Around my knee, there was a large tear in my jeans. I picked at the frayed edges as a distraction, turning to look at the reception desk, and hoping for an escape from my thoughts.
“Do you like art?” she asked, her curiosity a warning I should heed.
Too close.
“Sure.” I exhaled as I turned to face her, attempting to lace the word with boredom, calling on my inner asshole to shut down this conversation before I said something stupid. Her smile dimmed and regret tightened my chest. “Royal says your whole family is really talented.” I nodded my chin at her art pad. “Is that you?”
The color of her cheeks deepened, and I couldn’t help my smile. I liked that she reacted to me. “I’m not sure.”
“Looks like you.”
She bit her lip and stared down at the shadowed face on the page.
“Maybe it is,” she said more to herself than to me.
“Kai Carter,” a man in beige slacks and a bland sweater called my name from the door by the desk.
“That’s me,” I said as I stood, plastering on my all-American, of course it wasn’t a suicide attempt, no, I don’t want to drink myself into an oblivion, smile. I tapped my finger on the edge of Indie’s drawing, flippant, and as “sane” as I could muster. “We should do this again sometime.”
She giggled and hell if I didn’t feel it in my spine. “I’m here almost every Tuesday.”
She was here for herself. I filed that piece of information away to dissect later. “Every Tuesday…” I repeated, and she nodded, her smile not at all tempting, or beautiful, or sweet. I was such a liar. “It’s a date, then.”
It was just another lie I could add to my list of lies, but it’d made her entire face light up, the blush of her cheeks leaking all the way to her ears, and just like that, my day wasn’t as shitty as when I’d stepped into that fucking cat piss elevator.
Kai
“You seem uncomfortable?”
“And?” I asked, pushing forward and resting my elbows on my knees. The fake leather upholstery had only added to my body heat, leaving a streak of sweat down my back. The chair squeaked under my weight. “If I said this entire fucking office makes me uncomfortable, what would you do? Write it down? Make a note on that pad of yours about how angry a young man I am? How I’m unwilling to open up?”
His top lip quirked into a burgeoning smile. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Unwilling?”
Unwilling to talk to a stranger? Absolutely. Some asshole who thought he could fix all my problems because he had a title after his last name. LPC. Licensed Professional Counselor, aka therapist, or as I liked to call him, emotional rapist. The past twenty minutes, my silence an obvious no, but he kept pushing, pushing until I gave him what he wanted. Answers I didn’t have.
Brian, according to the name badge hanging from his lanyard, sighed and shifted in his seat. The beige monochrome of his office matched his pants and sweater, the small green succulent sitting in his windowsill the only splash of color in this eight-by-ten cell. He shut his notebook, focused his eyes on mine, and my pulse quickened.
“Let’s start with the basics, then?” He shrugged, and the gesture made him seem younger somehow. Made his receding, blond hairline and pot belly seem less aggressive as he assumed the same position as me. No doubt some sort of therapy technique. Was mirroring a thing? He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and placed them under his chin. “You’re here on an athletic scholarship?”
“Yes.”
“Swim team.”
I nodded.
“And you like swimming?”
“Wow, you figured that out?”
He chuckled. “I did. It’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
Without thinking, I laughed at his response. So, he was a smart ass. I could handle the sarcasm. His nosy questions, not so much.
“I played college football.”
“Yeah?”
He hummed his agreement. “Yup, I was an Oregon Duck.”
“No way?” My excitement was obvious, and he smiled. “That’s my favorite team.”
“You’re from Rockport, I’m surprised you’re not a Huskies fan.”
“Why the hell would anyone be a Huskies fan?”
“Amen.”
“Amen.” The tension in my shoulders relaxed. “What position did you play?”
“Tight end.” His grin seemed forced. “I hear your specialty is the four-hundred-medley relay. Freestyle, right?”
Irritation stretched itself back into my muscles. His segue graceless. “You seem to know everything about me… makes me wonder why I’m even here.”
