A Different Blue

  “Do you remember that story Jimmy told me? The one about Tabuts the wise wolf and his brother Shinangwav, the coyote?” I tossed him a questioning look over my shoulder.

  “The one about the people carved from sticks? The one you told me to school me on the unfair socio-economic structure throughout the world?” Wilson's mouth twisted wryly, and he walked toward me, grabbing my flannel shirt off the floor where I'd discarded it. He placed it around my shoulders, and then folded his arms around me, resting his chin on my head. His heat felt so good, so right, that I closed my eyes against it, against him and the ease which he held me, as if I were his sister or a favorite cousin. I didn't feel at all sisterly toward Wilson. And as good as his arms felt wrapped around me, there was pain in the pleasure.

  “When I was a child, that story never made any sense to me. Why would people want to be alone?” The wistful tone of my voice was revealing, and Wilson's arms tightened around me. I kept my eyes closed, a sudden weariness crawling into my muscles and limbs with the heat that surrounded me.

  “I thought Shinangwav was the smarter brother. He knew people would want to be in bunches. I pestered Jimmy constantly for a mother or a sister or a handful of friends. A wise wolf should know that people would rather be together.”

  Wilson turned me in his arms and smoothed the tendrils of hair from my cheeks. I wanted to keep my eyes closed, fearing that if I opened them when we stood this close they would give me away. But the proximity made keeping them closed seem expectant, as if I were waiting for him to kiss my lips, so I opened them and raised them wearily to his.

  “Sometimes I feel like I was one of those who was left in the sack while everyone else was falling out in groups,” I whispered.

  Wilson's eyes were so grey in the paltry light of the dim corner that they looked like slate in a deluge. His face was a study in concentration and empathy, as if every word I said was of supreme importance. It was that expression, that intensity, that had worn me down, and won me over, history lesson after history lesson, day after day, and he didn't even know I was his.

  “I would say that's a pretty understandable reaction after carrying a child for nine months . . . and having to part with her.” Wilson's voice was gentle, and he kissed my forehead chastely, obnoxiously. But I didn't want his sympathy. And I definitely didn't want space. I wanted him. I didn't want him to kiss my forehead. I wanted to kiss his mouth. I wanted to kiss him with my hands fisted in his hair and my body wrapped around him. I wanted to confess my feelings and demonstrate my devotion. And if I didn't leave right that second, I might do something that would push him away forever. I pulled away almost frantically, afraid of myself, afraid for myself. Wilson let me go immediately.

  “Some people are destined to be alone. Jimmy seemed to be one of those people. Maybe I am too, whether I like it or not.”

  Wilson did not respond as I turned and walked to my work bench. I snagged my keys and headed for the stairs leading to my apartment. Neither of us offered words of farewell, and the distance between us was reestablished as if I had never stood in his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I had refused Thanksgiving and Christmas and all the trappings that went with the holidays, but when Tiffa called and begged me to come to her annual New Year's party and told me her mother would be watching Alice's boys and Melody somewhere else, I relented. I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact that she had arranged for Wilson to be my date because Pamela was in England for the New Year.

  I imagined a classy party with a live orchestra and cocktail dress and heels. But Tiffa surprised me by saying, “Wear something comfortable! And colorful! We have a contest who can wear the most color, and we Wilsons like our New Year's parties raucous. Don't wear anything that will show your knickers if you bend over in case we end up playing the brown bag game. Alice complains about it every year, but it wouldn't be New Year's without it.”

  I thought I was colorful enough in hot pink skinny jeans and a spangled bright blue blousy top. I even had purple feathered earrings in my ears and attached in my hair and glittery eye shadow and red lips, but Tiffa had me easily beat with tie-dyed leggings, a blinding neon-striped shirt, high-heeled orange platforms, and a rainbow clown wig. Wilson even got into the spirit of things with a shirt that wasn't blue, grey, or black. It was a long sleeved v-neck in a soft pale green. Not very loud, but at least he tried. He wore black jeans and black boots, and looked very un-professorish.

