Secondary Colors

by Aubrey Brenner

  I spend the day at the cottage with Holt, having one of our endless conversations. We tried not to bring up the impending deadline on our—arrangement. I hadn’t expected him to become more than he was. But he snuck in somewhere along the way.

  Was it when he vanished for a week? When we had sex? When his lips touched mine for the first time? Or was it before that, when our eyes met in the garden on my arrival home?

  I decide it wasn’t at once. It had crept up on me, stealthily, growing and budding like a flower.

  When I enter the kitchen, Meredith asks, “Were you able to find Holt?” without turning to confirm it’s me. Mother’s really do have eyes on the back of their heads. She also knows the answer.

  I step up to the counter, next to the stove, and lean my stomach into it. “Yes.”

  “It was very kind of him to help us,” she remarks with a serenity on her face. I hate to be the one to remove it.

  “Yeah,” I agree absently. She must hear the lack of conviction in my voice.

  “Is everything alright, baby?”

  “No.” I drop my face, evading her gaze. I’ll lose my courage. I could dance around it, or— I steel my nerves of jelly. “I know about your affair with Mr. Channing.”

  She stops stirring.

  Now she’s the one evading eye contact.

  “Who told you?”

  She doesn’t try to deny it.

  Good.

  I respect that.

  Plus, I couldn’t take another lie.

  “It doesn’t matter who told me. It’s out there.”

  “Violet,” she wilts under the shame, “it’s more complex than a simple affair. It isn’t a fling.”

  “A Rubik’s Cube is complex. This is—” I bend over the counter, my feet crossed at the ankle, my elbows on the cool tile, and cradle my face in my palms when a nauseating wave wipes me out, massaging my temples with my fingertips.

  “What, baby?” With the hand not clenching a dishtowel, she rubs my back with broad circular strokes. “Talk to me.”

  I straighten up and face her, gathering the courage from her nurturing touch.

  “Christina knows.” Her eyes flash. “Not only does she know, she told him to do it. They knew you were stressed financially. That’s why Charles has been persuading you to sell the lake. If they get it, they’ll probably kick us and everyone else out of our homes because that’s the kind of people they are. I wasn’t going to butt in until I found out their intentions. I thought you should know who you were sleeping with.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?” Tears make her voice faint and unsteady.

  “At first, I was upset and hurt. Holt convinced me it wasn’t my business who you choose to be with.”

  “He knows, too.”

  “Everyone knows, Mom.”

  In an eerily calm manner, she places the dishrag on the counter, turns, and walks toward the kitchen door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To do what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

  Two hours pass since she stormed out and isn’t home yet. I’ve been tirelessly pacing the porch or sitting on the steps out front waiting, fending off mosquitos from making me their early evening meal. I have no idea what she intended to do, but I hope she doesn’t do anything irrational.

  When the gravel driveway crunches under the tires of her car, I jump up. She appears withered, emotionally empty. I want to give her time to unwind and gauge her bearings, but I’m too curious to allow her the courtesy.

  “What did you do?” I ask, swallowing down the lump floating in my throat since she left.

  “I don’t have the strength to talk about it now, baby.”

  She runs her fingers through my hair, a sad, weak grimace flashing across her lips, and then walks into the house and up the stairs. My eyes stalk her until her bedroom door shuts.

  “What was that about?” Holt’s soothing voice says from the shadows of the garden.

  I turn to him. He’s walking up the pathway, the lines of his face contorted with concern and confusion.

  “She knows about Christina and Charles. She just got back from talking with him. At least, I think. She didn’t say anything.”

  “You did it.”

  “It didn’t feel the way I thought it would. When I saw the pain on her face, I wanted to curl up and die. I hate hurting my mother.”

  “You’re a good daughter. You did the right thing. She had a right to know about what they were planning.”

  “Then why do I feel the opposite?”

  “Because you love her.” He pulls me into him and hugs me close, his chin resting heavily atop my head. “It might not make a difference, but I’m proud of you, Violet.”

  A warm prickle pools in my tummy like a shot of tequila, but this makes me drunk on relief and happiness.

  “It does,” I whisper, letting out a shuddered, dragged-out breath. When I inhale again, I take in the undeniable musk of him after a day of hard work. It eases me and makes me feel surrounded by him. “Let’s go up to your room,” I suggest, my fingers fiddling with the collar of his dirty white T-shirt.

  His fingers spread out across my lower back, curl into fists, and clench the bottom of my shirt, becoming more stimulating than consoling.

  “I’d love a shower,” he says, leaning into my ear. “I’ve never had you in the shower.”

  I’m thankful he can’t see the need in my eyes and shyness on my cheeks.

  After our shower, dressed in only his plaid shirt, I cook dinner while he reads. After another long day of working on that cottage and the amazing feats he executed in the shower barely big enough for one, he deserves time to read and wind down.

  Occasionally, the sensation of his fiery autumn eyes burn into my back, but I don’t confirm. Instead, I work on feeding his stomach and let his eyes have their fill. I’m beginning to like the way it makes the hairs on my body stand on end. I’m no longer unsure about the intensity in which his gaze follows me.

