Secondary Colors (10 page)

The coffeemaker stops. I prepare a cup and admire the picture, thinking a million thoughts.

Who is that other little boy?

Does he come from a good home, a good family?

If so, why does he travel the country like a vagabond?

If not, what caused him to leave them behind?

What is he running from?

Scheduled at the shelter later this afternoon, it affords me the morning to do what I like. I spend it cleaning up Holt’s apartment, to thank him for the night before. I throw on a tank top and paint-splattered overalls Meredith forgot to remove from the bottom dresser drawer and tie my hair into a sloppy bun. Turning on some essential eighties’ tunes to help the time go faster, I vacuum and wipe down every flat surface while getting down and funky. His place isn’t very messy. He keeps it rather tidy for a man. It’s comfortably lived in, but needs little attention.

Once I finish, I straighten up the first floor and sweep off the porch. Living in a small apartment off campus, I forgot the effort it takes to maintain a house of this size. I understand why my mom brought him here.

I smile, grateful for everything he’s done for us.

I stop cleaning when my stomach screams at me for sustenance. Figuring Holt must be hungry after his long morning working outside, I whip up tuna fish sandwiches, with a side of chips and lemonade, bringing it out to him at the paddock.

The rain-cleansed air is thick with the scent of damp earth. It hits me in the nose the second I step outside. It may even be a few degrees cooler today, which is appreciated with the record summer we’ve been having.

He doesn’t hear me approach, the radio blaring some alternative rock band. I slide the tray of food onto the makeshift table it’s sitting on, constructed from a large piece of plywood across two sawhorses, his tools neatly laid out across it. I walk up to him, his partially deformed back facing me, sweat glistening across its tanned skin. My fingers sting with the urge to run over the raised flesh. As they unconsciously gravitate toward the marred shoulder, he turns his focus from the fence, my hand withdrawing to my side.

“I thought you’d be about ready for lunch,” I comment.

“I’m starving,” he says, “but I want to finish fixing this gate first. Can I get your help for a second?”

“What do you need?”

He places the end of a plank to a post.

“Hold this in place while I secure the other end. Keep it even.”

He picks his side off the ground, screws pre-placed in the holes, and positions it against the stake. Taking a drill off his work belt, he lines the tip to the head of the screw and bores it in deep, repeating with the one below. He moves over to my end and does the same. Once we’re done, he removes his work gloves and shoves them into his back pocket.

“Thanks,” he says with a smirk.

I return one.

He handles the tray and follows me to a nice spot under the shade of a maple tree to eat our lunch. I sit between two roots at the base of the trunk. He sits on the ground next to me and sets the tray between our outstretched legs. I hand him his plate, and he digs in immediately.

“Hope you like tuna.”

He nods, chewing on a mouthful. “I’m not picky,” he says after swallowing. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I reply, “for being understanding, listening to me, helping me get through the storm last night, everything.”

“If I said I didn’t get anything out of it, I’d be lying.”

“How?” I ask, placing my hand over my mouth to hide the huge wad of tuna tumbling around inside.

“Traveling around is isolating.” He breaks off and flings a corner of his sandwich at Max lounging in the shade nearby. He gobbles it down before it hits the ground. “I enjoy my time with you, Hathaway. I don’t feel so isolated.”

I respond, “I’ve enjoyed my time with you, too, Turner.”

Maybe more than I should.

He lifts his hand to my face.

“You have some—” He wipes mayo from my bottom lip with his thumb, then onto the leg of his jeans. I nervously lick my lower lip, making sure it’s all gone.

His devastating eyes loiter on my mouth before they fall away. We continue to eat our sandwiches, silently regarding the lake in the distance.

Once we’ve finished, we sit a while longer, enjoying the quiet and our lemonades. A part of me wants to talk about the picture I found this morning, but I’m not the kind of person—usually—to push personal boundaries. I like keeping myself at a distance. You can’t get hurt. Plus, it probably wouldn’t make him happy I went rooting through his personals. I’d hate to rock the boat when we’ve managed to keep it from tipping over.

“I’m going to get back to work,” he says, shattering the silence.

He stands and dusts off the grass blades clinging to the back of his jeans. I catch myself staring and avert my gaze to the grass.