  It wasn't a huge party – maybe thirty people – but everyone seemed to know each other well. There were ten or twelve other couples, in addition to Tiffa and Jack, Alice and Peter, and Wilson and me. Most of the others were Tiffa's British associates from The Sheffield. I would have expected all of them to drink their champagne with their pinkies raised, considering how proper they sounded in conversation. But they were all quite boisterous and easy-going, especially after a few drinks.

  The night started with a game called Ha Ha Ha – that's what Tiffa called it. Every party-goer had been given a bracelet, which was made of a roll of stickers in all different colors. The goal was to make people laugh using a big fake “ha ha ha.” If you were successful in making a person laugh, that person had to reward you with a kiss and a sticker. If a girl made another girl laugh, she could give her a sloppy smooch, or choose a boy for that girl to kiss, or vice verse. The Ha Ha Ha champion was determined at the end of the night by the number of stickers accumulated, as well as how many you still had on your bracelet roll. I was relieved to see that the kisses were all friendly pecks on the lips and cheeks with lots of “Happy New Years!” thrown in. No one seemed to take advantage and lay a wet one on an unwilling recipient. Most people were intent on collecting stickers. The game continued throughout the night, even when other games were being played, and I became a bit of a target because the Ha Ha Ha's directed at me weren't terribly funny, and I had yet to lose a sticker . . . or give a kiss. Tiffa and Wilson kept going back and forth at each other, trying to get the other to break – occasionally cracking into guffaws that were promptly rewarded with a chaste kiss to the forehead, followed by a sticker. Tiffa quickly looked like she had the pox, her face was so dotted in stickers. Alice's Ha Ha Ha was so grating that people laughed as they cringed, which got her several kisses and stickers as well.

  I don't know what I expected from a New Year's party with a bunch of Brits, but it wasn't Ha Ha Ha, and it definitely wasn't the brown bag game. The brown bag game consisted of standing on one leg like a crane, leaning over, and without touching the floor or the bag, lifting the bag off the floor using only your mouth. Each round, an inch or two would be cut off of the brown bag until there was only a thin lip of bag left. Alice ended up getting a bloody nose when she face planted into the floor. Tiffa was like a long giselle, easily bending herself in half and swooping the bag off the floor like it was a dance move she had mastered years before. Jack was out after the first round. Alice's husband Peter farted every time he made an attempt at the bag, his embarrassed “Pardon me's” almost funnier than the constant toots. Wilson attacked the brown bag game with a single-minded concentration that his sisters claimed was how he played every game, but he was out of his league after two or three rounds.

  Apparently, the brown bag game was a Wilson family tradition and not an English tradition at all. The late Dr. Wilson had been the one to introduce his children to the game, and they had played it for as long as any of them could remember. It had been just over two months since I had a baby, and I could easily have begged off, claiming that I was not up for such a physical game. But I didn't want to pique the other guests curiosity or invite questions, so I joined in and found my distaste for alcohol was a real advantage, as my balance was still intact when everyone else was teetering. The final round was down to me and Tiffa, and Tiffa was talking trash, sounding like Scary Spice, as she glided in for the win.

  “Ha ha ha!” she said to me, nose to nose, her eyes crossed comically, as I conceded the victory. This Tiffa
was such a contradiction to Tiffa-the-Art-Connoisseur that I giggled and pushed her away.

  “You laughed! You laughed at my ha ha ha!” Tiffa squealed and pranced around waving her hands in the air. “Give me a sticker, Blue Echohawk! You have succumbed to my wit! Now I must assign someone to kiss you and kiss you good! Wilson! Pucker up, luv!”

  No one really paid much attention to the frozen look on Wilson's face. We were there together, after all, a couple, so to speak. Tiffa's guests were more entertained by her gloating than by the fact that Wilson had stood and was approaching me with the intention of delivering a kiss.

  Alice, however, was watching with glee as Wilson leaned in and pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that was mostly air and mostly over before I'd even had a chance to prepare.

  “Oh, Cor! That was pathetic, Darcy! What are we, five?” Alice groaned loudly. “This whole party is pathetic! I haven't seen a real kiss all night! All these pruny pecks and stickers and the bloody brown bag game. Cor!” Alice harrumphed loudly. She sat up and pointed to a nice looking guy most of the women had swarmed to when the Ha Ha Ha game started.

