Secondary Colors

by Aubrey Brenner

  “Why do you memorize it?”

  “Because it’s the only photo I have of him and it’s falling apart. I’m afraid I’ll forget his face once it’s gone.”

  His head falls back into the gap between his knees. I inch closer, cradling my tired limbs about him. We sit on the hard wood floor, him curled up like a lost child, me holding him with silent understanding, until we become stiff from lack of motion. I lift my cheek from the back of his head when his fingers clench to my forearm.

  “Come back to bed,” I insist gently.

  He bobs his head once.

  I stand and hold a hand out to him. He looks at it then my face.

  “I’m stronger than I appear,” I comment, shaking my hand for him to take. His large hand clasps on, as if we’re about to arm wrestle, and I help him to his feet.

  As I tow him back to our fort of pillows and sheets, he says in a low tone, “You are strong, Evie.”

  I know he isn’t talking about my physical strength.

  I shrug. “I had to be, I guess.”

  Listening to the quiet of midnight, we lie in bed, holding each other.

  “Tell me something about yourself,” he whispers, cutting through it with a serrated knife, “something ugly.”

  I dig into his side, hiding the hesitancy tightening my expression. “Why?” I mumble into his shoulder, feeling vulnerable lying naked in his arms.

  His fingers move up into my hair, combing them through the mess of brown.

  “If I promise to tell you about my scar, will you tell me?”

  “You would do that?”

  I sit up. He does the same, sweeping my hair over one shoulder and kissing the exposed line of my neck.

  “Yes,” he hisses into my ear, his lips caressing the sensitive skin behind it.

  I turn my head away from him, my eyes shut, and tuck my legs into my chest.

  “I’m afraid,” I confess. I didn’t mean to let it out. It was an accident.

  He turns my face back to his, inches from mine.

  “Me, too, Evie.”

  His eyes hold that beautiful sadness, a sadness I’ve seen less and less of lately. I’d like to believe it has something to do with me, but it’s wishful thinking.

  “When I was ten,” he says, volunteering to go first to ease my nerves, “and Alex was about six, we moved to another foster home in the country. It wasn’t very clean and pretty rundown. They were shitty people. They wanted the money that came with us. They had four other kids living there, all boys. They wanted boys because they could use us to work the farm. The rare time we had free was during school, but we came right back home after to continue our chores from the morning. It was bad, but bearable. Until Al, our foster father, started abusing us. We knew he would hit the other boys when they did wrong in his eyes, which didn’t take much. We were beaten, deprived of food and sleep on a daily basis…for six years.

  “One day, my brother and some of the other boys were playing catch outside. It wasn’t something we got to do often, but Verna was out and Al was drunk again, passed out inside. He didn’t like when his drunken naps were disturbed, so we were trying to keep quiet, but my brother was laughing and screaming and being a kid. Al came charging out of the house, wasted and enraged, the bottle of whiskey in his hand. He grabbed my brother by his collar and dragged him across the dirt toward this tumble-down wood toolshed. He threw him inside and bolted the lock on the door. We thought he’d leave him in there, like he’d done to us other boys before. We’d get him out when Al went to pass out again and that would be that.”

  He chokes back tears, his Adam’s apple wobbling in his throat when he swallows down the agony.

  “But then he started pouring liquor all over the door and the walls. He smashed the bottle against the door when my brother cried out for me. He pulled out a match, lit it, and flicked it at the booze-soaked wood. The shed went up in flames. We ran at him, one of the older boys grabbed a shovel and knocked him across the face while the rest of us tried breaking down the door. When we finally busted the lock, I ran inside. It was like running into the flames of hell. It was hard to see past the smoke. It was everywhere. It burned my lungs. It burned my eyes. I couldn’t see him at first. When I found him, he was passed out on the floor. I picked him up and ran out, but my sleeve caught on fire. I woke up in the grass a few minutes later in agonizing pain. And my brother was gone.

  “My brother and I, we pretty much relied on each other growing up. I would try to take his punishments if I could help it. It hurt more to watch him suffer than to take the pain for him. He was the only thing I had in the world. I was supposed to protect him.”

  “You risked your own life to save his, Holt. What more could you have done?”

  “I would’ve died if it meant he could’ve lived one more day.”

  “I’m sure you would’ve.” I set my cheek on his chest, running my nails over his skin. “Is it wrong that I’m glad you’re here with me?”

  “No.” His voice is gentle and genuine. “For the first time since his death, I’m thankful I survived. You’re the reason, Evie.”

  I hide my face in his neck, not wanting him to see the tears taking my eyes hostage.

  “You shouldn’t say those type of things to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know.”

  “No, Violet, I don’t. Explain to me why I can’t be honest with you.”

  “Because if you do,” I pause. I don’t even know how to continue. “I should go to my own bed.”

  I start to climb out of his, but his arm hooks about my stomach. I glance down at it then his face. He’s staring at me with no in his eyes. Without a word, he brings me back into him and rests his head against mine.

  “You’re where you should be.”

  “That’s what scares me.”

