Secondary Colors (9 page)

“I’ve been busy,” he answers, firing an uncomfortable side-glance at me.

“Why don’t we go somewhere and—
catch up
?” She emphasizes ‘catch up’ as if it means something altogether different. I’d rather not wonder what that something is.

“Um,” Holt notices Aidan’s arm made its way around my shoulders. He’s blissfully unaware of Holt’s murderous eyes on him, skimming the lit menu of heart-clogging goodies overhead, “sure.”

He snags Kayla’s hand in his and skulks away with her in tow, vanishing into the mass of carnival-goers, balloons, and lights. My stomach ties into a slipknot. I’m certainly happy to see her go—just not with him.

We get on the rides, bumper cars, Tilt-A-Whirl, and the spinning cups. Not the brightest idea after we’ve loaded ourselves with greasy food and cheap beer, but we’re acting brave.

We don’t run into Holt after his departure, which makes me unwillingly wonder where he and Makayla could’ve vanished and what they’re doing there. I do my best not to let it nag at me. Being in a group of people helps.

When I’m positive Holt left the carnival altogether, “Come with me,” his hair-raising voice rumbles in my ear.

He culls me from the rest of the herd, weaving through people until we’re out of view. From his stiffened posture, I sense this isn’t going to end well. I yank my wrist from the callous warmth of his grip when I realize he’s pulling me toward the parking lot.

“What is your problem, jerk?” I rub my wrist. It doesn’t hurt, but I’m anxious, and it’s oddly soothing.

“Why did you invite me here?” he asks, his voice clipped.

“Technically, you invited yourself. But I thought you needed a night out with
actual
people. You’re always spending time with Max or working or—”

“If I want friends, Evie, I don’t need you to setup playdates with other kids. Especially when I’m forced to watch you—” He stops himself.

“No, apparently you don’t,” I comment, my tone clearly referring to Makayla. “Where is the town bicycle, anyway? Done with your ride already?”

“Are you coming home with me or not?” He disregards my remark.

Home?

With me?

Us?

Together?

The idea is seductive, comfy clothes and vegging out on the couch with Holt. My will to be upset with him crumbles, but I’d never ditch my friends.

“I can’t leave.” I point back in the general direction of Tay and Aid.

“Fine.”

He turns and walks out of the carnival grounds.

I hate watching the space between us grow.

I hate hating it even more.

When Aidan drops me off, I’m passed out with my head on his shoulder. I wipe drool from my face with the back of my hand and apologize profusely. He insists it’s nothing, as only a gentlemen would, to save his date from humiliation. He helps me out of his truck, his large hands secured about my waist, and sets me on the ground, assisting me to the porch. Once I wake up more, I’m able to stand without his aid. I riffle through my purse for my keys and uncover them hiding at the bottom corner, buried under knickknacks, crap, and gum wrappers. Excited, I hold them up like a trophy. Like a klutz, I drop them.

“I got ‘em.” He bends down to pick them up for me. He extends out his hand to place them into my upright palm, his fingers grazing it tenderly.

“Thanks for a great night, Evie.”

“Thank you, Aidan.”

My face tilts up, bringing my lips closer to his. He takes a step toward me and slides his hand around my back, his fingers gripping my jacket. Our bodies press together.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Holt’s voice approaches from the garden.

We break apart.

“As a matter of fact,” Aidan’s lips set in a straight line, “you are.”

“That’s a damn shame, isn’t it?” Holt replies, a self-satisfied mien on his face. “Here I come along ruining
your
night. How terribly inconsiderate of me.”

I wait for him to pass, but he doesn’t move from the top step.

“You’ll want to be getting inside, then,” I suggest.

“I’m perfectly happy right here.”

After an eye-avoiding moment of Holt silently judging us, Aidan leans in to kiss me on the top of my head.

“I’ll see you soon.” He brushes past Holt. He has to twist his shoulder to keep from colliding with him. He laughs insolently until he sees my anger and attempts to hold back his elation.

“You know, you really can be a—”

“A charming, witty, devastatingly handsome devil?”

“An asshole.”

“Ah, yeah. That, too.”

I slide the key into the lock and revolve until the grinding click of release. I push on the door, but it doesn’t give. It’s been a humid night, the threat of rain thickening the air, causing the wood to swell. With a decent ram of my shoulder, it yields. I step inside and shut it in his face, stomping down the hall toward my room. It opens and closes behind me. He didn’t get the hint that the conversation is over.

“I guess this means we aren’t cuddling, then?”