  “Justin! You're not married, and you're absolutely scrummy. Go give Blue a real kiss, will you please?” Alice was a tiny bit drunk, I suspected. The man named Justin looked at me with interest.

  “Now, Peter and I could show you how it's done, couldn't we Peter?” Alice elbowed her husband who had fallen asleep after failing at the brown bag game. He responded with a quiet little snore. Alice shoved him in outrage. “Cor! Puffing and snoring! What romance! Help me, Justin!”

  “Help us all, Justin!” Tiffa added emphatically, nudging Justin forward. Everyone burst out laughing, everyone but Wilson, who stood stiffly at my side, his eyes trained on the hunky Justin who had decided to give Alice what she wanted and was heading toward me.

  Wilson turned on me suddenly, and his hands cupped my face, his fingertips sliding into my hair. With his eyes on mine, he ducked his head and brushed his lips against my mouth, once and then again, as if afraid that Alice would start “Cor-ing” if he pulled back. His lips were firm and smooth, and his breath tickled my lips. My heart pounded in my throat and my mind screamed at me, demanding I catalog every detail of the event I had dreamed about but never dared hope for. Wilson was kissing me!!

  And then I couldn't think at all. His lips were more insistent, his hands pulling me forward and into him as his mouth moved against mine, and then into mine, opening my lips gently, his tongue seeking entrance. And I let him in. And then his arms were wrapped around me, and the kiss became something else. It wasn't a game, it wasn't a show, it was ours, and the room around us did not exist.

  We parted on a shared sigh. The room erupted in whoops and clapping as Alice jumped up and down and giggled like a little girl about to sit on Santa's lap.

  “That was lovely! Darcy! If you weren't my wee little brother I'd stand on line! Peter! Wake up, man!” Alice turned on her tired spouse who had missed the entire spectacle.

  Tiffa was staring at us with a small smile on her lips, as if she'd known it all along. Wilson's hand slid down my arm and captured my fingers in a clasp. His ears were red, but he didn't speak. He held my hand for the rest of the evening, and I swore my heart had swollen in size. I was breathless and thrilled and anxious to be alone, anxious to explore this new development.

  As midnight neared, Tiffa turned on the television and passed around noisemakers and confetti. Apparently, another British tradition was watching Big Ben strike twelve, which Tiffa had tiVo-ed when it had actually occurred in London so that everyone would feel like they were right at home . . . in England. I didn't mind giving up Times Square for Big Ben. Or giving up American boys for a nerdy English school teacher. At the moment, I was completely enamored with all things British.

  We counted down and then watched as the big clock welcomed the New Year into our corner of the world. Shouts of “Happy New Year!” and hugs and cheers and noisy revelry broke out around the room. Tiffa and Jack had tears on their cheeks as they kissed and held each other, obviously moved by the year they had had and the years that were to come. And I had helped give them that. I turned to Wilson with a smile, but he looked away, watching the room erupt without joining the celebration.

  “Let's go,” he said suddenly, “Are you ready? I want to go. We'll sneak out. I'll call Tiffa in the morning and thank her for the party.”

  “Oh. Okay,” I nodded as he hustled me toward the door. He grabbed our coats and was trying to slip out when Tiffa rushed over to us, calling out for us to wait. Wilson winced, and I wondered why he was in such a hurry to leave all of a sudden.

  “Darcy, wait! Don't whisk Blue away yet! The fireworks are unbelievable from up here. You missed them on the Fourth of July too! And we haven't crowned the Ha Ha Ha champion!” She descended on us, wrapping her arms around our shoulders.

  “I think Justin has that all locked up, Tif.” Wilson's voice sounded strange, and a look passed between brother and sister that made my chest feel tight and my face burn hot.

  “I see,” Tiffa said softly. I wished I did. She leaned over and kissed my cheeks and squeezed my hand. “Thank you for coming, Blue. Jack and I consider you part of our family and always will. When you're ready, you should come see Melody. It would be good for all of us, I think.” Her eyes shot to Wilson and back to me. “Happy New Year, luvs.”