  “Why does the idea of us connecting in any real way close you off?”

  “Because I don’t want to get close to you. My heart and trust have been broken too many times. They can’t be pieced back together with glue like a broken vase. They’re unrepairable.”

  “Things like that take time, Evie. But you’ll never heal if you don’t accept the situations responsible first.”

  “I’ve already accepted my father abandoned me.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever see him?”

  “Rarely. And only if I come to him, which is every few years. Mostly we communicate over the phone or through cards. Even those are far and few between.”

  “That must be really hard for you, losing your father.”

  “It could be worse. It’s not as if he died.”

  “Would that really make it worse? For me, it would be better if he weren’t alive. At least there’s a good excuse for him not being around for his own daughter.”

  His view is slightly morbid, but it comes from an honest place.

  “I’d never really thought of it in that context. But I guess you’re right. It does feel worse.”

  “Hey,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

  “Oh, no. I’m okay. It’s not as if you not saying it makes it any less true or real. I’ve just never considered your view on it.”

  “Do you know why he left?”

  “My parents’ marriage fell apart. And he took the easy way out.”

  “Were they always unhappy together?”

  “No, actually, they were really in love—until they weren’t.”

  “Tell me about how they met,” he says.

  I realize he’s making conversation to keep my mind off my near freak out. And it’s working.

  “My parents met while my father was studying law at Dartmouth College in Hanover. My mother was a townie, working at Dine and Dash where travelers and college students would frequent during trips up north or after camping in the nearby woods, my dad being one. He came in one night, in need of directions, and she was the only waitress working. She gave him
directions and served him dinner, even joining him since there was no one else there that night.

  “After that, my father would come in on weekends. He would sit and chat with her while she worked. Once they got to know each other a bit, he would escort her home. Next, he asked her to join him for walks along the river, basket lunches near the lake, drinking lemonade on the back patio, real old-fashioned courting. It was how my mother’s family was, extremely traditional, unlike Meredith. I think it’s her way of rebelling against ritual. Anyway, a month into casually seeing one another, he finally asked her out on a real date. That evening, they shared their first kiss on the porch of this very house.

  “When they finally made it official, everything went really fast. It was a whirlwind romance. Only ninety days after they first met, my father asked my mother to marry him. They were a few weeks later, and nine months down the road, I came into the world. We had a happy life, which is why I was blindsided by their divorce. They were really good at hiding their issues from me. I don’t even know why they fought.

  “He just left us in the dead of night without even a goodbye. He didn’t wait for the paperwork to finalize before he ran to New York. Once it was said and done, they didn’t pretend to get along. At times, I wonder if I’m committing the same sin, if my desire to be closer to my father after he abandoned us is an act of betrayal.”

  “Is that why you’re moving there, for him?”

  “Not entirely. A chance to get to know him again would be a perk. But I want to talk about art all day long. It’s what I’ve been working towards and New York is the place to do it.”

  “Did he ask you to come live down there?”

  “No,” I murmur, ashamed.

  I’ve never been one to chase a man, desperate for his attention. Even Aidan, I didn’t follow him around like a lost puppy. I simply longed for him, usually in the privacy of my room or to Taylor. I was happy loving him from afar.

  My father has always been the one who eluded me, like a unicorn or some other mythical creature impossible to obtain. I realize how nutty it sounds, pathetic even, but all I’ve ever wanted was his affection.

  “Even if it wasn’t his idea, I’m sure he wants you there, Evie,” he assures me, but I know he’s only trying to make me feel less lame. “How could he not?”

  “I’d give anything to believe that.” I want to change the topic of discussion.

  “That’s not the cause of your recent sadness though, is it?”

  “You see it?”

  “You’re as transparent as glass.” He turns me over and lies on top of me, his face suspended above mine. “At least, you are to me.” He swipes his finger over my lips. “I see you, Evie.” I choke back my sudden urge to cry like a baby. “Tell me what pains you,” he pleads before kissing the corner of my lips.

  “You won’t see me the same way if I tell you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ll see me as spoiled.”

  “Well, I already think you’re spoiled.” His face is serious. It takes me back until the smirk creeps over his mouth.

  “You’re a jerk,” I proclaim with a giggle, pinching him in his side. He laughs and jerks away. He stops laughing.

  “You could never be anything more or less to me than who you are, Evie.”

  The sincerity in his eyes tells me I can trust him and his words.

  “It’s about Aidan,” I warn him, half-expecting him to stop me there. But he doesn’t. “I was in love with him my whole life. He was the only guy I trusted for a long time. He was there for me after my father. But in all the years I loved him, I never told him. At the end of summer, before we went our separate ways, Aidan’s parents threw this big party for him. When he found me by the shore, he seemed upset but he wouldn’t tell me why. I guess he’d seen our parents together. He took my hand and walked us away from everyone. We walked along the sand until the sounds and light from the party were faint. He laid a blanket out on the shore he’d brought and a bottle of bourbon he stole. We sat there drinking the awful stuff and talking about the future, the past, everything and anything we could think to discuss.