“You’re here because you mixed a bottle of vodka with a sidecar of carbon monoxide.” A serious line spread across his forehead, marring his laid-back approach.
“It was an accident.”
“Tell me about it, then... Tell me how you accidently almost killed yourself.”
“Everything you need to know is in that notebook. Am I right?”
“Is that how you see yourself?” he asked, and I realized his eyes were more gray then blue. Hard and intimidating, his gaze turned almost paternal. “Are you a few lines on a sheet of paper? No will? No personality? No heart… soul? Just a story to be told by others? A perception… an assumption?”
“I have no story.” I turned my eyes to the small green plant, staring at the minuscule specks of brown decay. The tiny dots covered the tips of the leaves, ruining the illusion, disfiguring the vibrancy the plant had offered the bland room, peeling back its disguise.
“What happened in that locker room, Kai?”
“Didn’t I tell you to get ready for practice?” I barked, but Ellis paid me little mind, his douchebag, smug smile, all for Royal.
“Tell me something, O’Connell. Is it biological?” Ellis smirked, his target set, his claws out, his posture ready for the fight, unwilling to let it go, to be a better person. It was like the entire room was holding its breath… waiting, hoping—wishing for blood. Royal’s entire presence shook with repressed fury, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Ellis leaned in enough for me to notice and whispered, “I mean, it’d be a pity if your sister was a dyke, she’s got a fuckable ass.”
The memory made my knuckles ache. Half hoping I could punch the fucker in the face again, half wishing I’d have minded my own damn business. That was the thing that gutted me the most. My regret. I’d told Royal I’d do it again, and maybe it was the truth, but there was this hateful, spiteful part of me that was furious. That scolded. If I hadn’t stepped in, if I would have just let Royal fight his own battle, maybe I would still be captain and not repeating my entire fall semester. That part of my heart, the small yet powerful fragment never seemed to stop hurting. It made me wish for something to drink, someone to bury myself in, something to help me forget I wasn’t truly the man my friends, my family, believed me to be. I’d become a coward.
“I got into a fight,” I finally answered, but Brian wasn’t buying it.
“You were defending your gay friend.”
“I’m no hero.” I’d defended Royal, but I hadn’t thrown the first punch until Ellis said what he’d said about her. About Indie.
“Your teammate, Ellis, he said some pretty awful things, got expelled for it, and you did what you thought was right and just, but you’re conflicted… why?”
“I’m not conflicted.”
“But you are, Kai, and that’s the problem you’re not willing to face.”
I faced it every day when I looked in the mirror.
“You lost your captain title, you didn’t get to take your exams, effectively holding you back an entire semester. That has to sting, does it not?”
I stood abruptly, the chair sliding backward a few inches. “What do you want me to say? That I wish I hadn’t fucking punched him? That I should’ve let Royal deal with it? I almost lost my goddamn scholarship, and you know what, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’d do it again.”
My voice shook. “I’d do it again, okay?”
Brian’s eyes were filled with pity, too much damn pity. “Okay.”
Pacing, I ran my fingers through my hair. “Ellis is an asshole who got everything he deserved.”
“I agree.” Brian held out his hand indicating I should sit down again. I hesitated. “Have a seat. Pacing makes me nervous. This office isn’t big enough.” He gave me an understanding smile. “Please.”
I fell into the chair, wishing it would break apart and lay my ass out on the floor, giving me an excuse to leave.
“You were punished for doing something you felt, within your moral compass, was right. It’s normal to be angry, even with your friend, Royal. Kai, the feelings you’re having are normal, but the way you’re dealing with them is not. Your mother said—”
“When did you speak to my mom?” The muscle in my jaw threatened to pop.
“Yesterday.”
Heat flushed my cheeks as I tightened my hands into fists. “What did she say?”
“She said she thinks there’s more going on in your head than the fight. She thinks you’re mad at her and that’s causing you guilt. She recently let your father move back in?”
