Secondary Colors

by Aubrey Brenner

  “True.” I reach for his hand, but stop midway across the table and rest it there. It may be too intimate. “I wanted to.” I nudge my head toward the gift in front of him. “Open it.”

  He tears strips of paper off until it comes apart, revealing the stack of books.

  “I thought you might like those.”

  He runs the tips of his fingers over the hardcover, tracing the gold filigree of the top title. I chose from the unread books on his list, most of them classics. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck, and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

  His eyes acknowledge me from underneath his distinctive brows.

  “Evie, this is—Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” When we stare too long, I tear my eyes from his and exclaim, “Now, let us eat cake,” trying to break the thick tension between us.

  I succeed.

  He laughs.

  And I laugh.

  Then we have our cake and eat it, too.

  The next afternoon, I venture upstairs to Holt’s room. I’ve been thinking about him all day, what we talked about during the storm, about my painting. I miss it.

  As I walk the second floor hall, I pass the room where my supplies are stored. I hesitate briefly at the door before opening it. The hall floods with light from the room. My canvases are stacked neatly on the floor, my paints lined up on the table, and my brushes in paint-stained jars on the shelves. I pluck one out and touch the soft bristles.

  “It killed me when you stopped painting. You were so talented.”

  I face my mom. Her face is sullen.

  “It was my choice.” I set the brush back into the jar.

  “I know you thought you had to sacrifice what you love, but you didn’t. You don’t. I hope there’s a day when your own happiness will be important, too.”

  She kisses me on the forehead and exits the room, giving me time alone with my thoughts. I wonder if I even have the ability to paint anymore. What would I paint?

  Giving the room one last sentimental glance, I start to shut the door on my way out, but I jump back when Holt’s voice comes from my right. “She’s right, you know.”

  My heart jumps up my throat. I place my hand over my forehead at the rush from the sudden loss of blood to my brain.

  Holt’s leaning against the wall, one of the books I gave him in his hand, his finger holding his place.

  “About what?”

  “You’re talented. If you get pleasure from painting, you should continue to pursue it. Your happiness is important, Evie.”

  “It’s been a long time.” I glimpse into the room housing my works through the cracked open door.

  “Since you’ve painted?”

  “Since I’ve been happy,” I correct him, crossing my arms over my stomach.

  “Maybe it’s time you were,” he says, stepping closer to me, shrinking the already restricted gap between us.

  “Um,” I clear my throat, “yeah. Maybe.”

  He reaches up with the hand not occupied by his book, touching my bare upper arm with his knuckles. My eyes follow it, but I don’t stop him. He moves toward me again, our toes touching. His hand moves over my shoulder, up my neck, and into my hair, his fingers braiding with the work-mussed strands. My eye line drifts to his mouth, with those pouty, ready-to-kiss lips. His tongue peeks out from the crease between, wetting those lips, making them more appetizing. And now they’re moving at mine, dangerously close to making contact.

  The house phone rings, as if by divine intervention, stopping his lips close to mine. I swear I taste him on my tongue. It’s not that I don’t want them to shut the barely there distance between us. The opposite actually. I want it more than I should.

  My mother must’ve answered because it stops mid-ring. We’re paused, our mouths parted by no more space than a folded sheet of paper could slide through.

  “Violet, phone!”

  Widening our proximity, I stride back, my shoulder bumping into the frame of the doorway.

  “Coming,” I mean to call back, but it comes out a squeaky whisper. Before she repeats herself, I hurry downstairs and pick up the receiver off the little table, placing it to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Evie,” Aidan’s warm voice greets me.

  “Aid.”

  Happiness slips across my lips, the same lips only a moment before nearly connected with Holt’s. I press my fingertips over their plumpness, the warmth of his breath on them.

  “I was calling to see if you’d like to go out with me tomorrow night, the two of us.”

  There’s something very conventional about this, him calling my house and asking me on a proper date. But that’s Aidan. He’s an old-school gentlemen through and through.

