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 dr
ags 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.
The coffeemaker stops. I prepare a cup and admire the picture, thinking a million thoughts.
Who is that other little boy?
Does he come from a good home, a good family?
If so, why does he travel the country like a vagabond?
If not, what caused him to leave them behind?
What is he running from?
Scheduled at the shelter later this afternoon, it affords me the morning to do what I like. I spend it cleaning up Holt’s apartment, to thank him for the night before. I throw on a tank top and paint-splattered overalls Meredith forgot to remove from the bottom dresser drawer and tie my hair into a sloppy bun. Turning on some essential eighties’ tunes to help the time go faster, I vacuum and wipe down every flat surface while getting down and funky. His place isn’t very messy. He keeps it rather tidy for a man. It’s comfortably lived in, but needs little attention.
Once I finish, I straighten up the first floor and sweep off the porch. Living in a small apartment off campus, I forgot the effort it takes to maintain a house of this size. I understand why my mom brought him here.
I smile, grateful for everything he’s done for us.
I stop cleaning when my stomach screams at me for sustenance. Figuring Holt must be hungry after his long morning working outside, I whip up tuna fish sandwiches, with a side of chips and lemonade, bringing it out to him at the paddock.
The rain-cleansed air is thick with the scent of damp earth. It hits me in the nose the second I step outside. It may even be a few degrees cooler today, which is appreciated with the record summer we’ve been having.
He doesn’t hear me approach, the radio blaring some alternative rock band. I slide the tray of food onto the makeshift table it’s sitting on, constructed from a large piece of plywood across two sawhorses, his tools neatly laid out across it. I walk up to him, his partially deformed back facing me, sweat glistening across its tanned skin. My fingers sting with the urge to run over the raised flesh. As they unconsciously gravitate toward the marred shoulder, he turns his focus from the fence, my hand withdrawing to my side.
“I thought you’d be about ready for lunch,” I comment.
“I’m starving,” he says, “but I want to finish fixing this gate first. Can I get your help for a second?”
“What do you need?”
He places the end of a plank to a post.
“Hold this in place while I secure the other end. Keep it even.”
He picks his side off the ground, screws pre-placed in the holes, and positions it against the stake. Taking a drill off his work belt, he lines the tip to the head of the screw and bores it in deep, repeating with the one below. He moves over to my end and does the same. Once we’re done, he removes his work gloves and shoves them into his back pocket.
“Thanks,” he says with a smirk.
I return one.
He handles the tray and follows me to a nice spot under the shade of a maple tree to eat our lunch. I sit between two roots at the base of the trunk. He sits on the ground next to me and sets the tray between our outstretched legs. I hand him his plate, and he digs in immediately.
“Hope you like tuna.”
He nods, chewing on a mouthful. “I’m not picky,” he says after swallowing. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I reply, “for being understanding, listening to me, helping me get through the storm last night, everything.”
“If I said I didn’t get anything out of it, I’d be lying.”
“How?” I ask, placing my hand over my mouth to hide the huge wad of tuna tumbling around inside.
“Traveling around is isolating.” He breaks off and flings a corner of his sandwich at Max lounging in the shade nearby. He gobbles it down before it hits the ground. “I enjoy my time with you, Hathaway. I don’t feel so isolated.”
I respond, “I’ve enjoyed my time with you, too, Turner.”
Maybe more than I should.
He lifts his hand to my face.
“You have some—” He wipes mayo from my bottom lip with his thumb, then onto the leg of his jeans. I nervously lick my lower lip, making sure it’s all gone.
His devastating eyes loiter on my mouth before they fall away. We continue to eat our sandwiches, silently regarding the lake in the distance.
Once we’ve finished, we sit a while longer, enjoying the quiet and our lemonades. A part of me wants to talk about the picture I found this morning, but I’m not the kind of person—usually—to push personal boundaries. I like keeping myself at a distance. You can’t get hurt. Plus, it probably wouldn’t make him happy I went rooting through his personals. I’d hate to rock the boat when we’ve managed to keep it from tipping over.
“I’m going to get back to work,” he says, shattering the silence.
He stands and dusts off the grass blades clinging to the back of his jeans. I catch myself staring and avert my gaze to the grass.
Something shifted during the storm, something I can’t pinpoint, but it’s there. I want to know this man, understand those physical scars, and discover the scars you can’t see, the ones on his heart, the ones responsible for the sadness behind those ochre eyes. I want to know Holt Turner—and it terrifies me to death.
three colors, blue, red, and yellow, the foundation for all color combinations
I finish at the shelter and run one or two errands before driving home for the evening. When I get there, I take my supplies into the kitchen. My mom must be out because he
r car’s gone. But I saw the light on in Holt’s room, so he’s probably upstairs reading, which gives me free range to do what I need. I mix the ingredients into a bowl, place the mixture into a baking pan, and shove it in the oven. Then I start dinner.
When everything’s ready and set out on the table outside, I call for Holt, “Could you come down here?”
He appears from the back door a few moments later, his eyes growing large at the birthday cake lit up on the table.
“I know I missed it, but I thought—”
“You did this for me?” he asks, astonished.
“You’ve done so much for me and my mom. You deserve someone to recognize your special day. I don’t know. Consider it a peace offering.” The corners of his mouth curve skyward. “Blow out your candles.”
He steps toward the table slowly, as if the cake’s going to explode in his face. He inspects it and then me, his eyes delaying on my lips.
“Make a wish.”
He leans above the glowing dessert and extinguishes the flickering flames with a single strong breath.
“What did you wish for?”
He stands up straight and glances at me with a secretive smile. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
“You can’t possibly believe that.”
“Maybe not, but I really want this one.”
Our gaze locks.
“I hope you’re hungry.” I sever the contact of our eyes, increasingly uncomfortable by the way his seem to see right through mine. “I made a feast.”
“You made me dinner?”
“I made us dinner, but yes.” I pull out his chair with a bouquet of balloons tied to the back. “Sit.”
I go into the house and bring out the plates and bowls of food. We eat, mostly in contented silence. When the last bite is swallowed, I reach under my chair and place the present in the center of the table, wrapped in newspaper.
“You really didn’t have to do any of this,” he says, glimpsing around at the streamers and balloons.
Secondary Colors Page 7
