Chasing Blue

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE
KOLBY

Look, I may not be the smartest dude in the world, but I know this for a fact: Greer Evans is a stupid son of a bitch. And maybe he knows that already, having seen the selfie Indigo and I just took to document the night, and that she then promptly posted to her SnapChat story. Any other girl I probably would have minded, but anyone who knows me knows that Indigo is a big part of my life, and has been for the past twelve years. She's one of my best friends. She's definitely my hottest one.

         Especially in that dress. I am one hundred percent an ass man. And, ya, of course I knew that Indigo had an ass, and maybe it's just the post-breakup glow up that damn near every girl goes through, but it looks so good. Or, it did a few minutes ago when we were walking out of her and my sisters shared apartment. Outwardly, I had let Indigo walk in front of me because I'm such a gentleman (both mom and Sadie would castrate me if I wasn't), but in reality I had urged her to walk in front of me so I could see the way her ass bounced with each step.

           Now she's sitting in the passenger seat of my truck, pulling up the directions to this show case thingy I hadn't even know existed two hours ago. She looks good, her hair os extra shiny, it's straight, too, which is a rare occurrence. Indigo loves her curls. So do I. I'm almost disappointed they're not present tonight. They're always so fun to play with — wrapping them around my fingers, pulling the ends to watch them bounce back up, Ramona & Beezus style.

         "Okay," she says, laying her phone down on the console between us. "Just listen to it."

         I snort. "I thought I had to sweet talk it, Blue, thanks for clearing that up."

          She flashes me an annoyed look, and I cannot help by smile back. Her nose flares when she's pissed, and it makes her look down right adorable. I don't think a nineteen year old girl would take kindly to being called adorable, though, so I keep that precious little thought to myself.

         "You know, technically you should be calling me purple," she says, leaning forward to adjust the radio settings. Her phone is already synced up, has been since the day I brought home ole' Betsy. Indigo has this habit of thinking her music taste is superior to any and everyone else's, which is absolute bullshit.

          "Indigo is literally blue," I say, flicking on my turn signal, as the  Australian-sounding GPS lady tells me to do.

          Indigo — the person — shakes her head, a small smile illuminating her face, "No it's not. Indigo is its own color, a mixture of blue and purple."

          I hum. I can't remember the first time I called her Blue. That being said, I also can't remember a time in which I didn't. Even back in the wee days of my ten year old brain, I still thought she looked cute when she was about to back hand me.

         "Ugh, I love this song," she says, and reaches forward again, this time to turn up the volume. I get a whiff of her perfume, and smile. It's the same one she's worn for I don't even know how long — forever and ever is my guess. It smells like vanilla, and I think she said once that it was the same her mom wore when we were all in high school, so Indigo had just started using it, and it had stuck with her. Nothing like Sadie who can't stick to one thing, expect for her love of gymnastics.

          The song is older, and I instantly recognize the tune. I grab Indigo's hand in mine and use her fist as a microphone as I begin to belt out the empowering Shania Twain song. Through fits of giggles Indigo sings along, and together I think we sound pretty damn good.

I pull onto the highway, glancing sparingly at Indigo's phone on the console, but long enough to see that the destination she has inputted into Google Maps is not the fancy hall I know the show case is being held at, but rather the Marks Dairy Queen location.

I pause my singing to give her a look, and then pointedly looking at the phone screen, "Were you planning on telling me we were going to DQ now?"

Indigo wrinkles her nose as she too halts her singing. "I literally told you we were going back at my place."

I huff, turning down the volume of the radio, "Ya, but not now. I thought we were going to the show case, then Dairy Queen, then a bar of my choosing. Duh."

"No," she says, shaking her head, then tucking her hair behind her ears, exposing two sets of pearls side by side on each lobe, "There's gonna be wine at the show case, and the only thing I've had all day is some Veggie Straws. I'm starving."

"You had two cookies," I say. Going to Dairy Queen now isn't a big deal at all, but like I said, Indigo's I'm-pissed-at-you-face is hot as fuck.

She scowls at me, "Dairy Queen."

"Somebody's hangry," I singsong, but I do as the woman wishes, exiting the highway two exits early, just to ensure that she gets her DQ fix for the day.

I get a cookie dough blizzard and some fries, Indigo gets a M&M blizzard and a kids order of chicken strips, and munched away happily at them as we park in the DQ parking lot, watching the traffic whiz by on the highway. It's only six forty, and the hall is only a three minute drive from here, so we've got approximately seventeen minutes to kill before we walk into the showcase.

Small talk is below us, so we jump straight to the good shit — gossiping. I don't care who says what, but us dudes are just as bad, if not worse, than girls are at gossiping. And my idiot brother has given me so much ammo in the recent past it's fucking comical.

"So dad walks in after work, right?" I'm saying as I stuff another fry into my mouth. Indigo is watching me intently, occasionally spooning her blizzard into her mouth, "And he just stops and stares for a sec, or two, cuz his golden child son has a girl — not just any girl by the way, fucking Willa Hopkins — up on the counter, banging the shit out of her. She's like some sweaty mess, moaning and groaning and all that shit, and Drew's just doing his thing?" I laugh, because even I, with all of my conquests in high school, never got caught red handed. Sure, there was a condom here and there, a rumor or two, as well, but never once had mom or dad, or hell, even one of my brat siblings, catch me in the act. "Dad said he just pulled out — condomless, for fucks sake — and asked her to go home, and that he'd talk to her later. Just all calm, cool, and collected."

Indigo shakes her head, "I didn't think he had it in him, you know? I honestly thought he was still a virgin."

"Nah," I say, "I heard him once, he would've been a freshie. That girl he dated for like six months, or whatever? She made the walk of shame in front of me and Sadie. Soon as she left me and Jess made him spill."

                      "That poor girl," she says with a shake of her head, "Ugh! Can you imagine how the other girl felt when your Dad walked in?" She puts a hand over her heart, "God, she probably wanted to die."

                   I shrug. Truth is, I hadn't given much thought to the whole situation other than giving Drew a little hell for it. I don't live at home anymore, but instead with a few teammates of mine, just down the road from where Sadie and Indigo live, actually. But I go and spend the night there every so often. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't just for the sake of Mom's mouth-watering, world-altering food. Every morning when I wake up she has this big buffet-esqe laid out on the counter for us all.

                 I finish my fries the same time Indigo finishes her blizzard, so I throw my truck into drive and head to the hall.