Something shifted during the storm, something I can’t pinpoint, but it’s there. I want to know this man, understand those physical scars, and discover the scars you can’t see, the ones on his heart, the ones responsible for the sadness behind those ochre eyes. I want to know Holt Turner—and it terrifies me to death.

three colors, blue, red, and yellow, the foundation for all color combinations

I finish at the shelter and run one or two errands before driving home for the evening. When I get there, I take my supplies into the kitchen. My mom must be out because her car’s gone. But I saw the light on in Holt’s room, so he’s probably upstairs reading, which gives me free range to do what I need. I mix the ingredients into a bowl, place the mixture into a baking pan, and shove it in the oven. Then I start dinner.

When everything’s ready and set out on the table outside, I call for Holt, “Could you come down here?”

He appears from the back door a few moments later, his eyes growing large at the birthday cake lit up on the table.

“I know I missed it, but I thought—”

“You did this for me?” he asks, astonished.

“You’ve done so much for me and my mom. You deserve someone to recognize your special day. I don’t know. Consider it a peace offering.” The corners of his mouth curve skyward. “Blow out your candles.”

He steps toward the table slowly, as if the cake’s going to explode in his face. He inspects it and then me, his eyes delaying on my lips.

“Make a wish.”

He leans above the glowing dessert and extinguishes the flickering flames with a single strong breath.

“What did you wish for?”

He stands up straight and glances at me with a secretive smile. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

“You can’t possibly believe that.”

“Maybe not, but I really want this one.”

Our gaze locks.

“I hope you’re hungry.” I sever the contact of our eyes, increasingly uncomfortable by the way his seem to see right through mine. “I made a feast.”

“You made me dinner?”

“I made
us
dinner, but yes.” I pull out his chair with a bouquet of balloons tied to the back. “Sit.”

I go into the house and bring out the plates and bowls of food. We eat, mostly in contented silence. When the last bite is swallowed, I reach under my chair and place the present in the center of the table, wrapped in newspaper.

“You really didn’t have to do any of this,” he says, glimpsing around at the streamers and balloons.

“True.” I reach for his hand, but stop midway across the table and rest it there. It may be too intimate. “I wanted to.” I nudge my head toward the gift in front of him. “Open it.”

He tears strips of paper off until it comes apart, revealing the stack of books.

“I thought you might like those.”

He runs the tips of his fingers over the hardcover, tracing the gold filigree of the top title. I chose from the unread books on his list, most of them classics. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck, and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

His eyes acknowledge me from underneath his distinctive brows.

“Evie, this is—Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it.” When we stare too long, I tear my eyes from his and exclaim, “Now, let us eat cake,” trying to break the thick tension between us.

I succeed.

He laughs.

And I laugh.

Then we have our cake and eat it, too.

The next afternoon, I venture upstairs to Holt’s room. I’ve been thinking about him all day, what we talked about during the storm, about my painting. I miss it.

As I walk the second floor hall, I pass the room where my supplies are stored. I hesitate briefly at the door before opening it. The hall floods with light from the room. My canvases are stacked neatly on the floor, my paints lined up on the table, and my brushes in paint-stained jars on the shelves. I pluck one out and touch the soft bristles.

“It killed me when you stopped painting. You were so talented.”

I face my mom. Her face is sullen.

“It was my choice.” I set the brush back into the jar.

“I know you thought you had to sacrifice what you love, but you didn’t. You don’t. I hope there’s a day when your own happiness will be important, too.”

She kisses me on the forehead and exits the room, giving me time alone with my thoughts. I wonder if I even have the ability to paint anymore. What would I paint?

Giving the room one last sentimental glance, I start to shut the door on my way out, but I jump back when Holt’s voice comes from my right. “She’s right, you know.”

My heart jumps up my throat. I place my hand over my forehead at the rush from the sudden loss of blood to my brain.

Holt’s leaning against the wall, one of the books I gave him in his hand, his finger holding his place.

“About what?”

“You’re talented. If you get pleasure from painting, you should continue to pursue it. Your happiness is important, Evie.”

“It’s been a long time.” I glimpse into the room housing my works through the cracked open door.

“Since you’ve painted?”

“Since I’ve been happy,” I correct him, crossing my arms over my stomach.

“Maybe it’s time you were,” he says, stepping closer to me, shrinking the already restricted gap between us.

“Um,” I clear my throat, “yeah. Maybe.”

