Session Nine
Blue Roses
Everything I had ever known was challenged by Cole Ellerby.
Patience, consistency, communication – he carried them so naturally that my mind kept searching for a way out, but I kept bumping into the same signs: Turn around, Beatrice. Stay, Beatrice.
Don’t be afraid, Blu.
When you’re conditioned to believe that love is supposed to hurt, you stop trusting anything that feels effortless.
At thirty-one, I felt like a tween skimming through boy band sections in GQ magazines, butterflies twisting in my stomach, blushing at the thought of a man.
A fucking thought.
Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?
“Or most importantly,” Stacy reminded me, “who are you not?”
Of course I told my therapist about him. Why wouldn’t I? She was privy to my love life, having been tortured by the same tragic monologue for years. Heavens, oh Heavens, Shakespeare! How are thee so sad!
Thirty-one.
Fuck, seems old right?
You’re told by your elders that you should have a stable job, a rich partner, no car loan, and grandkids, what about grandkids, Suzie?
And can I just ask who the hell wrote a textbook on adulting anyway? Why do I need to follow some outdated structure made up before wartimes and prance around the world like I’ve got zero problems and no-fucks to give?
Because that, for certain, was the most unusual thing about meeting Cole.
I, former Blu Henderson – a coy flirt and demander of attention – was nervous.
Nervous.
Me.
The girl who could walk up to strangers with unwavering confidence. A plan in place.
Your name? Easy.
Your number? Absolutely.
Come back to my place? (With hesitation) Always.
And yet, yet.
That girl was the same to confuse being wanted with being chosen. The same girl who’d trick herself into thinking sex meant companionship and companionship was better than loneliness.
After all, if you closed your eyes hard enough, you could become the version of yourself that people desired most.
And they always invited you to stay.
I’ve done it before, you know. Let the Beatrice show.
They always wanted the Blu(e) girl.
I expected Cole wanted the same.
But when he showed up in a steel grey Mazda and stepped out of the car, I almost lost my footing.
He had…
Roses. Blue roses. “I thought of you,” he smiled.
He had no idea they were my favorite flower, didn’t know what they signified:
Blue walls. Blue hair. Blue Blu.
A memory came to mind, Jace’s cheap attempt at a Valentine’s Day gift. Three sunflowers – well, two, one was wilted – from the gas station around the corner. It came with a customizable message slot – white cardstock– where you could write a little note. His read: For BluBerry.
When Cole handed me the flowers, I tripped on my heel (purposely) so that he could catch me. I wanted to feel the strength of his safety, smell the scent of his cologne.
He smelled nothing like Jace.
“Careful, honeybee, there could be thorns.”
“I don’t care.” And I kissed him.
I fucking kissed him.
Is that what you want? Do you like that? Do you like the taste of me?
Get out of my fucking head!!!!!
He’ll pull away any second, any second now and you’ll be faced with the fact that you’re nothing more than –
But Cole… didn’t move.
He dropped the roses, picked me up, and spun me.
He –
Dropped the roses.
Picked me up –
And. Spun. Me.
Deepening our kiss, hands in my hair, grip tight on my waist.
“And you taste like honey,” he whispered against my lips.
“Well,” I chuckled, “that’s not cheesy at all.”
“Honey’s sweet, Beatrice.” And slowly, he lowered me to the ground, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “I hope everyone saw that.”
“Don’t let me do that again,” I teased, stepping into his car.
He rounded the hood and slid into the driver’s seat. Hand on my thigh, he leaned forward. “I’m not the police.”
…
Our reservation never stood a chance.