BLUE MADE YOU BRAVE
1551 Words
“Cherry. She would be there.”
The name alone tightened something inside Myra’s chest, like fingers closing around a wound that had only learned how to scar, never how to heal. Air thinned. The shears drooped in her hand.
She couldn’t see her. Not Cherry. Not after everything.
Friend indeed.
The thought came bitter, but bitterness did little against the image already breaking loose in her mind — harsh, unwanted, merciless.
A screen glowing in darkness.
A trembling body.
Hands — thin, restless, dragging her down while voices rose somewhere beyond shame.
Her stomach turned.
Seven years, and still memories arrived like it had only been waiting behind a door.
Yet now they returned together.
Cherry.
And—
Brad.
Her pulse stumbled hard against her ribs.
So much for forgetting.
A thought slipped out before she could stop it.
“I hope I’m not invited?”
“Of course you are. Why in the pigeon do you think I’m telling you this?”
“I’m not going.”
Rosa snapped the shears shut, sharp enough to cut through the air. “I know. But isn’t it high time you let bygones be bygones? You were young. Both of you. You can’t keep holding that over your head. The Pooles are very influential. Nice folks too. They understand. And they are willing to put the mistake behind them. We can’t afford another scandal.”
Mistake.
That word again.
As though humiliation had a smaller name if spoken softly enough.
“Please.”
“Would it help if I tell you that Cherry wants you there too?”
Myra released at once, horror flashing through her.
“This is what I’m afraid of,” Rosa muttered, rubbing her hand. “When she asked to speak with you, I told her you weren’t ready.”
Myra turned so fast pain cracked through her neck.
“Why would you say something like that?” Her voice came thin, dragged tight by panic.
Myra already knew the answer. Because ready implied someday.
Because someday implied facing eyes that remembered.
“Because I hate seeing you keep the distance,” Rosa said. “And the silence. They are suffocating. I hate it. All of it. It’s time you come out and live life. You are no longer a kid. I don’t know how many times I’ll point this out to you.”
Kid.
If only fear listened to age.
If only shame expired.
“Okay,” Myra said, because fighting suddenly felt heavier than surrender.
Rosa brightened immediately. “Good.”
The shears resumed their steady clipping.
Butterflies lifted from the hedge, careless and bright. Spring scented the air, but heat still lingered like summer unwilling to leave.
Then Rosa spoke again.
“Brad is in town too.”
The name landed differently.
Not like Cherry — sharp and cold.
Warmth and something dangerous moved through her, stirring untamed desire she had spent years teaching herself not to touch. Her fingers paused over the hedge.
Monday, Rosa said.
He arrived on Monday.
So he was near.
Breathing this same air.
Looking older perhaps. Different from how he appeared on TV perhaps.
Or exactly the same in the ways that mattered most.
“I think he said he would come,” Rosa continued. “Such a promising young man. So with Colt out of the question, I have to do some cleaning around here so everywhere would look presentable.”
Myra kept her eyes lowered because Rosa was watching too carefully now.
Then—
The gate clicked.
A small sound.
Yet her whole body reacted.
Her shoulders stiffened first.
Then her stomach dropped.
Her bare skin suddenly felt too visible — shoulders uncovered, belly exposed, every inch of her standing there as though caught doing something forbidden.
Please not him.
Please not now.
Her heart slammed once, hard enough to hurt.
Without thinking, she abandoned the shears and hurried inside, pulse racing ahead of her footsteps, carrying one frantic prayer:
Please let Brad not have seen me.
The back door gave way under her palm before she realized she had almost slammed it too hard.
Inside, the air was cooler, shaded, but her pulse refused to follow. It kept pounding — hard, uneven, unreasonable — as if the gate had opened directly inside her chest.
She stayed by the kitchen wall, listening.
Voices drifted faintly from outside. Rosa’s voice first, bright and welcoming in that effortless way she reserved for visitors she approved of.
Then another voice answered.
Not deep.
Not his.
Female.
Young.
