Secondary Colors (24 page)

“Do I need a reason to visit?”

“Of course not.” I give her a quick, distant hug to keep her clothes clean.

“I thought we could have a girl’s night.”

After the news of my mother’s financial problems, the last thing I want to do is be social, which is probably why I should. I can’t sit and dwell on this.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking two large pepperoni pies with extra cheese, a twelve pack of frosty beer, and a bad 80’s movie marathon.”

“You’re speakin’ my language.”

We haul the loot from the backseat of her car to the house. I clean myself up and dress in old gray sweatpants I cut into shorts and a comfy shirt with a collar so worn it hangs off my shoulder. We camp out in the living room, sticking a chick flick into the player, dishing out the gooey slices of pie and cracking open the brews. By the second movie, we’re painting each other’s toe nails. She chose a soft pink. I picked neon green. I’m focusing on staying within the boundaries of her pinkie nail when she says nonchalantly, “I ran into Aidan today.” I know better. This isn’t a simple mention of running into him. It’s a tiny town, everyone runs into each other every day. She wants to talk.

“How did he look?”

“Like a guy who had his heart ripped out.”

“Well, don’t sugarcoat it on my behalf.”

“Oh, I never do.” She dips the mini brush into the bottle and swipes the excess paint from the soft bristles. “Honestly, I think you made the right decision.”

“You do?”

“I haven’t entirely forgiven him for what he did to you, E. You were devastated. It killed me to see you broken and in pain.”

“What do you think of Holt?”

“He’s never broken your heart. As far as I’m concerned, he’s got my vote.” She rummages for a napkin to remove a streak of polish from the side of my big toe. She isn’t as skilled at painting nails as I am. “It doesn’t really matter what anyone thinks about him aside from you. What do
you
think of him?”

“He’s the first man I’ve trusted in a long time.”

“What was going on with him and Makayla?”

“Nothing. She kept asking him out. He agreed because he didn’t want to make waves. Her father does own the only hardware store in town. But when she tried to make a move, he stopped her.”

“And nothing happened between you and Aidan?”

“He tried to kiss me, but I couldn’t do it. I told him I didn’t feel that way for him anymore. I didn’t want to hurt him more by telling him I was choosing another man.”

“I believe your feelings for him were simply remnants of what you felt years ago. You loved him before your father left. He represented a better time to you.”

“Why did you take me to his party if you felt this way?”

“I was hoping you’d get resolution. I thought you’d finally realize you were over him, that you’ve moved on.”

“We did. He apologized.”

“Did you tell him what you went through after?”

“It’s never felt like the right time.”

“When is it ever the right time to tell a man you’re the mother of his child?”

“True.” I clear my throat. “Margo asked me to keep it from him.” She stops painting, her eyes slowly rising to mine. They say it all. “She’s afraid he’ll get angry and take Bailey away. It was part of the arrangement to begin with, but I’ve been rethinking it. I’m afraid he’ll hate me.”

“Evie, if you tell him the truth, there’s no way he’d hate you. If he hates anyone, it should be his mother.”

“It doesn’t matter either way. He has the right to know whether he gets mad at me or not.”

“Are you going to tell Holt?”

“Why would I tell him?”

“If he’s becoming more serious, you’ll have to tell him, too. Some men get touchy if the woman they want had another man’s baby.”

“We’re not serious.”

She eyes me.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

see-through color

By the time Tay leaves, it’s dark and rain has begun to fall. It wasn’t much at first. An hour later, Mother Nature is having some major PMS. I hate these summer storms. It’s hot for GD’s sake.

I’m lying in Holt’s room. I’ve slept here every night he’s been gone. I told my mom it was for Max, he’d sleep better in the attic than in my room. Really, it’s me. It makes me feel like he’s here.

I pet Max’s head as he lies beside me on the bed, his breathing steady and calm. Unable to sleep, I stare up at the invisible ceiling, the lightning lighting it up every now and then, allowing me to see its height. It creates eerie shadows and dark corners. The comfortable, inviting, safety of the attic, now seems cold, lonely, and much too big without him.

Suddenly, Max’s ears stick up, his head doing the same. I’m startled by a creak of floorboards. When I sit up, the sheet clutched to my breasts, there’s pure darkness, but I sense a presence. It’s radiating from the depths of the pitch black. Light floods the room with a strobing glow. A glimmer of Holt standing at the top of the stairs flashes in front of me. The room goes dark again.

Did I really see him? Or are my eyes playing a cruel trick on me?

Lightning strikes again. I’m positive this time. He’s standing at the end of the bed.

I savor the relief of his presence. I love and loathe the euphoric rush.