  We descended to the parking garage in silence, the elevator surprisingly full, considering the fact that it was barely midnight and most parties were in full swing. I pressed back into Wilson as floor after floor added a few more occupants all going down. Wilson kept his hand in mine and watched as the numbers ticked lower and lower. My mood descended just as rapidly as I wondered if the trip home would be filled with apologies for a kiss that had lit me up like the Fourth of July . . . or New Year's Eve, to be more exact. Tiffa was right. The fireworks from her balcony would have been unbelievable. I wished we would have stayed to see them, to share another kiss as crashing colors filled the air before reality swept the magic away.

  Vegas was a party town, and the crowds were heavy, making navigating away from Tiffa's building slow as the strip was lined with people swarming from one hotel to the next, soaking up the bright lights, endless food, and glitz of a city that catered to celebrations in the extreme. Luckily, The Sheffield was on the south end of the Vegas strip, making it easier to side step the thickest intersections as we climbed up and onto the beltway that would swing us east toward Boulder City. Wilson had been quiet as he maneuvered his way through the crush of traffic and people, but as the city and her lights fell away behind us, the silence was more than I could stand so I decided to make light of the whole thing.

  “You kiss like an old woman, Wilson.”

  The car veered wildly, rocking us slightly as Wilson swore and righted the vehicle, his head swiveling between me and the road.

  “Bugger!” Wilson sputtered, and then laughed and groaned, running a hand down his face in obvious agitation. “Well, you don't.”

  My heart fluttered and my stomach dropped at his words. “So what's the problem?”

  “That's the problem.”

  “So if you kissed me and it felt like kissing one of The Golden Girls, all would be right in the world? Because that's what it felt like for me, and I feel fine, while you obviously do not.”

  “The Golden Girls?” Wilson obviously didn't watch American re-runs.

  “Well . . . maybe not one of them. Maybe . . . Prince Charles,” I teased.

  “But not Camilla? Please tell me it wasn't like kissing Camilla,” he insisted.

  I snickered. Poor Camilla. “Was kissing me like kissing Victoria Beckham?” I poked at him. “Tiffa told me you had a major crush on her when you were seven.”

  “Oh, yes. Since I know exactly how it feels to kiss Victoria Beckham.”

  “Did you think about Victoria Beckham when you kissed me? That's almost as good.”

  “No, Blue. I didn't. Unfortunately
, I was very aware of whom I was kissing and why I shouldn't be kissing her.”

  My attempts to avoid serious examination of “the kiss” had obviously failed. Wilson kept his eyes forward all the way home, and I stifled the urge to ask him to explain himself, to justify his blunt rejection. If he was struggling with his feelings for me, he would have to figure them out. I refused to feed his regret – or even argue with it. I sat in stony silence for the remainder of the ride. He pulled up in front of the house and put the car into park, turning the key and turning to me at the same time.

  “I've crossed so many lines with you so many times. I was your teacher, for God's sake! My sister adopted your child! It's all so convoluted and complicated, and I don't want to make things messier than they already are. The friendship we have, the incredibly intimate moments we've shared, the fact that you are my tenant . . . I can rationalize all of that away. I can justify all of it . . . as long as there is no romance. Tonight, when I kissed you, I crossed the line from friend, teacher, adviser, bloody father figure,” he spat this last line out, clearly disgusted, “to something else entirely, and I owe you an apology. I don't know what I was thinking, letting Alice manipulate me that way.”

  “Father figure?! Holy Crap!” Now I was horrified. “That's how you see our relationship? Yuck, Wilson!” I slammed out of the car and stomped up the steps, not waiting for Wilson. I really didn't want to kill him, but at that moment, strangling him would not have been a stretch. I heard him behind me, and I swung on him as we climbed the front stairs.

  “For the record, Wilson. You were my teacher. Once! You've become my friend. I am not a child, and I am not your student. I am a grown woman, not even three years younger than you are. You not only kiss like a stuffy old woman, you're acting like one! Kissing you was no big deal! It was not inappropriate, it was a silly party game. Get over yourself!”