A Different Shade of Blue: Rust Book 2 Read online

  “Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn't stop for anybody.”

  ―Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

  Chapter One

  The dream was almost always the same. He was back in Montana during the throes of winter, snow piled in high drifts and the wind howling as he tried his best to navigate the landscape on foot. The snow made it difficult to walk, he could take baby steps at best, and the wind pushed against him like a thousand invisible hands trying to urge him to turn back. Icy snow pelted at his face and burned his skin, and he wished that he'd put on his gloves before leaving the house. It was such a strange thing to dream about, not having gloves, but the dream always seemed so desperately real and all the details seemed to matter to his tired brain.

  It was a recurring dream that came to him often, and no matter how hot and oppressive the summers in Atlanta could be, to his sleep induced mind it was eternally winter in Montana. He was always walking, always searching, screaming out loud into the storm that just swallowed up his words. It always felt hopeless and horrible. It was more a nightmare than a dream, really, a glistening iced over pond just ahead of him in a field that he could never reach. There was too much snow, too much wind, and not enough time.

  No, there was just never enough time. There would never be enough, it always ran desperately short. He was racing a clock he’d never catch up to and he knew it, even in his sleep. For the rest of his life he would arrive too late, and there was absolutely nothing to do to change that now.

  The dream abruptly ended there and Bryson Davis woke with a start, breathing hard with his t-shirt clinging to his sweaty back. He didn't always startle awake after having the dream, but it happened more often than not. He couldn't stand it anymore, all that walking and going nowhere; he forced himself awake just to not have to grapple with it anymore. It was just a dream though, just a stupid dream, and he tried to shake it off in the darkness of his suburban bedroom.

  A glance at the digital clock on the bedside table told him it was just shy of six in the morning, which meant there was a full hour between this moment and when his alarm would go off. He had gone to bed late the night before, which wasn't unusual for him these days, and he knew that he would likely regret it later. He hated the sleep medication the doctor prescribed him though, and that hung over feeling he always had the next day after taking it, so he just lived his life on the cusp of never resting enough.

  Turning off the alarm he threw back the covers, letting his feet hit the cool wood floor. It was early September but still stifling hot outside, which meant the air conditioning was still going full blast. The cold on his toes shook off whatever sleepiness lingered and he was fully awake now, resigned to start his day. He knew that his mother likely wouldn't be up for another hour or two, and he was okay with letting her sleep. At least if she was sleeping then she wasn't hovering, which had become the new normal in his life ever since they had moved back home to Georgia. She had once been the sort of mother who tended to check out, who had trusted her children to make their own choices in life, but that had all changed about two years ago.

  In full disclosure, nearly everything had changed two years ago. The world had become an entirely different place, and not necessarily for the better either. Bryson was fully aware that the hovering, the constant watchfulness, and paranoia, came from a place of love and good reason. Two years ago his older brother, Alec, had killed himself on New Year’s Day and his mother was understandably cautious about the possibility of losing her now only child. That horrible January 1st had finished off their already threadbare family, severing that little bit of hope holding them all together. He couldn't blame her for holding on so tight to the one thing she had left, but he wished sometimes for a little more freedom. Especially now that his senior year of high school was starting and his life, the one he'd been working so hard for, was finally about to begin.

  Leaving the dark confines of his bedroom, one of the few rooms in the giant Druid Hills house where he felt homey comfort, Bryson made his way down the dimly lit hallway to the master. A peek inside told him that, yes, his mother was in fact still asleep in the middle of her king size bed. She slept on top of a sea of pillows and blankets, nested inside of her pink silk robe with her knees tucked up against her stomach. She looked fitful and not at all peaceful, but there wasn't anything Bryson could do to fix that. He just had to let her sleep, even if it wasn't exactly giving her much rest.

  Heading for the bathroom nearest to his bedroom, he let his thoughts take a walk as he got the hot water going. So much had changed since they'd moved back to Atlanta, after Alec had passed away and they had abandoned the life they had cultivated in Rust, Montana. His mother had insisted that they leave, not able to stand the place where her son had taken his life. It hadn't mattered that Bryson had finally found a contented little niche there, with friends and support, because she couldn't cope. She had been desperate to escape both the pain of loss and her husband, who would become her ex-husband sooner rather than later. It was after the move that the helicopter parenting had started, her fear driving her to keep Bryson on a short leash which he greatly resented but tried his best not to. It hadn't been partying or a wild lifestyle that had broken Alec down, it wasn't anything even close to that. Sticking to someone like glue didn’t fix those sorts of problems, those deep internal wounds that were hidden from the human eye.

  Nothing that had happened had been the fault of anyone directly. Their mother perhaps didn't want to believe that, but Bryson knew it. His brother had a lot of issues well before that December night, had even tried to kill himself once before, and he wasn't sure if anything in the world could have stopped Alec in the end. Everything that had gone on at school, with his friends, might have been a catalyst but it wasn't the cause. Just like his father was likely a factor to some degree, but the man still hadn't technically caused his son to go out into that Montana winters night and never come back. So many things had played a part, so many small things, but ultimately there had been a choice and Alec had made it.