  “We drank until the last drop of booze was gone. We talked until there was nothing left to say except the things we never thought we would. I told him I’d had feelings for him. He told me he did, too. Before I knew what was happening, we were kissing and then—I woke up the next morning, wrapped in the blanket, naked and alone. I dressed in my cold, sandy, damp clothes and walked back to my house. It was pathetic.

  “Over the next three months, I threw myself into my studies and work. I’d noticed I was getting pudgy about the waist. I thought it was stress from school and excessive eating, which I’d been doing plenty of. But then other things weren’t showing up. During Christmas break, I’d found out I—was pregnant.” I pause here, to give him a second to let it sink in. I know that word can make any man buckle.

  “Did you have the baby?”

  “Yes. A girl.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I gave the baby up for adoption. My aunt and uncle were having a hard time conceiving their own child. They were the right age, with a good home and careers. They could provide my daughter what I couldn’t, but I’d stay in her life, watch her grow up, love her openly.”

  “Does it hurt you to be seen as a cousin rather than her mother?”

  “It kills me.”

  “Does Aidan know?”

  “No,” I mutter.

  “Evie.”

  “It isn’t what you think. I’ve tried. I tried when I first found out I was pregnant.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “His mother.”

  “His mother? She knows you were pregnant?”

  “Yes. When I showed up on his doorstep, she answered. She took one glance at my protruding belly and knew. She told me I could ruin my life all I want, but I wasn’t going to ruin Aidan’s. She insisted I get rid of it. She wanted me to abort it. But it was too late. There was no turning back. I was too far along at that point. She was furious. She told me I was never to tell Aidan about it, that I was a whore, and me and my spawn would have nothing to do with her and her family. I knew then I had to give her up. I didn’t want her to grow up fatherless. I wanted her to have everything I couldn’t give her, everything I wanted for myself. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Be selfless and provide your children everything you never had?”

  “Yes, of course it is. Even though I know she would have wanted for nothing with you as her mother, you made the right choice.”

  “There are times when I’m sure I didn’t.” My lips tremble and my eyes water over. “I gave her away. I gave my baby away,” I cry, breaking down for the first time. I never allowed myself to cry over losing her. But I wasn’t going to deny my heart of that right anymore.

  “You’re so strong, Evie. You’re so strong.” He kisses me over my face, repeating this mantra in between each one. He’s tender and loving and everything I need. He kisses at the wet trails of tears streaming across my cheeks and over my neck. He kisses me until my tears run dry. As I whimper out the final invisible tears, he cradles me to him, my body easing into his with a decompressing exhale.

  “I was thinking,” he says, “about your daughter. Is she the reason you stopped painting?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Why?”

  “After I had her, I wanted to focus on bettering myself. I couldn’t let my giving her up be in vain. I worked my ass off to ensure I graduated with a 4.0 GPA. I sacrificed my art, my social life, and sleep. Anything that didn’t work toward my goal was a waste of time. But I’ve missed it all these years. It’s thanks to you for my starting again. You’ve changed me.”

  He takes my face into his callous hands and kisses me on the tip of my nose and then my mouth.

  “You’ve done the same for me, Evie.”

  areas of the composition that

  aren’t the main subject

  The next mor
ning, I wake early. Since we had such a late night, I’m surprised I’m up at the butt crack of dawn. I turn myself over to face Holt. He’s lying on his stomach, sleeping heavily. I doubt he’s slept much in the past week. It gives me a chance to survey the damaged skin in the early daylight. It’s the most beautiful flaw I’ve ever seen, as if it was painted on by a Realist, marbleized with depths of pink and white. My fingers are drawn to it. Before they touch the imperfection, I catch something in my peripheral. My eyes drop to his. They’re open and watching me. I wait for him to stop me, my fingers hanging over it, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t breathe a word. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He watches me, granting me silent consent to proceed, remaining on his stomach.

  It’s soft, but the muscle underneath is hard.

  He turns over, his eyes on mine, and scoops his arms around me. I’m under him within a few movements, his hips widening my thighs. His mouth hovers over mine, coming down sporadically with tender flitting touches. My eyes close over at the electric volts branching through my bloodstream, detonating every atom in my body from tip to toe.

  After dragging my lazy bones out of Holt’s bed and arms, I drive into town to buy groceries, the fridge nearly bare. I’m walking out of the store, my free hand shoved in my purse, ten bags hanging heavily from my arms, my fingers searching the fathomless pit for my keys. Focused on the impossible task, I’m distracted, not noticing my arch-nemesis coming straight for me until it’s too late.

  “You have a lot of nerve showing your face around here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t act innocent. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  I glance around at the eyes contently homed in on us, ears up and turned in our direction, paused and waiting for juicy small town gossip.

  “I don’t have time for these games, Kayla. I’m busy.” I attempt to walk past her, but she isn’t having it. She clutches my upper arm and tugs me back. “Get your hands off me before I snap them off. You might’ve been the big bad bitch back in high school, but this isn’t grade school, and I won’t hesitate to clean your fucking clock.”