Secondary Colors (18 page)

“Welcome back,” Holt says.

I lift my pounding head.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in another, he grins the biggest grin, wearing his thick-framed reading glasses. He takes a mug out from the cabinet behind him. “Would you like coffee?”

“Please.”

My face plops into the palms of my hands with an indistinguishable noise spewing from my throat.

I’m dying.

“How do you take it?”

“Plenty of creamer and two scoops of sugar.”

He prepares my pick-me-up and brings it to me.

“Here,” he says.

I lift my face and take the mug.

“Thank you.”

I blow on it before a test sip to check the temp. Just right.

“Last night was fun,” he says, sitting on the bed next to me.

“I’ll take your word for it. I don’t remember much after our contest.”

“To refresh your memory, I won.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, my brain throbbing, “I certainly feel like the loser.”

“Headache?”

“It’s brutal.” I place my hand against my forehead.

“I’ll fix that.”

He moves behind me and stretches out his legs so I’m cradled between them. His fingers slip into my hair and massage my scalp with deep strokes. It’s so good I mewl like a kitten.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were good with your hands.”

“You really wanted them on you last night.”

He sweeps the hair from my neck and kisses the curve where it meets the shoulder.

“Is there anything else I should know about last night?”

“You threw up.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did—a lot.” I smack my hand over my face, and my head regrets it instantly. “Oh, don’t worry.” He pries my hand away. “You got all of it in the trashcan.”

“Great.”

He laughs.

“You were fine, Violet. You aren’t the first person to get sick after drinking, and you won’t be the last.”

“Thanks for taking care of me. I’m sure I was a handful.”

“To put it bluntly, yes. However, you had a rough night and needed to forget.”

“I’m glad she’s away. I can’t face her yet,” I admit. “I’m not sure how to handle everything.”

“Luckily,” he says, “there’s nothing to handle.”

“How do you mean?”

“Evie, it’s her life to live however she chooses. It isn’t up to you or anyone else to tell her otherwise.”

“This could ruin our standing in the community. It’s a small town, Holt.”

“First, you and your mother
are
this community. Second, you’re leaving at the end of summer. Your mother will be left to deal with her decisions.”

I remember fragments of the previous night’s activities after we entered the bar. There was a lot of drinking and some talking. He’d mentioned wrong choices. “What happened that caused you to make a bad decision?”

“What?”

It dawns on me that came out of left field.

“Um, last night,” I explain, “you said people make choices they wouldn’t normally make.”

“It’s common knowledge, Evie. Haven’t you ever done something you regret?”

Only once. And I’ve mourned it ever since.

“Yeah, but I could never do what she did.”

He laughs, amused, shaking his head. “You aren’t exactly innocent, peaches. You are screwing around with two men.”

“Says who?” I turn around to face him, shoving him in the shoulder. “Aidan hasn’t kissed me yet. And I’ve made no promises to him or you.”

“And neither has your mother. She isn’t attached to anyone. If anyone is in the wrong, it’s Aidan’s father. He’s married. I’m not saying she’s innocent, but she isn’t as wrong as him.”

“So, you’re saying—”

“You shouldn’t judge your mother harshly. She’s a good woman with a kind heart. There’s probably more to the story than you know, and until you’re not committing the same act to a certain degree, you shouldn’t cast judgements on her.”

I stare, one brow raised, mouth puckered and shifted to the side. His intelligence and perception always astounds me. Maybe it shouldn’t. I was hasty in my assumptions of him.

“I suppose you’re right.”

I turn in his lap and wrap my legs around his waist.

“I’ve been known to be on occasion.” He smirks. I return one, but it fades. Even if Meredith’s affairs aren’t my business, I feel a strong sense of upset. He must see it on my face.

“Hey,” he says gently and sets his hands on the sides of my face, bringing it to his.

Does he kiss Makayla like this?

“What about Makayla?” I mumble through our pressed mouths.

“What about Aidan?” He plays his lips across mine.

“Good point.” I meet his lips and let the sensation take away the hurt. But in the back of my mind, eating away at me, is guilt, guilt over what I’m doing to him and Aidan, by the way his kiss makes me feel. Even if he hasn’t asked me to end things with Aid, he clearly doesn’t appreciate being the other man. Or is Aidan the other man? Who am I betraying? This is becoming much too—well, too. Exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

“Holt,” I murmur, “stop.” I unwrap myself from him and push him away.

“What’s the matter?”

“I—I can’t.” I leap off the bed and run to the stairs, but he catches my hand before I descend. I keep my eyes glued to my exit at the bottom.

“Evie, look at me please.”

I don’t.

“I can’t be upset with my mother and keep doing this to Aidan.”

“To Aidan?” he says, his voice has an injured tremble. He drops my hand and steps back, the floorboard whining under his weight. “You should go then.”

I bolt down the stairs and out the door, never once turning back. I’ll crumble if I look at him.

mixture of two primary colors

Over the next week, Holt avoids me like Ebola. He spends a lot of time away from the house. He’s been going out into the woods more lately, Max shadowing him with a wagging tail. It hurts me, but I’m happy for the space. I’ve been avoiding him, my mother, and Aidan, to take time to consider my next move. I hang out with Taylor, take care of Nightmare, and pick up a few extra hours at the shelter.

