Seven Shades of You

by Johnson, A. M.

  “Me, too. My grandfather was an alcoholic, died of cirrhosis.” I’d never met him, but the stories I’d heard my dad and his brothers tell never sounded like he was a man I would have wanted to meet. “Does Gus drink?”

  “Hell no. He kills his body enough playing football, and besides, if he wants to continue to be my boyfriend, he knows better than to bring that shit around me.”

  Ari wasn’t more than five-feet-two inches, but her big green eyes and attitude made her seem six-feet tall. Which was probably a good thing since her boyfriend was at least six-foot-four. She reminded me so much of my uncle’s wife, Melissa, it made me homesick sometimes. Maybe it was the Hispanic accent, or the big heart, either way, Ari made me want to call home more often than I should.

  “I used to think people could drink and be okay, but I don’t know. Indie, I’ve seen it ruin so many lives, and Daphne… she’s in a bad way.”

  I stared down the hallway leading to our rooms, worry itching its way under my skin. Daphne drank a lot. It didn’t matter if we were out or in the studio, she always had a flask. At first, I’d thought it was normal college kid stuff, but realized quickly there was a difference between partying every now and then, and needing it to function. I didn’t drink, with the medications I took for my depression it had always been something I was cautioned against. Daphne never seemed to mind that I didn’t partake in her late-night, one-woman parties when we painted together, but lately, she’d become more vocal about how boring it was to be in the studio all the time and had been spending her nights at Stacks, or at least I thought that’s where she’d go at night. I shuddered to think what else she was into.

  “I’ll talk to her,” I whispered more to myself than for Ari’s benefit.

  “Girl, you are not her mother.” Ari pinched the underside of my calf, and I squeaked.

  “Ow. What was that for?” I swatted at her hand, and she giggled.

  Even through her laughter, she sounded stern. “I’m serious, Indie, if you’re worried, talk to the campus counseling office, we have an awesome Behavioral Health Center.”

  I bit my lip, casting my eyes to the coffee table. I never lied to Ari about my mental illness, but I hadn’t gathered the courage to tell her, either.

  “That’s a good idea.”

  Ari stood, not so gently shoving my legs off her lap. “I’m headed over to Warren House to see Gus, want to come?”

  “Royal has practice.”

  “Hang out with me and Gus till he gets home?”

  Ari’s boyfriend lived across the hall from my brother. And as much as I appreciated her invite, I didn’t want to feel like a third wheel.

  “That’s okay, I think I’ll harass Camden, see if he’ll eat dinner with me before I head into the studio.”

  She shook her head. “I still wish your brother wasn’t gay.” Ari’s grin colored her cheeks as she said, “He’s too cute, damn it.”

  I almost snorted. “What about Gus?”

  “I like Gus.”

  “Gus is cute.”

  “Gus is hot,” she corrected with another giggle.

  I exhaled and rested my head on the soft arm of the sofa. “The entire athletic department is hot.”

  She smacked my foot. “See. I knew you were holding out on me.”

  Heat bloomed in my stomach and cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mm-hm.” She pulled her purse over her shoulder. “You’re a terrible liar.” She stared at me for a few agonizing seconds, and I almost, almost opened my mouth to tell her, the urge to actually share these confusing feelings, my thoughts, to see if I was out of my mind to even think about him. “I’ll get you to tell me. Or should I ask Royal?”

  “You wouldn’t?” I sat up a little breathless.

  “Of course not, but you just proved I was right. You like a guy.” Her smile was smug.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. It’s too new.”

  “I can work with new.” She slipped her phone in her back pocket. “Tell me when you’re ready, but just so you know, I’m dying a little inside the longer you hold out.”

  She laughed as I reached over to the coffee table, grabbed a balled-up piece of paper, and threw it at her, missing by a mile. “Go see Gus.”

  “Alright, alright.” Her laughter died down as she stared at Daphne’s door. “Make sure she’s okay before you go?”

  “I will.”

  “Bye, chick.”

  After she left, I stood and walked to Daphne’s door. I listened for any sign of life coming from her room and heard nothing. Feeling like a thief, I opened her door, slow and soft, until I could see the small twin bed and her half-naked body bathed in the white light of the moon, streaming in through her open blinds. Her arm dangled off the mattress, pale and still, the measured rise and fall of her back as she breathed was my only reassurance.

  I quietly said her name, and I took a few steps. “You okay?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Her paintings and band posters were hung on the walls, the dirty laundry still strewn across the carpet. All normal college girl stuff, but as I scanned the floor by her bed, I noticed a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of what looked like whiskey, half empty, laying by her hand. It all seemed staged and unreal. My friend, lying in a tank top, covered in gray and secrets, and I had no idea what to do. It was six-o’clock on a weeknight and she was already passed out. Had she been drinking all day? Did she even go to her classes?

  And like the universe had decided to reach out and flick me on the nose, my phone buzzed. I stepped out of her room, pulling it from my pocket, and dragged my thumb over the touch screen. My therapy appointment reminder flashed in bold yellow. Ari was right, if I tried to say anything to her, she could take it the wrong way, blow me off. Dr. Sand would know what she needed more than I would, wouldn’t he?