  It amazed Bryson sometimes, the things some people could live with and the things that other people couldn’t. It also amazed him how his brother had made such a choice without perhaps considering the residual effects he was leaving behind. The pain, the sorrow, and the forever changed lives of all those who had loved him. Then again, he couldn’t imagine getting to that point; when getting out seemed so much bigger than everything else, even the pain of those you loved most.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, Bryson finished up rinsing his hair and wrapped himself in a towel so he could flee back into his bedroom. He got dressed in his Woodside Academy uniform, all disgusting shades of blue he'd never wear again once May came, and then sat at his desk to check over all the beginning of the year paperwork. He'd given it to his mother to sign, sure, but no amount of helicopter parenting could change the fact she was a total space case at least ninety percent of the time. It was better to double and triple check everything, to be on the safe side.

  Once he was sure that things were in good order, he stuffed all the papers into his leather bag and headed downstairs to the kitchen. Another thing that hadn't changed about his mother, and that likely never would, was the fact that she couldn't cook. It was as though the universe had robbed her of all the necessary skills. And so it was down to him now to prepare their food or bring home takeout in the evenings. It was a task that didn't bother him, because at least this way he knew he wasn't likely to get food poisoning from milk that was month’s out of date or would have to scrape burnt eggs off the bottom of the frying pan.

  Bryson set about making breakfast for both of them, a
nd by the time the bacon was on the plates his mother had emerged from her bedroom. Her eyes were dark and tired but she smiled at him as she sat down at the table, adding a little salt to her poached egg before taking a tiny bite. She ate like a bird now, like food was some sort of enemy to be defeated, just nibbling as she studied him from across the table.

  “You look more like him now,” she said softly, taking a sip of her coffee. She took it black, not even a hint of sugar, and it made Bryson cringe just to watch her down the stuff. “Now that you're about to turn eighteen, I mean. I used to not be able to see it before, but I see it as you get more grown up. You have the same eyes, and the same nose.”

  For a moment he didn't respond, just added more apple butter to his toast before taking an enormous bite. He hated when she did this, he never knew what to do, but this morning he especially couldn't take it. It was his first day of his senior year of high school, his second year at Woodside, and his life was more up in the air than it had ever been before. He never wanted to be compared to his dead brother, but especially not today.

  “Yes, but I'm not him. No matter how much Alec and I look alike, Mama, I'm not him. He's gone, remember? He's not coming back, and Doctor Dixon says we just have to accept that and work toward the future. We can't keep looking behind us,” Bryson told her lightly, not willing to hurt his mother's feelings to make a point but needing to make it all the same. What good was having a voice, an opinion, if you were too scared to ever speak up about it?

  For a long moment his mother looked at him as though she were looking right through him, and then she blinked and was suddenly back in the room. She gave him a slow nod as she took another sip, sighing rather loudly. “Yes, yes. I know what Doctor Dixon said. I just think it's nice that you look like him, that's all.”

  The rest of breakfast was a silent affair, with only sounds those of forks against plates and glasses knocking against the table top. When it was over Bryson loaded the dishwasher and refilled his mother's coffee cup, checking for a second time that his bag was ready to go. The paranoia over Alec may not have manifested in him the same way it had in his parents, but that didn't mean it wasn't lingering under the surface in more subtle ways.

  “Are you sure you want to drive yourself today? I don't mind dropping you off. You know I used to love driving you boys to school, it was always our time alone together.”

  Bryson was shaken out of his obsessive need to quadruple check his bag by his mother offering to drive him to school, jerking his head up so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. “What? No! No, no. I'm okay, totally okay. I know the way there, and I bought and paid for my parking space. I'm fine, mom, I promise. I'll be safe, I always wear my seat belt and I always obey the traffic laws. You don't have to worry. Seriously. I'm fine.”

  Picking up his bag and throwing it over his shoulder before she could change her mind again, Bryson checked the time and exhaled slowly. He'd be a little early if he left now, but anything was better than giving her the chance to blindside him by snagging the car keys before he could get to them.

  “Actually, I should get moving. Traffic is always so bad, you know? I'll call you later before the robotics team meeting and let you know how things went. I'll bring dinner home tonight,” he told her, talking over his shoulder as he pulled on his shoes. He'd left them by the front door, a freshly shined up pair of loafers that complied with the boring dress code. “Bye, mom! I love you!”

  Bryson was slipping out the door when he heard the obligatory 'be safe' called to him as he left. He had no doubts that he'd be an adult man with a family of his own and his mother would still be telling him to be safe. This was, he knew, another compulsive habit she had picked up in the aftermath of his brother’s death.

