“Painter?” he asked. Withdrawing his hand, he ran fingers through the thick strands of his hair, exposing raised brows that were too neat and reached into the deep lines of his forehead.
“Painting is my emphasis.”
His shrewd eyes flicked to my painting, and he bit back another growing smile. “I can see why. This is sick.”
Sick.
Sick.
Sick.
He continued to talk, but I couldn’t hear past the rush of blood pounding in my head.
“I like the lack of color,” he said.
“I’m adding the color later.”
“I think it looks perfect as it is.” His eyes were as colorless as my painting. “But I’m excited to see the final result.”
You won’t. I wanted to say, but my anxiety wasn’t his fault. The panic building in my chest wasn’t because I was talking to a stranger, well, not all of it, at least. I glanced at the door prepared for it to open, willing Kai Carter to walk in and scatter the vultures.
“It’s a present for a friend.”
He assessed me. “Like a boyfriend?”
“My brother’s boyfriend.”
“Cool.” He zipped up his black hoodie and stuffed his hands into the pockets. “I don’t usually… I mean, I’m thinking this is…” He sighed, took a deep breath, and laughed. “Would you want to maybe go—”
“I brought dinner,” Kai interrupted, ignoring the fact I was in the middle of a conversation. His voice was deep and gravel, and all the apprehension I’d been harboring, chewing on since he’d texted to tell me he wanted to come to the studio tonight, evaporated into thin air.
“I told you, you didn’t—”
He leaned in and I held my breath.
“I should feed you,” he teased, setting the bag in his hand onto the work table. Kai tugged on the end of my braid, a new habit that felt oddly intimate, like it was our thing now, even though I could count our real encounters on one hand. “It’s the least I could do.” Hunter shifted on his feet, drawing Kai’s attention. “Who are you?”
“Hunter.” He stood as tall as he could manage, his small, skinny build seeming boyish compared to Kai’s six-foot-plus broad frame.
“Sculpture major,” I said.
Kai nodded, but didn’t offer anything to the conversation. Hunter looked at me, then back at Kai, and asked, “The brother?”
My laugh was a mixture of incredulity and nerves. “No, he’s…” Was he my friend? Royal’s? Both? “A friend of mine.” Warm and honey-colored light filled my stomach. Of mine. Mine.
Hunter’s expression deflated, and he scanned the back of the room where a few of the students from the sculpture class remained.
“Are you and Gunther—”
“Hunter,” he corrected Kai, his lips flat.
“Are you and Hunter in a class together?”
“We just met.” I smiled and wondered at the stiffness in Kai’s shoulders and jaw. Guilt prickled in my fingertips, maybe he thought we’d be alone, maybe he didn’t want spectators either.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Hunter said.
“Kai.”
The moment stretched and stifled until I finally chose to be the one to speak. “You were asking me something?” I reminded him.
Hunter shook his head. “I can’t remember. Anyway…” His smile reappeared, but it wasn’t as bright, and his black hoodie, black shoes, black mop of hair, seemed just as staged. “Cool painting, maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Sure.” I felt my cheeks flush at the hopeful tone of his voice.
Hunter caught up with the sculpture students as they were leaving, not looking back as he headed through the studio doors.
“What a tool.” Kai chuckled under his breath.
“Why is he a tool?” I asked, unable to hide my annoyance.
How many people had been just as quick to judge me, cast me aside without a second notice? Too many.
“The kid’s got no follow-through.” His smirk, a touch too arrogant, aggravated me.
“I don’t know what that means.” I turned my back to him, rummaging through the bag of take-out, keeping my hands busy and my eyes off his.
I could feel the heat radiating off his body as he approached me, standing close enough it startled me when he spoke. “He was about to ask you out.”
“He was not.”
Kai left little space between us, his arm brushing mine as he reached into the bag and pulled out a white and red container. The small touch made me shiver.