I slam my bedroom door and slump against it, listening to his laughter die off with each stair he ascends over my head.

paint sheer enough for light to pass through but not reveal all form, line, and color

Jarred from a nightmare, I shoot up when claps of thunder and lightning interrupt the silenced dark of my room. Traces of my dream loiter, sadness, bewilderment, and loneliness. My mom’s bed seems awfully inviting. Fat chance. She’ll think I can’t take care of myself and try to convince me to stay in Aurora.

There’s one other option, the last option I want to depend on right now. Holt. As this ludicrous consideration takes a pit stop in my head, a window-rattler makes my mind up for me.

I jump out of bed and sneak out of my room to the second floor, avoiding the creaky areas of the worn wood floors. At the end of the hall, I hesitate and pace the width of the corridor at his door. What if he’s asleep? What if he’s still angry with me?

My knuckles scarcely scrape the hard wood surface, drowned out by the storm battering the house. I lose my nerve and one-eighty it. His voice pierces through the door, “It’s open,” summoning me inside.

Facing it again, my fingers grasp the knob and rotate it slowly, praying my mom doesn’t stir. I doubt she’d appreciate me slinking up here.

I crack it open and slip inside.

Ascending to the top step, I scan the open attic with tall vaulted ceilings. Meredith converted it after my father left, to keep herself busy, decorating the sprawling loft with the comforts of home. Nothing frilly or overtly feminine. There’s a living room in the center, with a cushiony couch and chairs. She constructed a kitchenette and a sectioned off full bathroom. She got this crazy idea she would open a B&B. That absurd dream didn’t stick longer than the completion of the space, like most of her ambitious delusions. I used it as my studio for years. Then, when it was time to consider colleges, she used it as a sweetener to keep me here. Of course that didn’t happen.

I almost forget why I came up until Holt addresses me from the opposite end of the room, “What are you doing here?” spotting him lazing on his bed with an open book over his chest, his incredible autumn eyes behind thick-framed glasses.

Suddenly, the sky falls, beating rain down onto the roof unrelentingly, the room erupting with a blinding explosion of light, followed rapidly by the deafening roar of thunder overhead.

I stare with pleading eyes, trembling like a child afraid of the monster lurking under their bed.

“I-I had a nightmare,” I stutter.

It’s obvious he’s still upset by our fight earlier, but the lines of his face soften with sympathy.

“Come lay with me,” he says, patting the mattress beside him.

The idea of lying beside him makes me shake more than the residue of my nightmare.

“I could take the couch.”

“It’s pretty lumpy. You’d probably be more comfortable in the bed with me.” He sets his hand down on the empty space and runs it back and forth. “It’s roomy. We don’t have to cuddle or anything.”

I’d be kidding myself if I said I didn’t want to fill that emptiness, bring his warmth closer to mine. It’s not from attraction. It’s a need to feel safe and not so alone. I hurry over to the bed with a skip in my step, crawl in, and ball up, leaving a two foot gap between us.

“Thank you.”

I sink my head into the coolness of the pillow. My body eases, taking comfort in his presence. However, I can’t relax completely until I address what happened this evening. “About earlier—” my voice melts into the silence of the room, unsure what I want to say.

“I blame it on beer.” He smiles apologetically.

“It was more than that.”

His throat clears. “It was my birthday today.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“Why would I?” He places his book on the bed between us and crosses his arms over his stomach. “We hardly know one another.”

“I—”

He’s right. We’re barely holding onto friendship, constantly teetering between like and dislike. But knowing he has no one to celebrate it with or wish him a happy birthday makes me responsible to do so.

“Happy Birthday, Holt.”

“Thanks.”

His eyes remain forward on his lap. He seems uncomfortable talking about himself. I figure a change of topic is in order.

“What are you reading?” I tap the hard cover of the book lying in the middle of the bed with my nail. He lifts it to show me the title.

The Catcher in the Rye

J.D. Salinger

“Do you like it?”

“It’s well-written, but this kid rubs me wrong. He’s a spoiled little sociopath.”

“I thought so, too.” From my warm, safe place beside him, I search for a television to turn on to drown out the storm. There isn’t one. “Don’t you watch TV?”

“Used to. When you travel the country, you don’t always sleep in a room. I entertain myself by picking up books wherever I find a bookstore. It’s gotten to the point I don’t miss it anymore. But I enjoyed that movie the other night. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Our eyes latch, the only connection our bodies share, which we delay severing.

Lightning strikes again. My spine clenches up, preparing for the thunder. I hate loud noises. I always have.

Holt gestures for me to move closer. I remain where I am. He reaches out and brings me to him, pacifying my worries with caresses of my hair.

“What was your nightmare about?”

I bury my face in his shoulder, not quite through the mental forest of isolation and misplacement my dream left me in.

“The same thing it’s been for years.” I’m vague in the hopes that’ll be the end of it.

Wishful
.

“What?” he prods further.