Whenever Holt and I are home together, if we end up in the same room, one or both of us make a hasty retreat in opposite directions. It’s hard being at the house, which is exactly why I’m taking a road trip to Vermont to stay with my Aunt Margo. Even with all the acreage on our property, it’s not enough space. Margo lives on a farm with sprawling green grass and trees and animals. It’s a perfect escape.

She welcomes me out front with open arms, and I step into her hug.

“I’ve missed you like crazy, kid.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

I’m close to Margo due to our ages. She’s only twenty-eight. Meredith was fifteen when their mother gave birth to her unexpected, unplanned baby sister.

Her bright face darkens when she sees my worn eyes.

“Oh, no, something’s wrong.” She sweeps hair that fell out of my ponytail away from my forehead and places it behind my ear. “Come on,” she says, gripping my shoulders with her arm and guiding me inside the house. “Go put your things in the guestroom, and I’ll make us tea. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

“Sounds nice.”

Once I’ve dropped my bag off in the guestroom upstairs and freshened up, I meet her in the kitchen. Margo is sitting at the table with a cup of tea in her hands. I take a seat across from her and pour myself a cup, too.

“Tea heals the soul,” she says, taking a sip.

“I wish that were true.”

“I’m guessing your visit isn’t simply about wanting to see me.”

“I had to get away.”

“Does a certain boy staying at your house have anything to do with this mini vacation?”

“You know about him?” I almost choke on and spit out my tea.

“Your mom mentioned him during one of our phone calls.”

“It’s partly about him.”

“Are you really going to make me pry it out of you?”

“No.” I play with my teacup, turning it between my palms. “I need time to settle in before I start chewing your ear off.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.” She smiles. “But I’m here when you’re ready to spill.”

“Mommy!” the sweetest voice in the world cries.

Both Margo and I turn to the bright-eyed three-year-old running into the house with a baby-teethed grin on her face. “Look what I got!” She holds up a tiny fish, bait really, but the pride on her face would make you believe it was a whale.

“That’s amazing!” Margo exclaims excitedly. She takes the fish from her daughter’s hand and holds it up. “This is going to make a fine dinner, baby.”

When the tiny cherub-faced child finally notices me, her green, saucer-sized eyes light up.

“Evie!” she giggles and sprints toward me. I scoop her up and hold her to me tightly, combing my fingers through her dark brown hair. “Did you see my fish?!”

“Yes, I did,” I reply enthusiastically, bouncing her tiny body in my arms.

“Mommy’s going to cook it,” she says, her sweetly plump mouth widening. My heart swells and quivers.

“I don’t know if we’re going to be able to eat it all,” I say, choking back the emotion burning my throat. “It’s an awfully big fish.”

She likes hearing this. I was sure her smile couldn’t get any bigger, but it grows times ten. I kiss her chubby, pink cheek and  then put her down.

“Where’s your daddy?” Margo asks, placing the fish into the sink for cleaning.

“In the car’s house.”

Not a second later, Jim comes through the front door with a bundle of fish dangling from his hand.

“Did you see what our girl caught all by herself, Margo?” he asks, pride on his face.

“Uh-huh, Daddy. I showeded her.”

“It’s showed, baby,” Margo corrects her.

“Oh, right,” she says, as if this is something she forgot rather than never having known it. “I showed Mommy.”

He dumps the fish onto the table and picks her up with a big dramatic swoop, bringing his scruffy chin to her face and kissing it with loud puckering sounds. She giggles and pushes his face away. His beard must tickle her. He pulls away willingly with a scrunched up nose. “Whoa, baby cakes. You smell like fish. We need to get you cleaned up before dinner.”

“May I?”

“She’d love it,” Margo insists, turning from the sink. When her eyes catch the fish on her nice clean table, they grow wide. “Damn it, Jim,” she says with a deflated tone. “How many times have I told you not put these stinky dead fish on my table?”

He grins apologetically, the look of a husband who knows when he’s in for it. He grabs them up, dumps them in the sink, and turns back to his wife, taking her into his arms. He begins to sway.

“I’m sorry, my beautiful, wonderful wife.” He tries to kiss and make up, but she isn’t having it.

“You’re one to talk about smelling like fish,” she says, clipping her nostrils shut with her thumb and forefinger. “Woo!”

They smile at one another.

I smile at the two of them, amused by their playfulness with one another, but it makes me miss Holt more than I already do. At least during this past week, I was around him. Even if he was ignoring me, his presence was all I needed.

Overwhelmed by the hollow feeling, I take the little girl into my arms and rest her on my hip, her little body clings to me trustingly. I admire her ability to openly trust people. It’s easy when the world hasn’t shown its true colors to you yet. Of course, she has every reason to trust me. I’ve been in her life since before she was born.

I walk us upstairs, draw her bath, and get her undressed. After testing the temp, I set her in the temperate water, grab the cup from the ceil of the tub, dunk it, and scoop up water. “Lean your head back, baby.” She tilts it and shuts her green eyes. I pour the water over her hair, a happy smile fattening her already chubby cheeks.