He drops his bag on the ground and walks around the bed, ignoring Max springing around him, desperate for his affection. Our eyes remain fused with every step he takes toward me. He edges onto the mattress, forcing me onto my back until he’s lying over me. He weaves his arms about me, drawing me flush against his heavy body. His eyes, weary yet intense, beam at me until his lips land on mine, kissing me unhurriedly, completely, making up for time lost.

“Where have you been?” I ask through our conjoined lips, my mouth not wanting to break from his long enough to speak four short words.

“Illinois,” he answers from the side of his, keeping it bonded with mine.

“What were you doing in Illinois?” I finally pull my mouth from his, my brow tense and my eyes urging him for an explanation.

He rolls off me and runs his hands over his face.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

I roll onto my side and rest my head in my palm. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He removes his hands, considering my question, then turns onto his side. With the hand not propping his head up, he combs his fingers through my hair, twirling the ends around the tips. “You want to keep this thing between us free from complication, not get too deep. This is anything but that, Violet. This is a major part of who I am. If I tell you, you’ll see me as I truly am.”

His honesty frightens me. It’s not the openness, but the realness in his words, the weight they hold. And even though he’s right, I’m terrified to get close, I want to know.

No, no.

I
need
to know.

“Tell me,” I lay my hand over his, now resting along the side of my face, “please.”

His lids close over tightly. Perhaps to give himself courage. “Dealing with my mother’s death.”

“Holt—”

“Before you ask or say one of those typical things people say when they hear about death, I’m not sure what I feel. I don’t remember her very well. She’s almost a stranger to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

He gathers himself for a painful moment of agonizing quiet. I scoot in close to him, balling my body against his, keeping my eyes trained on his shirt. If I don’t look at him, it might make it easier.

“When I was four,” he says on an exhale, “my mother gave me and my five-month-old brother Alex up for adoption.” My heart officially stops beating. “She was a single mom working three jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. She worked really hard, but never seemed to have enough to ensure our survival. I guess one day she realized she couldn’t take care of us anymore and thought we’d have a better chance at a comfortable life if she gave us up.

“I didn’t like being in the orphanage. It wasn’t a bad place, but I remember I felt lost when I was there, unwanted, unloved, alone. I didn’t really understand at the time why she had given us away. I was confused and frightened. I remember we slept in a room with ten other boys, most of them much older. I would stay up nights in the dark, waiting for her to realize she’d made a mistake and come get us. She didn’t. We moved from place to place after that, each ‘home’ worse than the previous. It got bad.

“When I was sixteen, I’d had enough of it. I wanted to forget everything. I lost myself on the road. I found myself there, too.”

What happened to Alex?
I want to ask him, but it’s not really my business.

“Remember the man who asked about me?” he asks.

“He’s hard to forget.”

“He was hired by my mother’s lawyer to track me down and ask me to come to Illinois. When I got there, he informed me she had passed five months ago from cancer. He gave me a letter she’d written me. It explained that she tried to track my brother and me down after she had married. Her husband was well off enough to provide a life for us. However, the adoption was done in a way that she wasn’t able to get any information on us. She hired private detectives but they came up empty for years. The lawyer went on to explain that she had set up a trust for me, with about three-hundred thousand dollars. I was so confused. I actually considered running again,” he admits with a snicker, as if this is an amusing thought. It makes my insides tense and ache.

“Is the reason you didn’t covered in black fur and his farts smell like rotten broccoli?”

He could never leave Max behind.

He huffs out a silent laugh.

“Well, I really love him, but—” his voice tapers off. I look up into his eyes, understanding exactly what he wants to say. My fingers lift to his face and trace the lines that make up his striking features.

“I—I missed you, too,” I admit.

We made love then. He lost himself in me. And I lost myself in him.

He held me in his arms afterward, our legs knotted with the sheets, his head relaxing against mine, burrowed into his neck. My skin flush with sex, his fingers drift down the curve of my bare back to the mound of my ass, drugging me until I overdose on his touch and slip into unconsciousness.

When I wake, it seems instantaneous. I wipe away the cloud over my brain and realize I’m no longer wrapped around Holt. I give the room a half-awake glance. My vision still has to adjust to the dimness of the room. I blink and rub my eyes before giving it another shot. Moonlight beams in through the windows, stretching across the floor. That’s when I see the top of his head at the footboard of the bed. He’s sitting on the ground.

I gather the sex-scented sheets around me and slide out of the comfort of his bed. He’s slouched, with his back against the air-cooled railing. His head is slumped between his bent knees, his hand flung over the back of his neck. The picture I’d found in his wallet after my first night in his room lies between his flattened feet, tucked close to the backs of his thighs.

“Sometimes I stare at this thing for hours, trying to memorize every line,” he says, his voice husky with sadness and tears. I realize now, after his story, the younger boy in the photo with him is his brother, Alex.

“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?”