A Different Blue(154)

was forced between my legs.

“Breathe, Blue. Come on, Baby. Deep breaths,” Wilson crooned in my ear. My head cleared

slightly, and the ice in my veins began to thaw the slightest degree. One breath, then several

more. When my vision cleared I had only one request.

“I want to go home, Wilson. I don't want to know any more.”





We left the police station with a copy of the file. Wilson insisted I take it, as well as the

contact information for people who shared my blood but had never shared my life. I wanted to

throw the file out the window as we drove and let the pages spill out across the road and into

the Reno night, a hundred pages of a tragic life tossed into the wind so they could be forgotten

and never gathered again.

We ate a drive-thru, too weary and subdued to leave the car or even converse. But home was eight

hours away and our flight wasn't until 8 the next morning, so we found a hotel and paid for one

room for one night. Wilson didn't ask me if I wanted my own. I didn't. But there were two double

beds in the room, and as soon as we checked in, I brushed my teeth, pulled off my jeans, and

crawled into one, promptly falling asleep.

I dreamed of strings of paper-doll cutouts with my mother's face and blankets in every color but

blue. I dreamed I was still in high school, walking through endless hallways, looking for Wilson

but instead finding dozens of children who didn't know their names. I came awake with tears on

my cheeks and terror writhing in my belly, convinced that Wilson had left Reno while I slept.

But he was still there in the bed next to mine, his long arms wrapped around the spare pillow,

his tousled hair a dark contrast against the white sheets. Moonlight spilled onto him, and I

watched him sleep for a long time, memorizing the line of his jaw, the sweep of long lashes

against his lean cheeks, watching his lips as he sighed in his sleep.

Then, without giving myself time to consider my actions, I crept into his bed and curled myself

around him, resting my head against his back, wrapping my arms around his chest. I wanted to

seal him to me, to fuse him to my skin, to reassure myself that he was actually mine. I pressed

my lips against his back and slid my hands up under his T-shirt, pressing my hands against his

flat abdomen, stroking upward to his chest. I felt him come awake, and he turned toward me, his

face falling into the shadows as he held himself above me. Moonlight limned him in white, and

when I reached up and touched his face, he was perfectly still, letting me trace his features

with my fingertips, letting me rise up and rain kisses across his jaw, across his closed lids,

and finally against his lips. Then, without a word, he pressed me down against the pillows and

captured my hands in his. My breath caught in anticipation as he pulled me firmly against his

chest, trapping my hands between us.

But he didn't kiss my mouth or run his hands along my skin. He didn't whisper words of love or

desire. Instead, he tucked my head beneath his chin and wrapped me in his arms so securely I

could hardly move, and he didn't let me go. I lay in stunned surprise, waiting for him to loosen

his grip, waiting for his hands to touch, for his body to move against mine. But his arms stayed

locked around me, his breathing remained steady, and his body remained still. And there, in the

circle of his arms, held so fiercely that there was no room to doubt him or fear his loss, I