“That dude was about to ask you out. I’d bet my season on it. What did you think he was about to ask you? Hey, uh...would you maybe want to go… play board games in my dorm room…naked?”
I shoved his shoulder, and despite my earlier annoyance, I giggled. “That would be a terrible date.”
Terrible and terrifying. I’d never even kissed a guy, but there was no way I would admit that to Kai.
“Only terrible because you’d be with Hunter.” He grinned, smug, like he’d won some nonexistent argument, and grabbed two sets of chopsticks from the bag.
“It’s terrible on many levels…” I took a set of chopsticks from his hand and tore open the paper wrapper. “You really think he was going to ask me out?”
He hummed as he dug into a container of lo mein, and I popped open the other box, frowning at the sweet and sour chicken. My least favorite.
He swallowed his mouthful of noodles and licked his lips. I tried not to stare. “Definitely.” He pointed his chopstick at the take-out box on the table. “Royal always gets sweet and sour chicken, so I assumed…”
“Royal hates Chinese.”
“I know, but he says he’ll tolerate the chicken.”
I laughed and shut the lid. “My Uncle Kieran is addicted to this one Chinese food place in Salt Lake. It’s been open forever, and I’m pretty sure he’s the only person keeping them in business.”
“So you’re a hater, too?”
I shook my head. “No, not really, I’m more of a lo mein girl.”
He grinned, lowering his chopsticks back into his container. “Soul mates.” He held out the container, offering it to me. “Here.”
“I’m not even that hungry,” I lied, and he rolled his eyes.
“Take it, unlike you and your picky-ass brother, I’ll eat whatever is put in front of me.”
I took the container and stared at his chopsticks sinking into the noodles. They’d touched his mouth, his tongue. I shared food with Royal, with Camden, even Corbin in the cafeteria all the time, but this, I couldn’t explain it. I wanted my lips where his lips had been, his tongue… the thought poured an unusual heat through my body, dripping red all the way from my cheeks to my stomach.
Kai grabbed my untouched container and plopped down onto one of the stools. I sat next to him, aiming for casual, and for a few minutes, everything was quiet as we ate, as my lips touched his lips, through some weird conduit.
Pathetic.
“I’m not,” I whispered and he noticed.
Oh God, he noticed.
I could feel my embarrassment crawling up my throat and refused to look at him as he searched the side of my face.
“Can I ask you something?”
I pushed the container of food away, no longer hungry.
Can I ask you something?
Why did that sound ominous? Gloomed with gray and touched with edges of blue.
“Of course.”
“You don’t have to answer me... tell me to fuck off if you want…” He pushed his dinner away, too.
Kai’s eyes were more than brown, coffee with a touch of milk. Warm and deep. Serious and sweet. His emotions were written in the way his pupils dilated; no way he could hide what he was feeling, if only someone was brave enough to look.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his lips parting with a slow breath, he asked, “I was forced to see a therapist, and I kind of hate it, but I kind of don’t either.”
“Are you asking
me if I hate my therapist?”
“No… well, maybe.” He laughed, releasing my growing anticipation.
“I want to say I do. I want to wish I didn’t have to be there. But it’s been a part of my life for so long, I can’t even try to wish it away anymore. It’s part of me.”
“Why...” He’d tipped his chin, shrinking the space between us, his tone soft, his violent purple giving over to an electric yellow. “Is it a part of you?”
My head was static. I waited for the mean words to form in my brain, push me to feel guilt for my sickness, and it could’ve been the way he watched me, his curiosity more a veil for something else. I didn’t know what he thought of me, what Royal had told him, probably nothing, and I wanted to be scared, but he smiled and shook his head.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I want to.”
It was the truth and it hurt a little to admit it, but it was a good pain, like finally tearing off a hangnail. I’d always be alone if I didn’t let others in.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“I like deals.”
“I know, I’m appealing to your competitive nature.” I dropped my gaze to the table. “I’ll tell you why I’m in therapy if you tell me why you are.”