  You’re useless, sick girl.

  I closed my eyes and took a few breaths, the words in my head sharp and black. Stress always made them worse, stronger. They’d find the holes in my self-made walls, but I knew I wasn’t useless, years of therapy, meds, and love had taught me that. If I could be happy, live a good life, Daphne could, too, my only hope was that she still wanted a life at all.

  Kai

  “And you don’t find that impulsive?” Brian tapped the chewed cap of his pen against his chin as he leaned back in his chair.

  “More like inevitable.” He hadn’t bought my smirk, and I sighed. “It was impulsive, but art is something that’s… I don’t know, it’s mine. It has nothing to do with them…”

  “With them?”

  “My parents. When I put my pencil to paper I’m able to create something that is unique to me.”

  “There are lots of artists in the world. What about swimming, that’s something you’re good at, that you like?”

  I lowered my eyes to the thread dangling from the hem of his left pant leg. “Not anymore.”

  “Because you lost captain?” I didn’t like the way he’d asked, with such reproach. “Kai…”

  “No one will ever be able to recreate the stroke of my pencil. There are talented swimmers who can recreate form and function. I’m an extension of a learned and practiced skill.” I lifted my eyes and stared straight into his dull irises. “My art is mine.”

  “You can still have art and be a business major. Swimming is still yours even if you’re not captain.”

  “Business was never my thing, though. It may seem impulsive to you, but for me, it’s a regret I’m finally able to rectify.”

  He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles, the perfect picture of open and understanding. “Explain.”

  “My father was a mechanic, struggled to support us, and when he got a job selling parts, our lives changed. We weren’t rich or anything close, but my mom got health insurance, and we had food on the table.”

  I didn’t like the way Brian picked me apart, deciding, weighing my motives. It was invasive. But I promised myself, my
mother, that I could do this, would do this. It didn’t matter what he thought as long as he listened. I did my part, vomiting up all my imperfections and leaving them at his feet. What he did with it after I was gone? I didn’t care. As long as I was lighter, more like me in the end, he could sit in that chair and pick at my scabs all day long.

  “I figured business was the financially smart thing to do.”

  “Then why change halfway through?”

  “Because…” I fought with myself. Half-truths left me heavy, but the full truth would cut me open. Brian waited. He wanted blood. “Because my father is a piece of shit who drinks too much, cheats on his sick wife, and there isn’t enough money in the world worth becoming like him.” My hands shook and I pushed them into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.

  “That’s fair.”

  I chuckled but it fell flat. “That’s fair… but…”

  “But creating financial freedom for yourself by choosing a career path that may seem similar doesn’t make you like him, Kai. You’re not him. Even if you sold parts for a living, you’re not him. It’s how you live your life… your choices are yours. Swimming is yours, art is yours, and business can be, too.”

  This man with all the credentials, all the big letters sitting in a bold font after his last name, his badge hanging proudly from his neck on a relatable superhero lanyard, had no idea what he was talking about. He didn’t get it.

  “I chose business because I wanted to make sure I could get a job that would help support my mom when my father finally left for good, a job that would give me the means to hire home health nurses, and not worry about the cost of her prescriptions. But I don’t want it, Brian. That’s the point. I never wanted it. And I feel fucking selfish for hating it, for hating her sickness, for hating my life. Every day all I want to do is drown, forget about all the shit. And that makes me just like him. I’m changing my major because it’s the only way I can save myself, save myself for her.”

  Heat flooded my face and neck, my eyes spilling over with angry tears as I wrapped my hands into tight fists. The pain in my shoulder throbbed as I sat stiff and unmoving, waiting for judgment.

  Brian swallowed as he moved to the edge of his chair. “Does he know?”

  “Know what?” I asked, more like snapped, and he shook his head.

  “I want you to tell him. That’s your assignment for next time. Tell your father everything you just told me.”

  “Fuck that. He doesn’t need—”

  “He does, and you might be surprised at what he has to say.” Brian rested both his elbows on his knees, lowering his voice, he said, “It’s not your job to save her.”

  I couldn’t stop the heavy rise and fall of my chest, my nostrils flared as I breathed, attempting to calm myself, to dislodge the boulder inside my throat. I didn’t need his verbal pat on the shoulder, his there-there, but he’d hit way too close to home.

  Taking care of yourself is your only job…

  “The last time I talked to my mom she said something along those lines. She told me to take care of myself and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Okay.”

  His answer was too easy. “That’s it? Okay?”

  “I wanted to make sure, Kai. Make sure this wasn’t another impulsive risk you were taking.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Okay.” He smiled, and I exhaled.

  “Do I still have to talk to my dad?”

  “Yes. It’s part of the process. Part of taking care of you. He needs to know how you feel.”

  “He doesn’t give a shit how I feel.”

  “Tell him anyway.” He stood, and I stared at him.

  “Why?”

  “Sometimes it feels good to hold people accountable. Sometimes you have to get rid of all the shit in your head. Get it out, or the wound you have will get infected.”

  “Infected. I like that.” He held out his hand. I took it as I stood.