  I notice a blurry figure move out of the corner of my eye and glimpse over my shoulder. Watching me with a fixed gaze, Holt stands on the bottom step of the staircase. A flash of his lips moving toward mine invades my psyche. I pause at the thought—then beat it off with an invisible stick.

  “Yeah,” I answer, “I’d like that.”

  “Great,” he exclaims. The excitement in his voice is palpable, but he tries to keep it in check. “Can’t wait.”

  When I realize Holt is still hanging around, I turn my back to him and lean against the wall, whispering into the speaker of the phone, “I can’t wait either. See you tomorrow.”

  I hang up, a firm grin crinkling the corners of my eyes.

  “Who was that?” Holt inquires, now propped against the post of the staircase across from me.

  “Your best friend,” I retort sarcastically and skip down the hall to my room, shutting the door behind me.

  I actually experience butterflies when I ready for my date the next evening. I haven’t felt this since—well, Aidan. I push the past (a dangerous subject) out of my brain and bend down in front of my vanity to double check my make-up.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Holt lurks in my doorway, leaning on the frame. He takes a bite of an apple, pretending as if he doesn’t know exactly where I’m going.

  “Out.”

  “With that poor fucking sap from the other day?”

  “No.” I apply a final coat of peach-tinted gloss, rubbing my lips together to spread the color evenly. “With Aidan Channing, from the other day.”

  “Is there a difference?” he asks, creating this obnoxious smacking sound with his mouth.

  I smooth my palms over my dress, a white lace number with a flowing mid-thigh skirt, three quarter length sleeves, and a V-neck collar. I accessorized it with combat boots and a long-chained pendent necklace handed down from daughter to daughter for five generations. I pinch it between my thumb and pointer, admiring its tarnished beauty.

  Daughter to daughter.

  Tears threaten to ruin my makeup.

  “You aren’t going to get to me tonight, Holt. Anyway, what does it matter who I go out with?”

  “It doesn’t really.” He takes another huge bite of the crisp fruit. The juice runs down his chin, disappearing with a swipe of the back of his hand. “I have a date, too.”

  “You have a date? Who would be crazy enough to do that?”

  “Makayla.” I sense the self-satisfaction in his tone. “She mentioned you were jealous of her in high school.”

  “I was not jealous.”

  “Hm. Apparently, you still are.”

  “You’re such a child.” A knock on the front door makes him stiffen. “Who’s jealous now?” I ask, picking up my purse and shoving past him out of my room.

  “Maybe we’ll see you tonight,” he threatens me.

  I ignore him and answer the door.

  “Wow,” Aidan mumbles, a bouquet of white daisies clinched in his hand, dressed in black slacks and an ironed dress shirt.

  “Wow, yourself,” I compliment him back.

  “These are for you.” He hands me the flowers. “They reminded me of that dress you had when y
ou were a kid.”

  When I was five, I wore this pink dress with little white daisies almost every day. My mom washed it so much, the daisies withered, fading until you couldn’t distinguish what they were anymore. The fact he remembers that, makes those butterflies flutter wildly.

  “You’re sweet.” I lightly play with one of the petals.

  “Yeah,” Holt agrees sardonically as he comes down the hall, “like antifreeze.”

  I shoot daggers at him from my eyes, sweetening my expression when I turn back to Aidan.

  “Let me put them in water, and I’ll be ready to go,” I tell him with a softhearted smirk. “Please come inside.”

  He steps inside while I take the flowers to the kitchen, placing them in a mason jar and adding water. The door swings open behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Holt.

  “Daisies? How ordinary of him.”

  “I like daisies,” I comment, adjusting the flowers to fill any gaps. “It’s thoughtful and gentlemanly in an age when men seldom remember what that means. Maybe you should take notes for your date. Something suitable for her personality—Might I suggest the Venus flytrap?”

