Secondary Colors (17 page)

“You didn’t say
had
an affair.”

“No.”

“They’re still—”

“Yes.”

“That’s where she is right now, isn’t it?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Does your mother know?”

“If she does, she hides it. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised. She enjoys the perks of the Channing name. It opens a lot of doors in this community.”

That’s Christina. Vain and uncaring.

A side of me is thrilled. I want her to hurt, the way she hurt me. But what if she decides to retaliate? She isn’t one to take things lying down.

“Does everyone know?”

“No one comes right out and says they do, but you sense it.”

I jump back to the incident in the market, the peculiar looks and whispers. Everything starts to make sense.

I’m going to be sick.

Without excusing myself, I sprint toward the house in a mad dash to outrun what I just heard.

“Evie!” he calls after me.

My name echoes across the lake, skimming the surface like a pebble.

art that doesn’t reflect reality

I crumble on the top step of the porch, face in my hands, waiting for Holt to come home. He’s the only person I want to talk to about this. If I tell him, even if he hasn’t been through this, he’ll understand. Taylor would freak out with me. I don’t need that right now. I need Holt’s stability.

After forever and an hour, the sound of grass crunching under footsteps slowly draws near me. I lift my face with glossy, bloodshot eyes, relieved he’s alone.

“What happened to you?” he asks. “Did Aidan do this?”

“Not technically,” I murmur, wiping away a falling tear from my cheek. “I fell down the rabbit hole.”

He studies me with a thoughtful gaze before shoving his hands under my arms and picking me up.

“You want to get the hell out of here?”

“Yes,” my voice is frail from the uncontainable crying, “please.”

He tows me in the direction of his truck parked outside the garage. “I’ve got an idea.”

We sit at the bar on wobbly stools, throwing back tequila like water while I spill my guts. He took me to this dive bar outside of town, with stale, smoke-filled air, peanut shells on the floor, and lots of neon signs for various beers over the walls. It’s not idyllic, but they serve cheap booze, and the company is good.

“How could she screw a married man?” I blurt, spilling a few drops of tequila from my shot glass with an exaggerated jolt of my hand. I’m a smidgen drunk, my words blending now and again. “It’s shameful.”

“The world isn’t always right or wrong.” He takes the bottle from me and pours himself another round. He pounds it back, licking the excess off his bottom lip. “It’s more complicated than that.”

He tops off my glass until it overflows, a decent amount dripping down the sides.

“What
possible
reason could justify what she’s doing?”

I take another mouthful of tequila and gulp it down. Numbing myself with each one, I find it easier and easier to open up.

“Alright, you’re an artist, so let me explain it this way. The world isn’t black and white. It isn’t even shades of gray. It’s red and blue and green and primary colors and secondary colors. It’s in Technicolor. Could you imagine if you were only able to paint with black and white, how boring it would be? Life has many different shades. That’s what I like about it.”

“God,” I down another shot, “that actually made sense.”

He laughs.

“I’m just saying things aren’t always easy. In desperate times, we make choices we may never consider when things are good.”

I recognize the distant gleam in his eyes, when you remember a moment that defined you. I’ve seen it in my own eyes time and time again. It’s the look of regret and heartache.

“What made you come to this conclusion?”

“I’m surprised you can still form a coherent sentence after the last four shots,” he directs the conversation onto me.

“I bet I can drink you under the table,” I challenge him.

Lifting his shot glass into the air, he says, “Blind bet. Winner chooses loser’s penance.”

“I like that wager. I’m going to enjoy this.” I raise mine and clink it with his. “Get ready to lose, Turner.”

“You better hope I do, Hathaway.”

He won by only one shot. But I didn’t go down without a fight. He refuses to tell me what I’ll have to do, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I’ll have to remember never to make a wager when tequila is involved.

After Billy, the
really
friendly bartender, drops us off, Holt carries me into the house over his shoulder, trying to keep me quiet. When he starts climbing up the stairs, instead of walking toward my room in the back of the house, I mumble, “Are you kidnapping me?”

“I’m taking you to my room where I can watch you.”