  I distribute beef stir-fry in two bowls, dishing him a heartier portion, and grab two sets of chopsticks, bringing them over to the bed. I hand him his dish and sit facing him on the mattress, in the alcove between his outstretched legs, mine bent over his. He’s never eaten with the wooden utensil, so I demonstrate. He fails his first attempts, the food dropping into the bowl before it reaches his open mouth.

  I giggle at him fumbling with the thin sticks, but he seems determined to figure it out.

  “Bring the bowl closer to your mouth,” I suggest.

  He lifts it under his chin, pinching a bit of meat and bringing it to his lips. When it passes the threshold, he chews with a fulfilled smirk.

  “Knew I’d get it.”

  “I never had a doubt,” I tease and lean in to kiss him.

  Late Saturday afternoon, I hitch a ride into town with Holt and Max. He has a special order waiting at the hardware store. I need blue and red paint from the art supply store. After, we’ll meet for a cold, creamy treat from The Ice Palace. He parks the truck in front and helps me out.

  “I’ll meet you inside when I’m done,” he says. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  He crosses Main Street and disappears into Makayla’s family business. I walk into the art store. I’m standing in the paint aisle, with every vibrant color of the rainbow and then some around me, when someone clears their throat beside me. Taking my focus off the tubes and palettes, my eyes locate the source of the noise and narrow warily.

  Charles Channing, dressed in a pale blue polo shirt and beige slacks, stares at me with a reserved demeanor. He has that rich, useless aura about him.

  “I was hoping to speak to you,” he says without even a hello.

  Rude.

  “Why would I do that?”

  I redirect my focus back on the green paint, hoping he’d get the hint I’m uninterested in his bullshit.

  “Your mother must hate me.” I notice him run his hands though his hair out of my peripheral.

  “As sh
e should.”

  “I never had intentions of taking the land from your mother. Christina had found out about our affair years ago. She wanted me to use it against Meredith, but I used it as a reason to keep seeing your mother.”

  “That isn’t much better.” I turn to walk away, but he steps around me and stops me.

  “I never wanted to hurt your mother. I love her. You must believe me.”

  “Firstly, I don’t have to do anything. Secondly, the only person you have to convince of anything is my mother.”

  “Why do you think I’ve come to you? She refuses to speak to me. I’ve tried. Tina threatened she’d divorce me when she discovered the affair, take me for everything I am if I didn’t play along with her plans. I agreed, but I used the freedom she’d given me to be with Meredith. I strung Christina along until I had certain matters in order to leave her.”

  “Mr. Channing, this isn’t fair of you to bring me in the middle of this. I don’t want the responsibility of this affair on my shoulders. You shouldn’t tell me these things.”

  “I realize this isn’t appropriate. But I wouldn’t explain this to you if your mother would talk with me. Please, please ask Meredith to allow me the chance to explain.”

  The raw hurt in his blue eyes, Aidan’s eyes, wrenches the strings of my heart.

  “I’ll let her know we spoke,” I agree without real commitment.

  “Thank you,” he says, his voice on the verge of a joyous weep. He turns to walk away, but then stops. He faces me again, his expression heavier. “I apologize for Christina. She…well, good luck.”

  Before I can ask him what he meant, he disappears from the paint aisle. I must have the same dumbfounded look on my face when I meet up with Holt.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head and force a smile. “Just thinking.”

  Later that day, I’m out on the porch, painting the rain that started pouring down after we arrived home. It’s warm and humid out. Not the best condition to paint in, but it’s inspiring. Holt is upstairs, placing bowls strategically around the attic to catch the water leaking through the roof.

  “Looks like I found my next project,” he said when a hole opened up over the bed.

  Normally, I use music when I paint, but the patter of the fat raindrops beating on the awning above me is soothing. It’s so heavy, I miss the sound of tires driving up the gravel pathway until they stop at the garden gate.

  When I glance over the canvas, I spot Aidan striding up the walkway, his eyes trained on me, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t even wait to ascend the stairs before he snaps out,

  “Is it true?”

  I shake my head, confused by his sudden appearance after weeks of avoiding me and obvious outrage toward me.

  “About Holt?”

  “The baby, Evie.” He runs his hands aggressively through his wet hair. “When in the hell were you planning to tell me?”

  Shit.

  “I was going to tell you.” My voice is pathetic and weak. “I’ve wanted to tell you.”

  “So—it’s true.”

  My face plunges into the palms of my hands, hiding my shame. “Yes,” I mumble from the sanctuary they provide, my eyes clamped shut.

  “I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

  I remove my hands from my face.

  “How did you find out?”

  “My mother.”

  This knocks the shame right out of me, replacing it with confusion. I think I have something in my ears. I almost reach up and clean them out to be sure.

  “Your mother?”

  “Yes. She told me everything.”

  “What is everything exactly?”

  “You were pregnant with a baby girl. She begged you to tell me. She knew it would devastate me if you kept this from me.”

  “Aidan, that’s not—”

  “Where is she?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I won’t tell you.”