“I’m done.” I tried to stand, but Brian placed a soft palm on my knee.
“Stay, we only have a few minutes left.”
I sucked in a long breath and leaned back into the chair. Brian set his hands in his lap, his astute gray eyes assessing me and said, “She’s sick.”
My throat thickened, my tongue dry and swollen with all the things I couldn’t say, wouldn’t say, ignoring the burn in my eyes, the pinch in my chest, I nodded.
“She has multiple sclerosis. That has to be hard for you, to see your mother so weak?”
“She’s not weak.” I managed the words, my mouth sticky, my palms sweaty. The walls of the office narrowed, stealing the space, my breaths accelerated as if I was fighting to win a race.
“You’re right, my apologies. She’s ill, not weak. In fact, for her to be doing as well as she is, she must be very strong.”
I gave him another clipped nod.
“But you’re angry with her?”
My nostrils flared, the burn in my eyes turning to liquid at the lashes.
“Time’s up, Brian.” I scrubbed my face with my palm and stood.
He didn’t have the right to know. He didn’t have the right to know any of this shit. He was a scavenger, feeding off my problems to make himself feel better. He had no idea what it was like to watch your mother’s seams unravel, to watch her fall and then never get back up again, to feel the world breaking your fucking back, your heart, disappointing you and giving everything away to the people who didn’t deserve it. He had no idea what it was like to have a mother who would die before she was even fifty years old.
Brian stood and held out his hand. I was respectful enough to shake it, to wonder what suffering he had stowed away in his own pockets. His suffering was his alone, and I’d never walk in his shoes, and he’d never walk in mine. The only difference between us was I didn’t practice under the delusion I could help myself by collecting people’s most miserable secrets.
“I hope to see you next Tuesday.” He let go of my hand, and I didn’t look him in the eye.
“Sure.”
I shoved my hand in my pocket, his heat still soaked into my skin, making my lie feel heavier than it should. Or perhaps it was the lie I’d told earlier, to Indie, when I’d said every Tuesday would be ours. It wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
She was a silver lining, and I had no business wishing for such extravagant things.
Indigo
I couldn’t deny the pleasure it gave me, the light hum of the projector, the quiet cast of blue darkness that descended on the lecture hall before the first slide illuminated the large, white screen. Professor Blackwood stood in front of the auditorium, remote in hand, staring up at his exhibition. These were the moments time afforded me an indulgence. Time, even the briefest of seconds, to catalog my world in color, to push away that voice in my head, and see everything as it should be. The blue haze… before the room was flooded with the brilliant gold, red, and green of Picasso.
“Can anyone tell me the title of this piece?” Professor Blackwood scanned the large room, squinting through his bifocals to find a victim.
Reading at a Table, oil on canvas, painted in 1934. I keep these words in my chest as the girl with long, dark hair in the front row raised her hand.
“Miss Marigold?” Blackwood’s excitement was evident in his wide eyes as he stepped in closer toward the girl.
His uncanny ability to remember every student’s name, well, at least their last names, baffled me.
“The Reading Girl.” She sounded confident.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Um…” she stuttered, flipping through the pages of her textbook.
Anxiety stewed in my chest, not for the girl, but for the correct answer on my tongue. The internal battle to speak my mind, but the fear of this large room, and its fifty or so inhabitants…
Know it all.
Freak.
I cleared my throat, a poor attempt to drown out the voice in my head, and the professor turned his attention to me.
“Do you disagree, Miss O’Connell?”
The entire first three rows of students turned their heads, the tandem motion creating a wave-like sound of fabric rustling this way and that throughout the classroom.
“No, sir,” I whispered past the raspy feel of my throat.
“No?” He raised his brow.