“That’s disturbing,” I tease him. “Do you do this often, watch me?”

“More than you know,” he mumbles.

“What did you say?” I ask, perhaps a little too loudly.

“Nothing. Be quiet.”

I place my finger against my mouth and shush, “Shh,” with a giggle.

We enter the attic, and he comments, “You’re an obnoxious drunk.”

“Well, you’re obnoxious sober.”

He crosses the living room to his bed, with me still flung over his shoulder, and flips me onto the mattress. I bounce a couple times and then settle, drunkenly laughing and snorting. Grabbing my feet, he removes my shoes with a tiny smirk, chucking them on the floor, and then yanks off my jeans.

I clumsily prop myself up on my elbows.

“Are you going to take advantage of my drunkenness?”

“Even though I find you hard to resist,” he shifts my legs over, straightening me out, and tosses the covers over me, “I’ll take a raincheck.”

I reach up, latch my arms around his neck, and yank him down to me, his lips almost making contact with mine.

“Evie, no.” He removes my arms and holds them down at my sides. “I don’t want to do this right now.” He rises up. “You should sleep.”

He ambles into the kitchen.

“I’m not sleepy right now.”

“Suit yourself.” He takes a glass out of the cupboard, fills it with tap water, and brings it back with his hand extended out for me to take it. “Drink this. Your head will thank me in the morning.”

I push it away.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Of course you aren’t,” he sighs. “You don’t want to sleep. You don’t want to drink water. What do you want?” I open my mouth to answer when he clarifies, “And no sex. We already took that off the menu.”

“I wasn’t going to say sex.” I pop up onto my knees, poking him in the chest. “I don’t beg.”

“Alright, drunky, then what?”

I jump off the bed to locate the iPod and speakers I used when I painted and my mom never removed from the attic. I locate them in an odd drawer, push random, and turn up the volume.

I bob and sway at first.

“You dance much?” he asks.

“Not in front of people,” I admit.

I start to shake and move, bouncing around and whipping my hair about. I dance like no one’s watching. I’m too drunk and this song is too good to care either way. I just dance.

“Oh, nice. Pulling out your big moves there. Is that the robot?”

I don’t care what snide, witty, adorable comments he makes right now. I’m feeling the groove. I’m bustin’ a move. I’m—I’m gonna ralph.

The room teeters as if we’re on a boat during a storm. Nausea washes over me, a burning lump riding the wave from my stomach to my chest.

“Aw, dance yourself out, did ya?” he asks with a condescending tone.

I bolt toward the bed, motioning my hand toward the wastebasket beside it.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I tell him.

“Now?”

“No,” it rises in my throat, causing me to choke on my words, “tomorr—”

Making it with no time to spare, he holds it below my hanging head. I vomit, my body heaving with each acidic surge up my throat. As I physically reject the toxin invading my system, the pressure between my temples builds until I whimper in agony. It refuses to stop.

Once I’ve expelled my organs, I topple back onto the bed with a thankful groan. “I’m ready to sleep now.”

At some point before sunrise, I get out of bed, mouth dry, and stagger into his kitchen with dragging footsteps. Holt’s there, sitting on the counter and drinking a glass of water.

I shuffle over to him, eyes heavy. I stand between his legs and mutter, “Water.”

He tilts the rim of the glass to my lips, the H2O seeps down my dehydrated throat until it’s gone. Drops trickled out of my mouth and over my chin. I lean into him and wipe with lethargic strokes on the front of his shirt.

“Better?” he asks.

My heavy eyes drag up to his face, and I nod lazily.

“Ready to go back to bed?”

“Yes.”

He locks his arms around me, mine cling loosely to his neck, and lifts me up, so my head rests on his shoulder. My legs hug his waist. He takes me back to bed, lying us down in the cool sheets, interlocked.

Waking with a massive hangover is a rotten way to start the day. My vision wanders in and out, the ceiling repeatedly distorting and refocusing before eventually fixing. My mouth feels like I chewed on a big wad of cotton and tastes closer to ass than I’d prefer.