“I like it,” she says with her angelic little voice.

“When I wash your hair?”

“No,” she corrects me with her adorable Elmer Fudd speech impediment. “When you’re here.”

“I like it, too.”

Once she no longer smells like a dead trout, I dry her off, brush her hair, and dress her in a cute little daisy-print dress. We walk back downstairs, her clutching two of my fingers with the whole of her hand. She asks me to color with her. It’s kinda our thing. Margo is shucking corn while Jim cleans the fish in the sink. I’m grateful his back is turned to me because I hate watching him gut the poor smelly guys. Once he’s done, he’ll grill them up over an open fire pit out back. Since dinner won’t be ready for another twenty minutes, I collect the coloring books and crayons from the cupboard in the living room and spread them out across the floor. We lie on our stomachs, picking through them until we find a color we like. I pick a blue crayon out of the brand new box and take a whiff of the nostalgic scent of colored wax. I shut my eyes and let the feeling of adolescence seep into my soul. When I open them again, I notice mini-me mimicking my action.

“I like this smell,” she unknowingly agrees with me.

“Yeah, it’s a great one.”

A deep dimple forms in her right cheek when she beams at me.

We begin to color. She’s careful not to go outside the lines like I taught her, but when she overshoots, crossing over the thick black border, she frowns.

“I made a booboo.”

She looks like she murdered someone. Her bottom lip plumps and curls into a heartbroken pout. I hate seeing her sad, so I color outside of my assigned area, too.

“You know, when it comes to art, it’s not always about how perfect it is. In fact, many would say the beauty comes from the flaws and differences.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better,” she says, turning her R’s into W’s with that charming speech impediment.

“I’d never tell you anything that wasn’t true,” I vow, crossing my finger over my heart.

Technically, this is completely honest. I’ve never physically told her a lie. But she’s never questioned my relation to her either. If she does, I’ll tell her the absolute God’s honest truth. It was never a part of the arrangement that I couldn’t tell her. But she’s young and wouldn’t understand what any of this really meant yet.

She picks up her crayon again, coloring over the line, on purpose this time.

“That’s my Bails.”

My Bails.

My Bailey.

Mine.

I run my hand over my daughter’s hair, feeling the baby softness of its fragile strands. Before I continue to color again, I take an assuring breath, loafing around in this preciously rare moment with her, pretending everything’s as it should be.

By the time we finish the rainbow unicorn, dinner is ready. We eat the catch of the day and then retire to the back porch to wait for the fireflies. Bailey and Jim run around the yard while we watch for the sun to get low enough for the light show. Margo and I sit in white rocking chairs, swaying back and forth, a ceiling fan blowing around the hot, stale air of the early evening.

“You’re weighed down,” she observes, her head resting against the backing of her chair, but her eyes aren’t even open. It must’ve been plain on my face since I arrived. I’m so transparent sometimes.

“Has Meredith visited you in the past month?”

Her eyes open, and her head lifts.

“That’s an odd question.”

“Has she?”

“No,” she answers. “Why?”

“Because she uses you as an alibi for an affair she’s having with Charles Channing.”

“Charles Channing,” she says his name, letting it roll around on her tongue. “Haven’t heard that name in years.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Only from when he’d pick up your mom for a date or visit her at the house.”

“They went out before this?”

“Sure, they were sweethearts from the age of eleven into their early twenties.”

“How did I not know this?”

It’s hard to remember our parents live a whole life before us.

“It’s a complicated story, one Mere should tell. But I’ll say this. It doesn’t surprise me they’re carrying on behind Christina’s back. He never loved her, not like he loved your mom.”
They were in love?
“How did you find out anyway?”

“Aidan.”

“A little bird told me he was back in town.”

“Mm-hm. We’ve been spending time together.”

“How is that?”

“Could be better. I haven’t spoken to him since he told me about Meredith and his father.”

“That must’ve put a damper on things.”

“I can’t bring myself to face him. I know I have to, but there’s so much going on between us, with the affair and our past and—” I trail off, my eyes tracking Bailey.

“You haven’t told him, have you?”

“No.” I see the relief on her face. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” She stiffens. “He was never given a choice in what happened. He’s going to hate me.”

“Evie, honey, you were a child yourself. Sometimes we make choices for our future we hope we’d never have to make, but it was—”

“For the best?” I finish her statement with an emotionless tone.

“It was,” she insists, her hand over mine, grasping to get my attention. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have our Bailey. What would I do if I wasn’t her mother? You gave us a gift. You gave her a gift by choosing a life you and Aidan wouldn’t have been able to provide for her. And as far as telling him, it’s best for everyone involved if he never finds out.”

“Is it? Or is what’s best for us? Christina, me, you, Jim, it would benefit us. I wouldn’t have to tell him and break his heart. You wouldn’t have to admit to your daughter that she isn’t biologically yours. Christina could go on with her life, pretending this beautiful child doesn’t exist, and allowing Aidan to believe she’s something she isn’t.”