A Different Blue(50)

asking you now. Can you take it away? Can you take away the ugliness?”

Something broke inside of me, and I groaned, unable to bite it back. Hot wet shame flooded out

of me in waves of crushing grief. I tried to speak, but the torrent was almost too much. And so

I gasped the final plea.

“God? If you love me . . . take it away. Please. I'm asking you to take it away. I don't want

to feel this way anymore.” I wrapped my head in my arms, and let the torrent consume me. I had

never let myself cry like this. I had feared that if I opened the floodgates I would drown. But

as the waves crashed over me, I was not consumed, I was swept up, washed, my soul blanketed with

blessed relief. Hope rose within me like a buoy. And with the hope, came peace. And the peace

calmed the waters and quieted the storm, until I sat, spent, bled out, done.

Light bloomed overhead, illuminating the passageway where I huddled. I scrambled to my feet,

grabbing my purse and turning my back to the man walking toward me.

“Blue?” Wilson's voice was hesitant, almost disbelieving. At least he didn't call me Miss

Echohawk anymore.

“What are you doing here?”

I kept my back to him as I tried to remove the evidence that I had come undone. I scrubbed

frantically at my face, hoping I didn't look as wrecked as I felt. I kept my face averted as he

approached.

“The battery in my truck is dead. I'm parked out in the parking lot. I saw your car here and

wondered if you would be able to help me,” I said softly, still not making eye-contact. I kept

my eyes fixed on the floor.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” I said. And I was. Miraculously, I was.

A small white square of fabric appeared under my nose.

“A handkerchief! What are you, eighty-five?”

“Humph! I'm twenty-two, as you well know. I just happened to be raised by a very proper,

slightly old-fashioned, Englishwoman who taught me to carry a handkerchief. I'll bet you're glad

she did.”

I was. But I didn't admit it. The cloth felt satiny against my swollen eyes and tear-stung

cheeks. It smelled heavenly . . . like pine and lavender and soap, and, suddenly, using his

handkerchief felt incredibly intimate. I searched for something to say. “Is this the same woman

who named you Darcy?”

Wilson's laugh was a brief bark. “The very same.”

“Can I keep this? I'll wash it and give it back. I'll even iron it, like your mom does.” The

devil in me had to have her say.

“Ah, Blue. There you are. I thought for a moment you'd been body snatched by an actual human

girl – one who doesn't take great pleasure in taunting her history teacher.” He smiled down at

me, and I looked away self-consciously. “Let me get my things. I'm done here.”

“What? You're going to knock off this early? School only ended eight hours ago,” I teased,

trying again for normalcy. He didn't respond, but was back moments later, his instrument in a

case slung across his back. He flipped the light switch at the end of the hallway and we

descended the stairs in silence.

“How did you get in?” he asked and then immediately shook his head and waved the question

away. “Never mind. I really don't want to know. However, if on Monday I find that the walls