  Once inside the safety of the car Bryson took a moment to breathe, letting his jitters out a little as he extracted his phone from the front pocket of his bag. He saw that he had several unread messages and opened them, the first one making him smile a little. It was from Ramona Sanders, the girl his brother had gotten close to in the months before his death. They communicated back and forth a little, though that had slowed down somewhat over the past year. Ramona had moved on with her own life, a sophomore in college with a job and a perpetually full calendar, and their previous fast-paced texting had morphed into check-in messages every few weeks and the occasional Facebook comment. Still the encouragement from her was nice, and he sent her back a heart emoji before scrolling on.

  Past the texts from a few school friends and his nana, he saw one that made his heart drop into his stomach. It was from his father, the original Alec Davis, who lived in Savannah a few hours away from his son and former wife. He had left Atlanta in the throes of the divorce, which had been nasty at best and downright brutal at worst. It made Bryson shudder to think about it, to let himself be immersed in those gut-wrenching memories. Memories of their first weeks in the new house in Atlanta, trying to adjust as best they could. His mother's constant wailing, his father's attempts to ignore them both as they wallowed in their grief. It was a period that he and his mother happily did not speak of; it was sometimes easier to forget than one would imagine.

  Over time his mother’s sadness had slowly turned to rage, and she began to blame her husband for their son's death. She blamed him for pushing Alec too hard, for always being on his case, insisting neurotically that her husband was the root of her son's mental health problems and that he'd more or less pushed Alec into that ice-cold pond. The whimpers of grief turned to screams of anger, and the house had become a battle zone in a way it had never been before.

  His mother filed for divorce that summer, in June, and it was finalized on December fifteenth; after Bryson's seventeenth birthday but before Alec's death date, though his father had taken off well before that. He'd already bought a condo in Savannah, an inhospitable place with no personality, and had opened up a law practice there. He called when he felt he should, and Bryson was obligated by the court to visit now and then. Though with his eighteenth birthday looming ahead of them in early December that was apt to change if he wanted it to.

  It was something Bryson was going to have to think about.

  He didn't bother to text back, just tossed the phone into the passenger seat as he started up the car. What would he say to his father anyway? How did you respond to 'have a good first day' without it being utterly generic? He also had a feeling that his father didn't honestly care about his day, he just wanted Bryson to be able to give his mother a positive answer when she inevitable asked him later that evening if he'd heard from his dad.

  Even after nearly a year they were still finding ways to dig at one another, and Bryson was usually right smack in the middle. It wasn't a place he wanted to be, just a place they shoved him into, and he was still a little too young to buck up against them. Soon, though, he'd have more control over his own life and destiny.

  Throwing the car into drive, Bryson focused on the road and on navigating himself out to College Park. It was a bit of a drive from home, especially with the crazy Atlanta area traffic, but he still made it with time to spare. It was another new year, another brand-new start, and he intended to make the most of it to the best of his ability.

  Woodside Academy sat in College Park, founded in 1867 after the end of the Civil War. It was a big, imposing gray brick building with wrought iron fences and a huge front gate that was almost always left open. It was a private school for both boys and girls, where kids had once been able to attend from kindergarten all the way up to twelfth grade. Now it was only open to high school kids, freshmen through seniors, and he liked it that way. He liked that the place wasn't overly crowded, that it gave him room to breathe. He had loved his public school in Rust, had found a place to fit into there, but there had been no choice to return to public school. His mother wouldn't hear of it, hadn't even offered to listen to his reasoning, and so he'd ended up here. If he had to be in a uniform every day behind a gate, at least it wasn't a building full of screaming f
irst graders.

  He waited it out as long as he could, but finally other students trickled in, and he left the confines of his car to head into the building. He was passing between the two stone pillars at the front entrance, creepy gargoyles staring down at him, when something collided with him so hard he went reeling off the edge of the steps and into the adjacent bushes.

  Great. Just great. This was exactly how he was hoping to start off the greatest year of his school career to date. Laying in a bush like a turtle on its back.

  Chapter Two

  Bryson lay in the bushes for much longer than was necessary, accepting that this was his life now. He probably would have stayed there in his piney little nest, hiding out until the first warning bell rang and there was nobody around to witness his shame, but then someone leaned over to peer down at him. At first he couldn’t make out any discernible features, the sun was directly behind the person and created a rather startling silhouette effect, but his eyes finally adjusted and a strange face loomed into view.

  While Bryson’s hair was a chestnut shade of brown, the guy staring down at him was startlingly blond. His mother probably would have called it bottled blond, insinuating that it didn’t come from nature. He got the distinct impression though that this guy probably didn’t take any pains to dye his hair every few weeks to get rid of his roots, the almost white wisps in the front falling into his eyes as he leaned in closer. That was the second thing that Bryson noticed, and he made a startled little noise when he saw that the other boy’s eyes weren’t the same color. One was blue, almost gray really, but the other was blue with vibrant flecks of brown and gold mixed in. The boy reacted to Bryson then, leaning away from him as his lips pursed into a thin line.