
and say to Hudson, “These baby boys…You can’t take them anywhere.” We both
laugh, but Hudson slightly shuffles farther away from me. Great. Now this dude
thinks I have pubic issues, thanks to Dillon Bleu. I turn and storm off in the
direction of Dillon’s little fan club. “Come on, Dimples,” I yell as we pass
them. “Let’s get you home so you can make curfew. Wouldn’t want you to get a
spanking.” I laugh and watch a few girls refrain from their own until he opens
his smoldering mouth, making them all swoon.

“Jewels, I done
told you I ain’t into that kinky stuff,” he says and proceeds to pop me in one
vigorous slap on my backside. Before I can knock him out, he runs off towards
my car and jumps in—knowing I would leave him if I had the opportunity. Before
I crank the car, I punch him in the arm with all my might. This only makes him
laugh.

“You punch like
a girl, Jewels. Use your whole arm and don’t tuck in your thumb.” And then he
proceeds in instructing me on how to properly punch for the next several
minutes. I get to practice a few more punches before I drive off. My hand is
sore by the time I give up. It still doesn’t seem I made a dent in him.

We are silently
driving the short trip home, when Dillon grabs my arm securely to get my
attention. “Stop at the church, Jewels.”

I glance in his
direction. He looks as though he has too much pent-up energy. I recognize
immediately what it’s about. Sometimes it’s like all of his creativity worries
him silly until he can express it. I get it, because sometimes my fingers will
ache relentlessly until I can get somewhere alone and pour my thoughts out on
paper. I know what he wants to do, but tonight I’m just too tired. I spent my
day cleaning up after the filthy rich spoiled society, and all I can think
about is stretching out in my tiny bed. I ease my eyes back to the road and
shake my head.

“You have to. I
have a private gig to perform tonight.” He nudges my shoulder, but I still
shake my head. “I’m not kidding, pretty girl.”