Tangled Up in Blue

Under Siege

Keegan

A week later, it feels like we're under siege.

Rebecca Wolfe was right: a media storm has descended on us. 

Wildly different versions of our story are all over TV and talk radio, all over the internet.

And a lot of what people are saying, especially about Blue, isn't even close to the truth.

There's already pro and con Facebook pages about us. 

There's already a dozen friggin' hashtags flying around on social media: stuff like #FreeBlue, #FryBlue, #FUBlue.

Then there are the stupid name combinations: #BleeganBlows; #ImWithBleegan: #StandUpForKlue; #ScrewKlue. 

And those are only the ones I know about.

My fingers sound overly loud tapping on the keyboard, probably because the newsroom is unusually quiet.

It's been that way since I walked in a few minutes ago.

I half-expected to be fired after missing a week of work. 

But Jason just gave me a new assignment and a somber smile that I'm not sure how to interpret.

The rest of the staff is steering clear of me like I've got a communicable disease. 

I guess that's what happens when you start making the news instead of reporting it.

Or maybe it's the fact that a handful of protesters—one holding a sign calling for Blue to be executed—showed up on campus several days in a row.

They've now been banned from Ikana property, but I always expect to see some when I go to class.

They've been at our house, too, and even at the state Capitol.

We've had to call the cops several times. 

Poor Maria's had to engage private security. It didn't take long for her address to be posted online.

People sometimes pull out their cell phones to record us when we're walking across campus.

Sometimes we hear muttered comments; sometimes the comments are clearly audible.

And when I'm sitting in class, it feels like a hundred eyeballs are burning into the back of my head.

As bad as it is for me, though, it's much worse for Blue.

He's at the center of the storm, the one being defended on one hand and ripped apart on the other, the one who's inspiring the strongest emotions and the most intense reactions.

I can see what it's doing to him, and it's killing me. 

The things that are being said about him, the words—traitor, killer, coward—being attached to his name, I can't stand it.

I've stopped going on social media, but I still have to check my Daily email, and it didn't take long for people to start flooding my inbox. 

Some of the messages are supportive; some are horrible and downright scary.

Under siege.

I've stared at the blinking cursor for several seconds before I realize that I've typed that into the story I'm writing.

Dammit. Focus.

I hit the delete key and try to think only about the task in front of me. But it's hard not to notice people are whispering around me.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

I pull my earbuds out of my backpack and stick them in my ears, then hit the Spotify playlist where I've saved all of Blue's songs.

Holmlund was able to get them uploaded via a distributor, and thanks to all the publicity, more people are listening to Blue's music every day.

We're hoping it will help turn the tide of public opinion.

"Too Good," the first song Blue wrote in the set he dedicated to me, starts out in a playful growl, and I close my eyes for a second, my body automatically responding the way it always does to his husky voice.

By the time he sings the last lyrics of the chorus, though—So baby, why can't I make you see, You're just too good for me—I'm on the verge of tears.

It's such a weird feeling, knowing the song was written about me, for me. 

My stomach twists at the pain in Blue's voice by the end.

I'm staring at my fingers on the keyboard as the next song—"There's This Girl"—begins to play.

It's my favorite. Blue sang it to me at the ranch the night before we drove back to Ikana.

There's this girl who rights my wrongs,

She's the one, she inspires my songs,

Cinnamon eyes as big as the skies,

There's this girl who sears my soul,

Just by smiling, she makes me whole.

Someone brushes my chair as they walk past and I jump, startled.

I check the time on my screen and squeeze my eyes shut for second, frustrated by my inability to stay focused. I've got to get this story finished.

Blue will soon be out in the hallway, waiting for me. I don't want him to be there any longer than necessary.

I've tried to get him to stay away, let me get home by myself. But he won't do it. 

He's afraid of who might be out in the parking lot, waiting for me.

He meets me outside classrooms and the newsroom, and we always go home together.

Blue has been quiet lately, moody and distracted. We both have been, really, ever since the interview.

I know he's thinking about next week's hearing at Fort Sill. 

It's called an Article 32 hearing, and it will determine whether Blue will be court-martialed.

Holmlund thought we'd have a lot more time before the hearing to prepare. But it's been scheduled unusually fast.

That's what our attorney was arguing about on the phone during our interview with Rebecca Wolfe; not that it did him any good.

The families of the servicemen who died will be at that hearing. And I know that is torturing Blue.

"Fuck."

It's taking me way too long to write this damn story. I force myself to focus on my notes and start typing again.

Blue is probably out in the hall by now. I just hope he is alone.

I finally finish and give the story a quick read-through. It's not my best work, but it will have to do.

I hit Submit to add it to the file of stories for Jason to review. 

Then I gather my stuff, not looking around at anyone, and rush out of the newsroom.