Blur (Changing Colors Book 2) (22 page)

She leans away from my teasing fingers. “You can’t be here. I’m contagious. I could give you Chicken Pox.”

“I thought you said you had Shingles?”

“It’s basically the same thing,” she sighs, exasperation still apparent. “Cliff’s Notes version, I can’t give you Shingles, but I could give you Chicken Pox if you haven’t had them.”

“Well, we’re in luck, Sawyer. I’ve had Chicken Pox,” I retort, lifting my shirt up to bare my stomach and pointing to three small scars near my ribs. “See? I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

“Dylan.”

“Brooke,”
I mimic her irritated tone.

Her nose crinkles. “Stop doing that, you dick.”

“Let me in and I’ll refrain from teasing you,” I say with a grin.

“You are not coming in here. I’m a mess. This house is a mess. And for Fuck’s sake, I’m wearing an eye patch. This is hardly the time I’d like to entertain company.”

“No entertaining necessary. I’m fully capable of making myself at home. Hell, I’ll even play nurse and change your eye patch,” I cajole.

She fights a grin, and that’s when I know I’ve got her. “C’mon, Sawyer. Let me in. I’ll be on my best behavior and keep you company. I know you’re going stir crazy in there.”

Brooke pushes the door open and walks inside, calling over her shoulder, “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you I’m not in the mood for company. I’m in full bitch mode today, so you’re on your own if my bitchy attitude rears her ugly head.”

Laughing, I follow her in, shutting the door behind me and setting my guitar and backpack in the hall.

“Welcome to Millie’s house,” she says, shuffling into the kitchen on her SpongeBob slippers. “Ember and I are still deciding what to do with it, so for the time being, I’m currently living here.”

I sit down at the table, watching Brooke rummage through a few cabinets.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

“Nah, I’m good, but thanks.”

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to find something to eat.”

“Hey, I’m the one who crashed your pirate party. Please feel free to do whatever you like.”

“Shut it, Bissette. No more eye patch jokes or I’m kicking your English
arse
to the curb.” She laughs, flipping me the bird behind her back.

Inside her robe pocket, her phone starts to ring, and she answers it while pulling a bowl from the cabinet. “Jamie, quit calling me,” is her greeting, and I immediately cringe.

“No, I’m fine, I promise. And no way in hell would I let you inside this house even if you were standing on my doorstep,” she says into the receiver.

“Jame, you’ve never had Chicken Pox.” Her voice drops a few octaves as she walks into the hallway for privacy. “You know you can’t get sick right now. Not while you’re on that medication.” Despite, her attempts at getting out of ears’ reach, I can still make out her conversation. I know, I shouldn’t be an eavesdropping bastard, but the house is so quiet, I can’t help but focus on the only sound resonating within the walls.

And medication?
That sounds kind of serious…

“Your doctors told you that your immune system would be the one thing we needed to protect the most while you’re on the new regimen,” she whispers. “Anyways, I’m not sitting here all by myself. Dylan stopped by to work on some music.”

She pauses, laughing softly at something he must have said on the other end of the call. “Yes, I’m good…I swear…Call me later…Okay, love you too.”

Brooke walks back into the kitchen, sliding the phone back into her robe pocket. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries. Glad to see I’m not the only one checking up on you,” I respond, offering a smile in her direction.

Her returning grin is awkward, showcasing she’s visibly uncomfortable.

I throw her a lifeline, gesturing towards the empty bowl on the counter. “By all means, please resume your gathering of nutritious Fruity Pebbles. I am in no hurry today. Nigel cleared my schedule, remember?”

“Right,” she responds with a laugh. “Well, please continue to hold while I ensure my body gets all of its vitamins and nutrients for the day. I appreciate your patience, by the way.”

I want to say,
I’m nothing if not patient, that much is obvious with the way I’ve handled this crazy thing between us
, but I hold that comment back, not wanting to dampen the mood.

Hell, I want to say that
and
ask about the conversation she had with Jamie, especially the part about the medication he’s on. But I hold that back too. I’d say the fact she moved the call into the hallway made it apparent that it’s none of my business. No matter how bloody curious I am, because fuck, I’m dying to know what’s really going on with him.

While Brooke gathers a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, my curious eyes spot a black shoebox resting on the counter.
Millie’s Mary Janes
is written across the side in green ink. “What is that?” I ask, watching her eyes go wide when she realizes what I’m looking at.

And that reaction is exactly why I
need
to know what’s in there.

Surely, it’s not what I’m thinking it is, right?

Before she can stop me, I’m hopping out of my seat and moving towards the box.

“Don’t! Wait! It’s just…It’s just shoes!” she shouts behind me, her bowl loudly clanking against the table. Her hands wrap around my wrists, but they’re too late, I’ve already cracked the lid opened and taken a peek.

And my instincts were spot on.

“Oh, hello Mary Jane.” I’m cracking up with quiet laughter as I reach inside and grab one of the baggies filled with bud. “Shoes, you say?” I ask, holding it in front of Brooke’s face.

Yes, you heard me right.
Millie’s Mary Janes
is actually Millie’s
Mary Jane,
otherwise known as her shoebox weed stash.

“Why do you gotta be such a nosey bastard?” Brooke snatches the baggie out of my hands.

“Oh, come on, the shoebox was labeled
Millie’s Mary Janes,
and the shocked look on your face when I asked about it pretty much sealed the deal on my needing to know what was in there.”

Before shutting the shoebox closed, she grabs a yellow glass pipe and lighter from it. “Don’t judge me,” she says, sliding everything—
including the baggie
—into her robe pocket. “I’ve been contemplating indulging in this all day. You have no idea how bad my face hurts. When people tell you Shingles is painful, they aren’t joking. I feel like someone is lighting my skin on fire from the inside.”