  He takes an aggressive step toward me, “She’s my child, too,” pointing down at the ground.

  “It’s not that. You’re enraged. I won’t subject her to this, to the first impression of her biological father crazy with emotions. You need to hear my side of this before you make any judgements.”

  “Were you pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you divulge this information to me?” His tone is condescending.

  “No, but—”

  “Are you going to tell me where she is now?” he interrupts my answer with another question.

  “No,” I refuse, my voice growing loud and firm.

  “Then save it.”

  He walks back into the rain before I have a chance to explain, jumping into his SUV and driving away until the red taillights fade in the thickness of the rain.

  Holt flies out the front door.

  “What was that yelling?”

  “Aidan.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone.”

  bringing elements together

  to form a work of art

  No one has seen Aidan in over a week. I went to find him the next day. I wanted to give him time to cool down before I confronted him. Everything happened so quickly and out of nowhere. It wasn’t the scenario I’d wanted when he found out, from Christina, through lies and deceit. But I never thought she would. I should’ve known it was a possibility, for her to turn the situation around on me, make me look like the only guilty party.

  I went to his parents’ house, but only to check if his car was there. It wasn’t. Of course. Then I drove around the lake and town, any spots he might retreat. He wasn’t anywhere. It wasn’t until Makayla’s dad happened to mention Aidan’s leaving town to Holt. Now, he’s gone, along with my opportunity to explain.

  It was hard. But I managed to spend my last week focused on packing and spending time with everyone. Meredith has been home every day since she told off Charles, cleaning and preparing for the party. She still hasn’t said what happened, but I could guess. Holt and I wrap ourselves in each other every spare second, the idea of leaving him behind becoming harder and harder with each passing day. Never feel his touch again. Never taste him on my tongue when he kisses me deeply. Never listen to his voice or steady breathing as he sleeps beside me. Never see those intense ochre eyes staring into mine. This week is one of lasts.

  The day of the party, before the guests arrive, Holt comes to my room and knocks on my door.

  “Come with me,” he says when I open.

  “But the party…”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  Taking my hand, he leads me outside, through the woods bordering our property, and into the field that once harbored a rotting Victorian cottage and overgrown weeds. It’s been replaced by a shining white pearl with black shutters and a yard with freshly cut emerald grass, hydrangea bushes frosted along the edges, creating a natural barrier from the woods, except to the right of the property, giving an unobstructed view of the lake.

  It’s something out of a storybook.

  We walk inside, it’s light and airy yet cozy and warm. Of course there is no furniture yet, but he explains where he pictures things going. He shows me the renovated rooms. Each door already ajar when we approach, except the last, in the back corner, where we had that baring conversation.

  A flood of sunrays wash the dim hallway in white light when he opens it. It’s so bright my eyes need time to adjust to see shapes and colors again. When I can, my heart drops.

  Blank canvases lean neatly against the walls. Easels stand by the windows. Paintbrushes, jars, and paint sit neatly on the shelves. A few of my pieces hang on the bright white walls.

  I face Holt with clarity.

  “Mine?”

  “Yours.”

  “Holt?”

  “Evie,” he takes a step toward me, “I need to confess something to you.” My heart pounds in my ears. �
��When I came here, I wasn’t searching for a home. Not purposely anyway. I loved my life on the road, just me and Max. I thought I could outrun my past. But that changed when I came to Aurora, when I saw you. I loved you, that first day in the garden. I think I fell in love with you when I saw your pictures on the wall along the stairs. Your face made me feel I was where I was meant to be, a sense I’d never experienced before you. That’s why I refused to talk to you in the beginning. I hated you for making me love you, for inviting the pain I tried to outrun inside, for making me want a home.” He takes another step toward me. “I hadn’t fixed this place up for myself in the beginning. It was just another project on the list. But when I decided to stay in Aurora, I suppose I designed it with you in mind, too. Selfishly, I’m hoping it convinces you to do the same.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell me you’ll live here with me, make this our home. It doesn’t have to be forever, but when you leave, I want to be by your side. For now, you paint and I’ll work toward my contractor’s license.”

  “This is so much, so fast.”

  He reaches out for me and brings me into a hug, his shaky breath on my shoulder, his erratic heart beating in sync with mine.

  “Don’t answer me now. Consider it. Preferably before you leave for New York.”

  He didn’t need to suggest my staying. It’s been on my mind the past couple weeks, the idea of leaving sending me into panic attacks. I’m afraid to abandon Bailey when she’s growing up too quickly, my mother when she needs me most, or Holt when it’s painfully evident there’s an affinity between us, something I’ve found harder and harder to deny lately.

  It was easier when I’d head back to school, assured Aurora and my mother would always be there when I returned. I could throw myself into my schoolwork, fulfilling my promise to myself when I gave up Bails.

  But this was real life, adulthood, where you don’t have summers and winters home. Lucky if you get a real holiday vacation. The world is dog eat dog. New York the biggest, baddest dog on the block, ready to chew you up like a mailman’s ass.

  Aurora is home, passing you by at the pace of the lazy river drifting through it.