The strain in his smile was evident. “Okay.”
I tore the chopstick wrapper into tiny pieces as I spoke. “I had really bad mood swings as a kid, still do. There were times when it was hard to get out of bed, and there were times when I couldn’t sleep for days. I hid it for a while, but my dad was the first to figure it out. He and I share the same illness. Mine started a little later than his, but I don’t fluctuate as much as he does…”
“Bipolar?” he asked.
I stuttered through a breath. “With psychotic features.”
He didn’t even pause to take in what I’d said.
Psychotic.
Freak.
Useless.
There was no shock, or horror, when he asked, “What does that mean?” And all I could hear in his voice was genuine curiosity.
“It depends on the person. Voices, hallucinations, paranoia.” I stole a glance, his forehead and lips too smooth to read. “I mostly deal with depression. And sometimes... I… I have negative, intrusive thoughts, but my dad, he had all of them, has, all of that. We both work really hard in therapy, and with meds, he’s stable most of the time.”
“What about you?”
“Nine times out of ten? I’m good. I’m lucky to have my dad, he taught me how to handle it, to paint through the darker days. I’m lucky…” My breath caught in my throat and a familiar burn filled my eyes. I exhaled, centering myself, closing it all down and smiled. “Freaky?”
That soft smile returned and I found myself lost in it as he said, “Not at all.”
“You can be honest.” I rolled a piece of the torn wrapper between my fingers, too anxious for his truth.
“You hear voices?”
“Yeah.”
“And they’re always mean?”
“No, not always.”
He turned to look at the painting I’d been working on. “And they help you paint?”
“I paint to keep them away. I paint to see color when there’s none. I paint to remember who I am, when all I remember, all I hear, is the dark.”
He raised his hand, and for a second I wanted him to touch my cheek. I held still, waiting for it, the warmth of him, but he lowered his palm to the table and said, “You’re brave.”
My mouth was dry, my throat sore from the sentiment. “My dad calls me his ‘brave girl’, and some days I feel brave, and others…” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood.
“I get it. Most days I feel like I have shit handled and others… I can’t seem to find solid ground.” Kai gave me a shy smile, his hand at the back of his neck again. “I guess it’s my turn now?”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
He pressed his lips together, his jaw working, he held me captive and said, “But I do… I want you to know me.”
Kai
She was completely intimidating.
Indie had a fragility about her. Her pale skin, bright eyes, soft blonde hair. Quiet and introverted. Even now, sitting here in jeans and an oversized sweater that devoured her frame, I might’ve missed the strength inside of her.
Voices.
She heard voices in her head, telling her dark shit. She’d given me this secret and I felt absolutely useless. I had no right to be depressed or anxious about anything. Here she sat, smiling—shy and beautiful—at me like I was about to give her the whole world, a piece of me, and I was, but it weighed nothing. It was insignificant. I made my problems—hers were born.
“Are you seeing a therapist because of what happened last semester?” she asked.
“Sort of.” I was nervous, my hands clammy as I fisted them in my lap.
Indie watched me, waiting, and I was terrified she’d realize that I was a giant asshole with nothing to be sorry for. That my mother’s illness was a crutch for me to blame my father, the world, for everything that had gone wrong in my life. I was scared she’d see me as I saw myself every day in the fucking mirror.
“I’m angry all the time, I guess…” I swallowed, trying not to focus on the gnawing sensation in my gut, or the hammer inside my head, my pulse making my face and chest flame. I uncurled my fist and tapped the tabletop, keeping my eyes on the gray metal surface. “I started drinking too much and I messed up over break. My mom wanted me to get some help.”
“Only your mom?” she asked, and I couldn’t look at her.