“Ouch,” I cringe at her awful description.

“Yeah, it’s pretty terrible, so don’t judge me for keeping my pain control options open. Lord knows Tylenol and ibuprofen aren’t cutting it.”

Smirking, I hold both hands up in the air. “I’m definitely not judging you. Hell, I have no room to judge. I’ve been known to enjoy a little bud from time to time. But be real with me, is that
really
Millie’s?”

A wry smile crests her lips. “Yeah, it really is. She became an avid pot smoker once she realized it helped with the bone pain from cancer. Plus, she used to indulge back in the day. It was never in front of Ember or me, but I know she definitely did. Hell, Jamie and I used to steal some of her pot when we were teenagers.”

My face threatens to turn to stone at the mention of his name, but I school myself, forcing a neutral expression. If Brooke and I are going to ever get along, I can’t be losing my cool every time he comes up. Or any time I’m forced to be in the same room with them for that matter.

“Your grandmum was one cool bird.”

Brooke nods, smiling softly, reminiscence filling her eyes. “Yeah, she really was.”

Her expression pulls at my heartstrings. “Today is her birthday, isn’t it?”

She nods again, averting her eyes and busying herself with the bowl of cereal sitting in front of her.

“How are you doing, love?” I ask, concerned.

Brooke shrugs. “I guess I’m as good as I can be. I miss her something crazy, but I’m also so thankful she doesn’t have to endure any more pain. Does that make sense?”

“Definitely makes sense. I’m sure it’s bittersweet.”

She sets her spoon beside the bowl, saddened gaze meeting mine. “It’s hard, today of all days, because we used to take this yearly trip to Portland on her birthday. Just me and Millie. Sometimes Ember would join us, but usually, it was just the two of us. It had become my favorite trip of the year, ya know? I always looked forward to it. I had a feeling last year it was going to be our last trip, and I made sure it was a trip to remember, but now that she’s not here, it doesn’t make her loss any less difficult.”

“I’ve never been to Portland.”

“Really?”

I nod. “LA is the only city I’ve been to on the West Coast of the States.”

“Portland is fantastic. And it’s not too far a drive from Seattle, which is one of your pre-release tour stops. Seattle is great, too, but it just doesn’t have the eclectic, crazy vibe Portland does. Have you ever watched the show
Portlandia
?”

“No, is it good?”

Her jaw drops. “Oh my god! Are you kidding me? Fred Armisen? Carrie Brownstein? You seriously haven’t seen the show?”

I shake my head, grinning at her enthusiasm.

She feigns mock disappointment, standing up from the table and tossing her dishes in the sink. “I will not tolerate such blasphemy. You
will
watch
Portlandia
. I won’t take no for answer, Dylan. It’s happening.
Today.”

“But I thought music was on the agenda?”

“This isn’t about you right now, Dylan. This is about humanity. You’re about two seconds away from being voted off the island, buddy. You, my friend, are a disappointment. And we
have
to fix this.”

“What?” My face scrunches up in amusement. “
Humanity?
The island?
What are you talking about? Did you blaze up before I got here?”

I’m laughing as she grabs my wrist, dragging me into the living room. She pushes me onto the couch and busies herself with the remote, pulling up Netflix.

“Prepare to be amazed, Bissette,” she says, plopping down beside me. “Prepare to be mother-fucking-amazed.”

The opening song to
Portlandia
begins to play, and I can’t take my eyes off her. From the bandage on her face to the ridiculous eye patch to the bright yellow SpongeBob slippers, she’s so bloody adorable.

Just sitting here, watching her, I can picture it all. I can see us, just like this, laughing and joking and being playful together. I can see myself coming home to her every night and enjoying the moments when it’s just us.

I can see it all, everything we could have together.

She’s everything I want, but can’t have.

She’s the girl that should be mine, but isn’t.

And when she starts giggling over a skit called
Catnap
, my lungs are struggling to breath at a normal rhythm. The pain in my chest is too much to bear. My mind is racing, torn between the urge to lean forward and kiss her senseless or sprint out her front door as fast as humanly possible. Jesse’s advice on just being friends with her seems more absurd by the minute. How can I just be friends with her?

Brooke is the loveliest, most beautiful, talented, funniest person I’ve ever known, and even that is an understatement. To me, she’s that one person you wait a lifetime for. She’s everything.

Christ, when did she become so bloody important?

I feel like I’ve just witnessed that first snowstorm of the season. You glance out your window and note the snowflakes falling slowly past the glass, each flake distinct and catching your eye. You don’t realize how fast those flakes are adding up, and then you look outside,
really look outside,
and realize your entire street is covered. She’s my snowstorm.

Brooke is my fucking snowstorm.

I know we’ve only known each other a short time, and I know she’s with someone else, but somehow, someway, she’s become this vital part of me that I can’t give up. I can’t just walk away from her. I can’t picture my future without this woman beside me.

And I guess,
even if it might bloody kill me
, if being friends with her is the only thing I can get, I’m going to have to settle.
At least for right now…

Brooke laughs at the show again, grabbing my attention.

Christ, I need some air.

“Hey, where are you going?” she asks as I hop up from the couch.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter past the thickness in my throat, heading towards the front door. “I just realized I forgot to return my father’s call. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready for another episode,” I say, holding up my phone.

Christ, I really need to get it together.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Brooke says, setting the glass of water she used to chase her handful of pills on the coffee table. She has her guitar in her lap, and a pen and notebook beside her.

My eyebrow rises, incredulous. “You sure? The tension on your face isn’t all that convincing. The eye patch, although adorable, isn’t helping either.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “I’m sure. I’ve taken enough ibuprofen and Tylenol that we should be able to work on the song for about an hour before I want to stab my eye out.”