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“I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there’s a pair of us Don’t tell—they’d banish us, you know.”
“The beauty of that poem is that everybody can relate, because we all feel like nobody. We all feel like we are on the outside, looking in. We all feel scattered. But I think it’s that self-awareness that actually makes us somebody. And you are definitely somebody, Blue. You may not be a work of art, but you are definitely a piece of work.”
‘Life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.’
“Are you daft?” he scolded, his lips against my hair, his words clipped and his accent pronounced. “You’ve got more bottle than any girl I’ve ever met. Why in God’s name didn’t you hide like every other student with half a brain!”
But with each note Wilson played, the feeling grew. It wasn’t grief and it wasn’t pain. It wasn’t despair or even remorse. It felt more like . . . gratitude. It felt like love. I immediately rejected the words that had sprung to my mind. Gratitude for what?! For a life that had never been kind? For happiness I had rarely known? For pleasure that had been fleeting and left a desperate aftertaste of guilt and loathing?
“See?” he griped, throwing his hands up. “There you go again.” He stopped at his car, his hands on his hips. “I know you are incredibly bright, because when you are not being a smartarse your comments in class are very insightful, and when you are being a smartarse you are witty and clever and you make me laugh even when I want to slap you. I know you are either an adrenaline junky or you have more courage than anyone I’ve ever met, and you know how to unload a weapon. I know you were raised by a man with the name Echohawk. I know you don’t know when your real birthday is. I know you have no
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He counted on his fingers. “That’s eight things. Oh, and you carve something out of wood. Most likely not totem poles, since that seemed to get a reaction out of you. So nine or maybe ten if we count being a smartarse.” He put his hands back on his hips. “I would really like to know more. I don’t want to know about the little blackbird who was pushed from the nest. I would like to know something about Blue.” He poked me in the center of my chest, hard, as he said Blue.
Wilson’s hand shot out, pulling me to a stop. He searched my face, as if trying to glean the meaning behind my words. “You are many things, Blue Echohawk, I can even name twelve.” He smiled a little. “But ugly isn’t one of them.”
Wilson’s face was bright red, and he was shaking with laughter. “I don’t have a clue what song you’re humming, luv. Maybe you should hum a few more bars until I have it.”
“You . . . jerk!” I fumed, slapping at him as he laughed harder. “I told you I couldn’t sing! Stop it!”
“I keep wishing you had had a better life . . . a different life. But a different life would have made you a different Blue.” He looked at me then. “And that would be the biggest tragedy of all.” With a little quirk of a smile he raised my hand to his lips—Mr. Darcy to the very end—and then he turned and walked up the stairs.
“Then I’ll stay.” He slid his hand into mine and held it tightly. His hand was large and cool, his fingertips calloused. My relief was so intense that I couldn’t immediately respond for fear I would lose my composure. I wrapped both of my hands around his and held on gratefully. After several deep breaths, I whispered my thanks as another wave of pressure and pain built within me.
“You’re the bravest person I know, Blue,” Wilson whispered into my hair. His hands cradling my face. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful I think you are? You’re almost there. I will help you. Hold on to me. It’s going to be all right.”
“Someone told me once that to create true art you must be willing to bleed and let others watch.” I felt a little exposed and suddenly wanted to melt into the shadows of the room where I could observe without being observed.
“I was afraid, Blue,” he repeated, insistent. “You’ve been through so much. And I am half mad over you. I don’t think you are ready for the way I feel.”
“I’ve tried to give it time. I’ve tried to give you time. And then I saw you tonight. You were all dressed up, ready for a night out, impossibly beautiful, confident, strong. And I thought I had lost you once and for all.”
“Blue, I need you so much. I want you so much.”
“I’ve never felt about anybody the way I feel about you,” I confessed in a rush. “I can’t imagine that what I’m feeling isn’t love. But ‘I love you’ doesn’t feel adequate to express it.” I plunged headlong into babbling. “I desperately want you to love me. I need you to love me—but I don’t want to need it, and I’m afraid that I need it too much.”
Once upon a time there was a little bird who was placed in a nest. Wanted. Cherished. Unafraid, because she knew she was a hawk, a beautiful bird, worthy of awe, deserving of love.
