“But they’re not. Why not?”
“They have different names?” offered Rae.
She passed a few samples around the room. “They’re all blue—but not thesameblue.”
She paused, letting the chips make their way through sticky fingers and curious eyes. “Someone told me recently that the painting we were looking at wasn’t just blue. It wascerulean.Calling it just ‘blue’ wasn’t wrong—but it didn’t tell the whole story.”
Now they were really listening.
“So here’s our job,” Fiona continued, tapping a blank sheet of paper. “I want you to find your own shade of blue today. Give it a name. Notjusta color—maybe a memory, or a place, or a feeling.”
Isaiah raised a hand. “Like… my ‘first-day-of-school blue’?”
“Yes!” she said, grinning. “What does that look like?”
He considered. “Kind of stormy? Like when you’re nervous but trying to act chill.”
“Perfect. Write that down. Name it. Own it.”
She passed out colored pencils and let the classroom hum to life—desks rattling, kids trading shades and ideas like candy.
In the corner, Marcus scribbled something with quiet focus. Fiona drifted over. His blue had a dull, smudgy edge to it.
“What’s that one called?” she asked softly.
He glanced up. "Dad-working-late blue"
Her heart clenched, but she nodded. “That’s a good name. A really good one.”
And just like that, the room wasn’t about colors anymore. It was about voice. About seeing yourself clearly and saying,this is mine.Even if it looked a little weird. Even if it didn’t fit anyone else’s palette.
She looked out across the room at twenty-three different versions of blue.
Each one, entirely their own.
The party had mellowedinto a looser kind of energy—music lower, drinks sweatier, people scattered between the couch and the kitchen island. Someone was heating up frozen dumplings. Ava was barefoot.
Fiona stood by the drinks, sipping slowly in the hope she didn’t look as excluded as she felt.
She watched Dean across the room, laughing too loudly at something Jared said, his whole posture just a shade off from real. The version of him she only saw in rooms like this.
"Hey, Fiona," Roxanne called, settling into the armchair beside her with that particular smile she wore—the one that looked friendly until you noticed it never reached her eyes. “Why don’t you tell us about that time you met the president.”
Fiona blinked. "What?"
Roxanne laughed, the sound like glass breaking. "That story—lying to your sixth-grade class? The gas station thing?"
Fiona's stomach dropped.
"Oh honey," Ava called from the kitchen, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “How embarrassing! I bet everyone knew it was a lie, too.”
But Fiona wasn't embarrassed right now. She was confused.
"No, I—" She looked around the room, searching faces. "Do you know someone from Sweetwater? On social media or?—"
"Sweetwater?" Cam wandered over, eyebrows raised like she'd said something quaint. "How... rustic."
"But how do you know about the president thing?" Fiona asked, her voice getting smaller. She'd never told that story to anyone except?—