“I never remember once I’ve woken.”

Lies. All lies.

“When did it begin?”

I stare into the shadowed corners of the attic, visible when the lightning flares.

“A long time ago.”

“Alright. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it.” He hums to himself while thinking of another topic. I swear I see the lightbulb flicker on over his head when it comes to him. “If you could do anything, what would you choose?” He makes idle chat to take my mind away from the storm and my nightmare, pretending to care. I appreciate it whether genuine or not.

“I love art. I loved to paint, to envision images in my head and then bring them to life on a canvas. It was rewarding.”

“If you loved it, why don’t you paint anymore?”

“How do you know I don’t?”

“You said loved, not love. Plus, your brushes and paints are unused.”

His observation catches me off guard. I wouldn’t have bet he paid me much mind, let alone notice small details about me. Why does it give me a rush of satisfaction?

“Why did you stop?”

“I went through something major and my priorities changed. I needed a degree to fall back on. I couldn’t guarantee a steady future as a starving artist.”

“Isn’t that the beauty of art? You invest yourself into it fully.”

“Not everyone has that luxury, Holt.”

“What could’ve altered your priorities so much, you’d stop doing what you love?”

“Life. There are circumstances that change you forever. When they occur, nothing is ever the same again. The things that seemed important before, aren’t as important after.”

His eyes glaze over as he retreats inside himself. I study him, searching his face for a glimpse of his soul, wondering if his scars run that deep.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, coming out of his thoughts, “I think you should keep doing it. You’re good, Evie. It’s a shame to give up on true talent.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“No.” He shifts his book aside and turns toward me, propping his head in his open palm. I do the same.

“Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“If you could do anything, what would you choose?”

“When I was a kid, I wanted to be an architect.”

“Really? Why?”

“I liked the idea of building skyscrapers and magnificent bridges, leaving my mark on the world. That was a childhood fantasy, though. I don’t know. I’ve really enjoyed fixing this place, restoring the property to its former glory.”

“You’re really gifted with this type of work. It’s like your form of artistic expression.”

“I guess it is.” He lies on his back again, staring up at the ceiling shrouded in darkness. “Why does everyone call you Evie?”

“It’s my name.”

“Meredith calls you Violet. Why not Vi or Lettie?”

“When Tay and I were kids, she started calling me Evie and it stuck. Plus, I’ve never really liked my name.”

“I like it, Violet,” he utters so sweetly, it takes on a whole new sound.

“Do you mind if I move closer?” I ask in a whisper.

He reaches out and drags me into the warmth of his body. I relax into him with a deflating breath.

“Thank you for pretending to care,” I mutter through a yawn, sleep dragging me under.

“I’m not pretending.”

Wondering what this—whatever
this
is—will look like in the light of day, I shut my tired eyes, sheltered in his assuring embrace, the unyielding rain steadily drumming on the roof.

Reaching for Holt, my hand instinctively searches for the warmth of his body, discovering cold emptiness beside me. I’m in his bed, the faded memory of him and the storm lingering in the front of my mind. Lying on my back, I tilt the crown of my head into the pillow and glimpse out the window behind the bed. It’s a perfect clear sky, the kind you see after a cleansing storm. The hammering in the distance informs me he must’ve gotten an early start on the horse paddock.

In need of caffeine, I climb out of bed and amble into the kitchenette. I grab the canister out of the cupboard, dig out two scoops of ground coffee, and pour water into the coffeemaker.

I lean against the counter and glimpse around the apartment, noting the difference morning brings. Curiosity killing me, I snoop around while I wait for my wakeup brew to finish.

Most of the furniture and appliances were picked by my mom, but there are little hints of him hidden about the apartment, books crookedly piled on the nightstand, his clothes in the closet, and his scent in the sheets.

I casually spy his leather wallet sitting on the nightstand behind his books, next to a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses. Praying I don’t turn out like the cat in the proverb, I feed my curiosity and flip it open. His plastic protected driver’s license confirms everything he told me. Holt Turner from Chicago, twenty-six years of age, organ donor. I continue to root through his wallet. There isn’t much else, cash, receipts for things he’s bought for the house, and a slip of paper with a list of classic books scribbled in his handwriting. Some have been crossed off, presumably the ones he’s already read. I note the ones he hasn’t then slip it back into the main pocket. I come across a secret compartment and retrieve a folded picture. Ready to split at the crease, I gently unfold it. It’s a photo of him and another boy. He appears to be about thirteen or fourteen, maybe younger, but his height makes it hard to tell, his face already showing the signs of an attractive man. His arm is around the neck of the boy beside him, leaning into him, both smiling from ear to ear. The other boy appears to be a handful of years younger than him. They share similar faces, so I assume this is his brother or cousin.