“Well…” I floundered, my palms sweating as Miss Marigold squinted her eyes, shrewd and annoyed. She’d found me wanting and turned back toward the slide display. I wasn’t someone worth worrying about. I channeled the strength my father had always taught me to have, breathed through the voices strangling me silent and spoke with a clear and sharp tongue, “Reading at a Table, oil on canvas, painted in 1934 for his lover, Marie-Thérèse Walter.”
Professor Blackwood’s lips slowly spread into a grin, making him seem younger than his salt-and-pepper hair had colored him. “Very good, Miss O’Connell.”
The room steeped itself in green as the girl quickly glanced over her shoulder, piercing me with blue eyes that might’ve been beautiful if they weren’t so mean. In high school, that look would have wilted me on the spot, but this was my world. It didn’t matter if my voices were still haunting me, I wanted this, wanted to feel at peace in my own skin, pave my own way here at St. Peter’s, prove to myself I was more than just a sister, a daughter, a painter. I was a fresh start, a wheel of brand-new color, the first stroke of a brush on plain white canvas. I stared at the slide, at the women depicted by Picasso. Gold hair. Pale skin. It was like looking at a self-portrait. She was alone. For all the bold colors he’d chosen, she appeared sad and empty, sitting at the table, falling, drip by drip, into herself. Last semester I’d learn to be on my own, to not rely on Royal, and as much as I liked it, I understood the woman, Picasso’s lover. I understood how at times, even under the eyes of those who love you, you could still feel empty.
Blackwood pressed his thumb to the remote in his hand, switching the visual.
“And this?” He gazed at the new painting. “Woman in White.”
“Neoclassical,” a boy three rows down spoke without raising his hand.
“Yes… and…” Professor Blackwood prompted, a bored expression dipping his brows into a straight line.
The boy sat up taller, his shoulders filling the space of his chair. He tilted his head, allowing several long seconds to pass before he finally said, “Oil… water-based, on canvas.”
“And crayon,” someone answered behind me.
Professor Blackwood exhaled. “Yes… yes, but how does it make you feel. It’s such a contrast to the previous painting.”
“It’s boring,” an anonymous voice in the crowd teased.
“Boring.” The professor balked. “Do explain.”
> The room filled with laughter when no one claimed the task.
“It’s not boring, it’s depressing.” I recognized the gruff voice as it floated through the room, my heart beating a little faster, my breath caught in my lungs as I turned to find him sitting two rows behind me. He was all the way against the back wall, baseball cap pulled low over his dark eyes, but the familiar, tight line of his jaw was all the confirmation I needed. Broad shoulders, stiff and strong, how had I missed him sitting there this past week? Had he decided to transfer his class like he’d talked about at the clinic the other day? The hair on the back of my neck stood as he stared at me for a few quick, fumbled beats of my heart. Kai slid his gaze to Blackwood as he continued, “It’s exactly the same as Reading at a Table, but with less color. Both women seem sad.” The room stilled, leaned in, like it was waiting for more, and I leaned with it.
“Sad,” Blackwood mused.
“Yeah. Sad.” Kai tapped his pencil against his left forearm. “I think she seems the saddest.” He nodded at the screen, the bright white of the painting casting a dusky glow over the class, but he stood out, violet and controlled. “The other woman, Picasso’s lover…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his lips caressing the word lover. Heat flashed and melted into my stomach. I didn’t hide from my reaction to his voice, to the word, to the way he licked his lips before he said, “She owns the color despite Picasso’s attempt to disfigure her, she wears it, like her loneliness, she belongs to it. This chick, she’s all beige and pale, and yeah… a little boring.”
The class laughed again, and to my surprise, so did the professor. “Very astute, Mr.—”
“Carter, Kai Carter.” His eyes met mine briefly before I turned. Embarrassed by the way my cheeks had flushed.
She belongs to it. To Color. To Loneliness. Like me.
He doesn’t see you.
He doesn’t see you.
He doesn’t see you.
The witch chanted inside my head as the lump formed inside my throat. I whispered softly to myself, “You’re wrong.”
Seven Shades of You Page 3