He reaches up with the hand not occupied by his book, touching my bare upper arm with his knuckles. My eyes follow it, but I don’t stop him. He moves toward me again, our toes touching. His hand moves over my shoulder, up my neck, and into my hair, his fingers braiding with the work-mussed strands. My eye line drifts to his mouth, with those pouty, ready-to-kiss lips. His tongue peeks out from the crease between, wetting those lips, making them more appetizing. And now they’re moving at mine, dangerously close to making contact.

The house phone rings, as if by divine intervention, stopping his lips close to mine. I swear I taste him on my tongue. It’s not that I don’t want them to shut the barely there distance between us. The opposite actually. I want it more than I should.

My mother must’ve answered because it stops mid-ring. We’re paused, our mouths parted by no more space than a folded sheet of paper could slide through.

“Violet, phone!”

Widening our proximity, I stride back, my shoulder bumping into the frame of the doorway.

“Coming,” I mean to call back, but it comes out a squeaky whisper. Before she repeats herself, I hurry downstairs and pick up the receiver off the little table, placing it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Evie,” Aidan’s warm voice greets me.

“Aid.”

Happiness slips across my lips, the same lips only a moment before nearly connected with Holt’s. I press my fingertips over their plumpness, the warmth of his breath on them.

“I was calling to see if you’d like to go out with me tomorrow night, the two of us.”

There’s something very conventional about this, him calling my house and asking me on a proper date. But that’s Aidan. He’s an old-school gentlemen through and through.

I notice a blurry figure move out of the corner of my eye and glimpse over my shoulder. Watching me with a fixed gaze, Holt stands on the bottom step of the staircase. A flash of his lips moving toward mine invades my psyche. I pause at the thought—then beat it off with an invisible stick.

“Yeah,” I answer, “I’d like that.”

“Great,” he exclaims. The excitement in his voice is palpable, but he tries to keep it in check. “Can’t wait.”

When I realize Holt is
still
hanging around, I turn my back to him and lean against the wall, whispering into the speaker of the phone, “I can’t wait either. See you tomorrow.”

I hang up, a firm grin crinkling the corners of my eyes.

“Who was that?” Holt inquires, now propped against the post of the staircase across from me.

“Your best friend,” I retort sarcastically and skip down the hall to my room, shutting the door behind me.

I actually experience butterflies when I ready for my date the next evening. I haven’t felt this since—well, Aidan. I push the past (a dangerous subject) out of my brain and bend down in front of my vanity to double check my make-up.

“Where are you off to?”

Holt lurks in my doorway, leaning on the frame. He takes a bite of an apple, pretending as if he doesn’t know exactly where I’m going.

“Out.”

“With that poor fucking sap from the other day?”

“No.” I apply a final coat of peach-tinted gloss, rubbing my lips together to spread the color evenly. “With Aidan Channing, from the other day.”

“Is there a difference?” he asks, creating this obnoxious smacking sound with his mouth.

I smooth my palms over my dress, a white lace number with a flowing mid-thigh skirt, three quarter length sleeves, and a V-neck collar. I accessorized it with combat boots and a long-chained pendent necklace handed down from daughter to daughter for five generations. I pinch it between my thumb and pointer, admiring its tarnished beauty.

Daughter to daughter.

Tears threaten to ruin my makeup.

“You aren’t going to get to me tonight, Holt. Anyway, what does it matter who I go out with?”

“It doesn’t really.” He takes another huge bite of the crisp fruit. The juice runs down his chin, disappearing with a swipe of the back of his hand. “I have a date, too.”

“You have a date? Who would be crazy enough to do that?”

“Makayla.” I sense the self-satisfaction in his tone. “She mentioned you were jealous of her in high school.”

“I was
not
jealous.”

“Hm. Apparently, you still are.”

“You’re such a child.” A knock on the front door makes him stiffen. “Who’s jealous now?” I ask, picking up my purse and shoving past him out of my room.

“Maybe we’ll see you tonight,” he threatens me.

I ignore him and answer the door.

“Wow,” Aidan mumbles, a bouquet of white daisies clinched in his hand, dressed in black slacks and an ironed dress shirt.

“Wow, yourself,” I compliment him back.

“These are for you.” He hands me the flowers. “They reminded me of that dress you had when you were a kid.”