  His face dips, trying to contain his amusement.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  We drive the two lane road toward town, trees out my window flying past us. The radio plays softly to drown any lulls in conversation, which are often. There’s a space between us, overflowing with everything we need to say.

  “I like the footwear,” he states out of the blue.

  I glimpse down at my boots.

  “Most of the girls you date wear heels, I suppose.”

  “That’s why I like them. They’re different.” He smiles. “You’re different.”

  “Is different good?”

  “Different is great.” His voice tapers. “You make me glad I came home.” His lips shutter on unspoken words.

  I set my hand over his, trying to ease his nerves. “I’m happy you came home, too, Aid.”

  We turn off the main road into town and pull up to The Grand Victorian, a lavish manor turned hotel with a four-star restaurant set on the outskirts of Aurora. It’s where the wealthier sect dine when they aren’t at the country club. It’s the nicest place in town, maybe New Hampshire.

  While Aidan speaks to the hostess, I admire the grandeur of the lobby, the sheening marble floors, the rich dark wood of the walls and grand staircase, the antique glass light fixtures. It’s right out of another century.

  Aidan gets my attention with a guiding hand on my upper back. The hostess leads us out the rear to the well-manicured grounds in the back. The outdoor dining area rests against beautiful lush woods, perched above the river, with granite boulders scattered down the banks. Antique lanterns with pale blue glass and lights strung like bright pearls hang overhead. Everything lends to a romantic evening.

  We take our seats at a table right beside the serene river passing by, saturating the night with the gentle hum of surging water.

  “I’ve always wanted to come here,” I comment. “Thank you in advance for a great night.”

  “It’s my pleasure in advance. You were perfect company.”

  Before we have time to get into a conversation, our server approaches the table.

  “Welcome to The Grand Victorian. My name is Jason. I’ll be taking care of you this evening. May I start you off with drinks?”

  “Actually, I’m ready to order,” Aidan says, but I haven’t even picked up the menu. “We’ll both have the stuffed brook trout with rice and mixed greens. To drink, two glasses of water and a bottle of whichever white wine the chef suggests with the meal.”

  Our waiter nods, jots down his instructions, and then hastily shuffles off to the kitchen.

  “How do you know if I like fish?” I ask him with a lighthearted smirk.

  “Evie, I’ve known you my whole life.” He smiles. “Besides, it’s the best dish in the house. I promise you’ll love it.”

  “I’m sure I will. I’m not picky.”

  A sudden hush comes over the table, the calm before the storm.

  “Evie, I was wrong for what I did. I regret the way I left things with you.”

  I place my hand over his on the table. “You don’t have to feel guilty about our night together.”

  “Um, I don’t regret what happened between us. It’s what I did the next day I’m not proud of. You deserved better than to wake up to find me gone.”

  “It wasn’t easy for me, Aidan. I won’t lie. I thought I’d done something wrong.”

  “No. It wasn’t you. It was me. All me.”

  “Why did you stay away these past four years?”

  “I had my reasons, but you weren’t one of them. Honestly, you’re the main reason I came back. I’ve felt terrible about what I did, and I didn’t know if I’d get another chance—” His voice dwindles.

  “Another chance at what?”

  He takes my fingers into his hand, running the pad of his thumb over the knuckles.

  “To tell you I cared about you, Evie. Even when you thought I didn’t see you, I did. That night was special to me. It meant something. I needed you to know, or it would be another regret.”

  “Where does that leave us now?”

  “If you’ll let me, I would like an opportunity to make it up to you, treat you the way you deserved all those years ago. I know you’re leaving, but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together.”

  “I’d really like that.”

  Hearing his explanation makes the past four years altogether different, thinking he never cared and stayed away because of me. I’d done a lot of healing during that time, trying to get over the heartbreak of waking on the shore of the lake alone, cold, confused—pregnant.