Myra frowned, breath loosening just enough for disappointment to sneak in before she could stop it.
Why disappointment?
She hated that her body noticed before her mind could lie.
Curiosity tugged stronger than caution. She moved toward the small window above the sink and looked through the curtain.
A slim girl stood by the gate, one hand holding a package against her chest, the other brushing loose braids from her face. Her dress was pale yellow, too bright against the glass.
“Good afternoon, ma,” the girl said.
“Oh, come in, come in,” Rosa replied, wiping her hands on her apron. “Who are you looking for?”
“I came from Cherry. She asked me to deliver this.”
Myra’s stomach tightened.
Rosa accepted the package. “For me?”
“For Myra.”
At her own name, Myra stepped back from the curtain as though caught listening.
For her?
Her fingers curled at her sides.
“No message?” Rosa asked.
The girl smiled awkwardly. “Only that she hopes she reads it.”
Reads it.
Not speaks.
Not forgives.
Not comes.
Just reads.
That somehow felt worse.
Rosa thanked her and shut the gate after she left, then came in holding the package with the kind of interest that already meant trouble.
“Myra.”
She remained still.
Rosa appeared at the kitchen entrance with a knowing smile playing on her lips. She lifted the package slightly. “You have a message.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You haven’t seen what it is.”
“I said I don’t want it.”
But Rosa was already opening it.
Paper tore.
Inside lay a cream envelope, thick and expensive-looking, and beneath it, something wrapped in soft tissue.
Rosa pulled the tissue aside first.
A dress.
Soft blue.
Simple, elegant, carefully chosen.
The kind Cherry would know she could never ignore because it matched exactly the colors Myra used to love before she stopped loving visible things.
For a second, memory betrayed her again —
Laughter in a dressing room.
Cherry holding fabrics against her shoulder.
Brad waiting outside and pretending impatience.
The memory vanished almost immediately, but not before leaving ache behind.
“There’s a letter too,” Rosa said quietly.
Myra stared at the envelope as though it might burn through the table.
Her name was written across it in familiar handwriting.
Seven years, and Cherry still wrote the same way — slightly slanted, neat, deliberate.
Her throat tightened.
If Cherry had sent this...
Then maybe Brad already knew she was here too.
Rosa placed the envelope on the table and stepped back, wisely saying nothing for once.
“I’ll be outside if you need me.”
For a moment, Myra did not move.
Then two fingers reached out, hesitant, and touched the edge.
Paper.
Ordinary paper.
Yet her chest tightened as though the envelope carried weight far beyond itself.
She slid a finger beneath the flap.
The sound of it opening seemed too loud.
Inside was a single folded sheet.
No perfume. No decoration. Just words.
That somehow unsettled her more.
She unfolded it slowly.
Myra,
I know I have no right writing to you after this long, but I would rather begin badly than not begin at all. If you refuse to see me after this, I will understand. But I need you to know I have thought about that day more times than I can count, and not once without regret.
Her eyes stopped there.
That day.
Even written plainly, the words made her stomach twist.
A memory stirred — flashes only.
Bright lights.
Too many voices.
Her fingers tightened around the page.
She kept reading.
I was young, cowardly, and more concerned about myself than what was happening to you. I have hated that version of me for years. Maybe you do too. Maybe you should.
Heat crept up Myra’s neck.
Not anger.
Something less certain. Something more dangerous.
I asked Rosa to tell you I wanted to speak to you, but she said you were not ready. Maybe she is right. Still, I wanted you to know the invitation is not obligation. If you come, come only because you choose to. Not because anyone pressures you.
Myra swallowed.
Her gaze dropped to the last line.
And if seeing me is too much, at least keep the dress. You once said blue made you brave. I hope that part of you still exists somewhere.
Below it:
— Cherry
Nothing else.
No excuse.
No long explanation.
No attempt to soften what could not be softened.
Myra lowered the letter slowly.
Blue made you brave.
A laugh almost escaped her, except it caught halfway and turned into something painfully close to grief.
- Writer