I mashed my teeth together, took a second to answer, keeping my gaze fixed down, I said, “My mom has multiple sclerosis. Her illness has progressed to a point where she can’t walk, can’t get out of bed. She has a nurse who comes to the house daily. She gets these painful fucking wounds on her back and hips, but she’s always smiling. My mom is the most positive person you’ll ever meet. She doesn’t ever say I’m done or I can’t take it anymore. She won’t give up on anyone, not even a cheating husband.”
“Kai,” Indie whispered despite the fact we were alone in the room, the pity in her voice hard to take, and I realized my hands were shaking.
I stood, almost knocking the stool over in the process. “I’m sorry. I’m… Shit. I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re still angry.”
The statement grabbed me and pulled me in, and when I faced her, there was nothing but understanding, and it cooled the burn of my building rage.
I nodded. “Yes.”
Every muscle in my body was tight. Tight with anger, fear, and something I had no name for, something darker, something that had led me to the garage that night.
I walked toward her painting. It was a plain white canvas with a black wave of detailed musical notes. It was incredible. If I stared long enough, the notes appeared to move, the light catching the metallic black paint as I walked toward it. More of her chaos displayed for the world to see. I’d never be that fearless. I’d only ever drawn the world as it was, as everyone else saw it, not how it had locked itself up in my brain. Distorted, turning the air in my lungs into resentment.
I could smell the light lavender of her skin, the powder of her soap as she approached me, and I was calm again. Pushing my hands into my pockets, I continued, “I’m angry that she took him back. That she never stands up for herself… that I always have to.” I braved a glance in her direction. “I’m selfish.”
She shook her head, leaning in, not quite touching me, but the charge of it, the imminence, I was being stripped of my skin. I was raw with it.
“I don’t think you’re selfish.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Then tell me.”
We stared at each other, a quiet standoff. I showed you mine, now show me yours. I should have been thinking of what I would say next, tell Indie I wasn’t as brave as her. Tell her I was a coward who struck first because I was terrified of be
coming like him, like my dad. But all I could think about was how tempting her lips were. How her top lip had a slight bow in the middle, and when she pressed it to her bottom lip, it formed a heart. How it was the most inopportune moment, and all I wanted was to kiss her, distract her from the conversation, and prove to her just how selfish I was.
Thank God, she didn’t give me the chance.
“You said you wanted me to know you, so tell me.” She smiled. “I, of all people, know what it’s like to have secrets.”
I brought my attention back to the painting. “That’s kind of why I don’t want to tell you. My shit doesn’t even compare.”
“Pain is not a contest,” she said. “Scars are scars. The blade may be different, but it still cuts us all the same.”
I smirked despite the mood. “You just went all Yoda on me.”
“Maybe you need a little Yoda in your life.” Her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, a poor attempt at hiding her smile.
“You should teach my therapist.”
“I probably could, when you spend at least eighty percent of your life in a behavioral health center, you learn a thing or two.”
“Shit. I wasn’t meaning it to sound—”
“I know.”
She closed the space and bumped her shoulder into my side. I wanted to wrap my arm around her waist and keep her there. Like a lifeline, I needed the light weight of Indie’s touch in order to tell her the worst parts of what I’d done. But I shouldn’t attach myself to her like that, shouldn’t allow her the possibility to sink with me. Royal would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.
“I mean it, though… I have a mental illness, it doesn’t mean the things you’ve gone through are any less important.”
“It’s the way you handle it. Your pain.” I raised my hand and waved it at her painting. “I chose to get drunk and kill myself.” The last part slipped out and I winced. “I mean… I didn’t try to kill myself.”
“You didn’t?” she asked in a thin-trembled whisper.
I allowed myself to look into her eyes again, find that strength, and maybe use it to get through these next few sentences. “I don’t think so. I got really wasted one night over break. I’d gotten into a huge fight with my dad, and I was still messed up over everything that had happened with Royal. Mad at myself for not calling him, mad at him for not standing up for himself. Kind of like my mom hadn’t stood up to my dad and let him come home after he’d been shacked up with his girlfriend.
Seven Shades of You Page 11