  He deserves to know what happened after our night together, but it’s better left for another time. I wouldn’t want to ruin the evening he planned. Luckily, we don’t dig further into it. Instead, he entertains me with stories about Northwestern and the places he’s vacationed over dinner. He was right to order the trout. Everything is better than I’d expected—until thoughts of Holt and Makayla on their date taint my mood. The idea of them together, pawing at one another, probably having hard, filthy—

  “Are you okay?” Aidan covers my hand with his, appearing alarmed. I notice a distinct contrast between his privileged touch to the well-worked roughness of Holt’s. I mentally swat away the swarm of irritating thoughts buzzing around my head like gnats.

  “I’m fine.” I pacify his concern. I’m unable to do the same for my own.

  We drive into the heart of Aurora for dessert at Queenie’s Ice Palace, an old-fashion gourmet ice cream parlor owned by my mom’s best friend Queenie. It’s a busy night for her, so we make plans for her to come see me when she has a day off. I order strawberry cheesecake delight, and Aidan gets coffee hazelnut swirl, which she gives to us on the house.

  “Tell Meredith to call me,” she shouts as we exit. I wave so she knows I heard her. We stroll down Main Street while we eat our after dinner treat. It’s to die for delicious, rendering us speechless.

  “I’ve missed this,” I comment, licking the pink cream dripping down the sides of the cone. It’s a warm one tonight, but the cool treat helps.

  “I’ve missed lots of things about Aurora.”

  I note the intent stare he’s giving me.

  “You’ve been missed as well.” I smirk at him, a hot blush on my cheeks, before I continue to lap up my dessert.

  Taken by surprise, Aidan’s fingers lace with mine.

  “So,” he says, considering our hands linked and hanging between us, “this is what I lost out on.”

  His statement sends me for a loop. I’ve waited years to hear him say sweet somethings to me, speak to me with admiration in his voice. Yet I’m completely void of words.

  “Why did you stay away?” I ask, leading back toward the topic of his absence. I’m curious what makes this summer different than the past three. “If
it wasn’t me, then what?”

  “Family issues.”

  He has no idea.

  “Why come back now?”

  As we pass under a streetlamp, I see him pondering the answer.

  “I’m finally ready to face things I’ve been turning my back on for a long time,” he admits, taking a big taste of hazelnut coffee ice cream into his mouth.

  “What are you ready to face?”

  He opens his mouth to speak but pauses when he notices something ahead of us.

  Ah, hazelnut ice cream, I think when I spot the last people I want to see coming at us.

  “What do we have here?” Makayla asks with an insufferable smirk smeared over her mouth, her eyes skipping between Aid and me. She offers Aid a snide snarl before setting her sights on me. She doesn’t like me spending time with her ex-boyfriend, even if she broke things off. She’s always been territorial over Aidan. And now it seems, Holt.

  “I was going to ask the same thing,” I reply with a nauseated grimace.

  Makayla clasps proudly onto Holt’s arm, hung lifelessly down at his side, as if he couldn’t care less he has hands down the most beautiful girl in town clinging to him.

  “We had the best dinner,” she brags enthusiastically, adoring him with a dreamy gaze. It turns my stomach. Holt’s eyes remain forward, targeted on me. “Didn’t we?” she probes him sweetly.

  “Sure,” he answers. His transfixion falters only once. When it moves down to my hand joined with Aid’s.

  “I’m sure it was divine,” I remark irreverently.

  Makayla aims a murderous glare at me. I ignore her and glower at Holt. We stay this way for a blink or two, staring each other down, waiting until one of us breaks, forfeiting this pointless contest.

  Aidan wavers first, “Well,” clearly wanting to get out of this situation quickly, “I guess we’ll be going then.”

  He crooks his arm for me. I slip mine through, comfortably resting my hand in the bend of his elbow. He guides me past them. When I glimpse back, they’re standing where we left them, Holt watching me move further away from him.

  We park lakeside. The pale blue moonlight flickering off the choppy surface of the black water. It’s an unusually clear night, everything faintly visible, bathed in the moon’s bright rays.