  “I’ll see you next week.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” I shook his hand and grinned.

  I reined myself in as I opened the door to the hallway, my head running a mile a minute. The idea of talking to my dad made me feel sick to my stomach. Made me want to drive straight to Stacks, miss my afternoon classes, and call out to work tonight. But I’d told Dean Thomlinson when I’d spoken to him yesterday, if he’d let me switch my classes around, I’d be on my best behavior. I’d even put in my two weeks’ notice with the maintenance department before I switched to the teaching assistant position. Getting drunk and avoiding my responsibilities was the last choice I should make, not to mention, it’s exactly what my father would do.

  I let out a long, aggravated puff of air. “Shit.”

  “Talking to yourself in the Behavioral Health Center is dangerous business.”

  Indie stood with her hand on the door to the waiting room, her hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, the change from her braid exposed more of her long neck.

  “Thanks for the tip.” A smile formed on my lips of its own volition.

  “Anytime.” She bit the corner of her mouth and let the silence warm between us.

  “Coming or going?”

  “Going, my appointment was earlier than usual.” She opened the door, and I followed her to the elevators.

  “You really come here every Tuesday?” I asked, trying not to notice the way her lashes touched her cheeks as she blinked, or how I could see the pulse in her neck, and how I must have seriously needed a drink because all I wanted to do was lean in and smell her heartbeat.

  She pressed the button to call the elevator, avoiding eye contact. “Most of the time. Not always, though.” Her blue eyes found mine, and the elevator doors opened with a loud ding, the smell of cat piss leaked into the hall. I hated that the stench would bleed into her skin, her hair, she shouldn’t have to smell like that all day long.

  “These elevators are disgusting.”

  She laughed. “It’s like St. Peter’s dirty little secret.”

  “Right? They spend so much money on everything else, but they can’t get new carpet for these damn elevators.”

  “There’s no money in behavioral health.”

  “I guess.”

  Once the doors shut, the energy changed. Everything about the small space tingled and burned, the smell faded into the quiet singe. The rush of my pulse was loud enough I was sure she’d be able to hear it, too, and when I turned to look at her, I found her staring back. Indie wore a simple gray sweater and jeans. The absence of color made her eyes this crazy fucking shade of blue, almost like a picture of the Caribbean, but without any green. Pure and bottomless.

  “Did you do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Change your major?”

  “I did.”

  She smiled, and I smiled, and I realized we’d both unconsciously leaned in toward the other, some force pulling us in against our will.

  “I’m excited to see your work. Hintz is a curator of talent. If you’re assisting him, you must be good.”

  Pride filled my chest despite my nonchalant shrug. “I’ve sold a few pieces, but nothing big.”

  “You’ve sold a few pieces?” she asked, shock written in her whisper.

  “What?”

  “Kai, I’ve been painting my entire life. Seriously, I have my hand prints on canvas from when I was eighteen months old. I haven’t sold one piece.”

  “Have you tried?” I asked as the elevator doors opened to the first floor.

  “No. I’m not ready to let go,” she whispered as we made our way to the front entrance.

  The cold, fresh air was a relief, the strange heat of the elevator, the small space, drifted on the wind as we stepped outside of the building.

  “What does that mean?”

  Indie was distracted by the students on the lawn. Several girls giggled as they passed us, the guys they were with spoke loud enough I could have heard their cheesy pickup lines from across campus. I recognized one of the
girls, some chick I’d met last semester. By met, I meant slept with once and never heard from her again, not that I’d wanted to. She waved, and I nodded my chin with my signature smile, hating myself a little in the moment. Hating that I was “that guy” to most of the people here and would always be.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Indie muttered, fidgeting with the strap of her bag, she started in the opposite direction of where I was headed. I followed her anyway.

  “I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  Because I’m selfish and want things I shouldn’t. I want to know why she couldn’t let go of her paintings, why she was in the Behavioral Health Center in the first place, why those girls had made her nervous. I wanted to know her, even if the details weren’t mine to have.

  I gave her a crooked smile. “It’s kind of cool you can’t let them go.”

  “Cool?” She raised a brow, the smile on her face skeptical.

  “They’re like your little art babies.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I knew you were making fun of me.”

  I raised both of my hands. “I swear I’m not. I’m being serious.”

  “Your laugh suggests otherwise.”

  “I’m serious, Indie.” I toned down my smile when she finally looked at me.

  She wet her lips and stopped walking, the breeze sent goosebumps along her neck and collar bone. My fingers ached to reach out and smooth them away.

  “I’m not ready to give away something so personal. I don’t want to sell my secrets, the parts of me I’m still learning to love.”

  Her nose was pink from the wind, her skin stretched soft over the arch of her cheekbones, she was absolutely stunning, and I’d give her my last twenty if she’d tell me one of those secrets, one of those things she was still learning to love.

  “I’m crazy?” she asked, and I nodded.

  “Certifiable.”

  She laughed, pressed her lips together, and then laughed again.

  “I guess I am.” She tipped her head back, looking at the sky, and I kept my eyes on her face as she tried to compose her smile, waiting her out.