Page 44 of Dying to Meet You

Blaine

Runningontwohoursof sleep, I shut down my body, allowing me to drift off to dream that this situation is all a horrible, horrible misunderstanding. Weston was with Hilde, the receptionist at the clinic the whole time. She was all“gee willikers”and other embarrassingly clueless statements as per usual. Weston came home stuffed full of sugar and smiles. He was never snatched up by someone.

Waking up to Zeb crying and realizing that isn’t the case makes me crave sleep again…the dreams of Wes being alright.

I would give anything to see him run through the room in his cowboy boots and karate uniform being loud in his morning greetings. Fucking anything. Letting the animals loose, throwing things in a full tub, or yelling out jokes.

Caleb walks past with Zeb on the way to the kitchen for a bottle. I move Eden onto the chair kissing her forehead to follow him. “I’ll take him.”

Passing him over, he continues to get the bottle ready. “Kim and Chris are here. They’re in Hutton’s addition right now getting settled in.” I’m not surprised Chris would want to be here. His experience with the Realists could be beneficial.

It can’t hurt.

Waverly walks in wearing the clothes she had on yesterday. “Daddy B?” A slight hiccup of a cry escapes. “Did they find Wes?”

It’s too much. Waverly standing here at nine years old, so close to the age Eden’s brother had been when he disappeared. Her little mini. The curly blonde mop of disheveled hair. Eden’s blue eyes filled with tears looking up from Waverly’s face. I sag heavily onto a stool, biting back tears. “Not yet, honey.”

History repeating itself.

She says no to breakfast, sitting next to me and resting her head on the counter. “I wish I hadn’t yelled at him to leave me alone when he wanted to show me the note he wrote his teacher yesterday morning.” Her lip trembles as she speaks.

We all watch Zinnea stagger into the kitchen, her hair also messy and wearing the clothes she put on yesterday. “Mornin’,” she says quietly, sitting across from Waverly.

Caleb offers Zinnea food but after looking us over and seeing we’re not eating, she shakes her head no. “Did you get any sleep?” I ask her as she continues staring at Waverly. She’s still giving me the creeps. I’m trying…I’m hoping any acts of goodwill may work in our favor.

She shakes her head again. I’m expecting more silence when she says to Waverly, “Weston told me when I moved in that his older sister is magic.”

I freeze, not knowing if Zinnea is going to be mean or comforting. Honestly, with her it could go either way. Waverly isn’t sure either as she sits up, regarding her cautiously. Zin continues, “He said whenever he didn’t feel good or got hurt, you made him feel better. I told him that’s not possible, but he said all I had to do was tell you…tell you and,” her face reddens as she tries to go on, “you’d say or do whatever you could to make me better. Like magic.”

Tears stream down my face. I look over to Caleb and mouth, “Oh my god.” He nods before looking at the floor, his eyes red.

The previous trembling of Waverly’s lips is accompanied by a squeak before she drops her head on her arms wailing. Zinnea carefully gets down from her stool, walking to Waverly’s side. She pats her back lightly without saying anything more.

She doesn’t have to.

Just another example of Weston trying to help make others feel better. If anyone is magic, it’s him.

Chris finds me sitting in my car staring at the compartment holding the pills I desperately want to swallow. To blot it all out. To forget the current state of things.

“What’s up, boss?” He opens the passenger door, sliding in. His tall frame, like his brother's, causes him to hunch. “Sorry if you were looking for some alone time.”

No, he’s not, but I don’t care right now.

I should tell him about the pills. I’ve helped him through the same thing…we lean on each other for support for our addictions. But I don’t tell him. The pull of escape overwhelms my desire to stay clean. Right now, I need the pain to stop.

“Hear from Hutton?”

When he says he hasn’t, we spend several minutes bullshitting, pointless talk when our world has imploded. I lean back, closing my eyes. “Ready to really talk now?” he asks as he lights a cigarette up.

I open my windows. “Oh, sure, feel free to smoke in my car, jackass.”

He gives me half a smile. “Thanks man.”

“With some self-reflection, I think my ability to cope as an adult is a figment of my imagination.” I wave away a plume of smoke as he turns to look at me. “At least exhale out the damn open window you shit.”

“What’s in your car?”

“Huh?”

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