Secondary Colors

by Aubrey Brenner

  art that doesn’t reflect reality

  I crumble on the top step of the porch, face in my hands, waiting for Holt to come home. He’s the only person I want to talk to about this. If I tell him, even if he hasn’t been through this, he’ll understand. Taylor would freak out with me. I don’t need that right now. I need Holt’s stability.

  After forever and an hour, the sound of grass crunching under footsteps slowly draws near me. I lift my face with glossy, bloodshot eyes, relieved he’s alone.

  “What happened to you?” he asks. “Did Aidan do this?”

  “Not technically,” I murmur, wiping away a falling tear from my cheek. “I fell down the rabbit hole.”

  He studies me with a thoughtful gaze before shoving his hands under my arms and picking me up.

  “You want to get the hell out of here?”

  “Yes,” my voice is frail from the uncontainable crying, “please.”

  He tows me in the direction of his truck parked outside the garage. “I’ve got an idea.”

  We sit at the bar on wobbly stools, throwing back tequila like water while I spill my guts. He took me to this dive bar outside of town, with stale, smoke-filled air, peanut shells on the floor, and lots of neon signs for various beers over the walls. It’s not idyllic, but they serve cheap booze, and the company is good.

  “How could she screw a married man?” I blurt, spilling a few drops of tequila from my shot glass with an exaggerated jolt of my hand. I’m a smidgen drunk, my words blending now and again. “It’s shameful.”

  “The world isn’t always right or wrong.” He takes the bottle from me and pours himself another round. He pounds it back, licking the excess off his bottom lip. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  He tops off my glass until it overflows, a decent amount dripping down the sides.

  “What possible reason could justify what she’s doing?”

  I take another mouthful of tequila and gulp it down. Numbing myself with each one, I find it easier and easier to open up.

  “Alright, you’re an artist, so let me explain it this way. The world isn’t black and white. It isn’t even shades of gray. It’s red and blue and green and primary colors and secondary colors. It’s in Technicolor. Could you imagine if you were only able to paint with black and white, how boring it would be? Life has many different shades. That’s what I like about it.”

  “God,” I down another shot, “that actually made sense.”

  He laughs.

  “I’m just saying things aren’t always easy. In desperate times, we make choices we may never consider when things are good.”

  I recognize the distant gleam in his eyes, when you remember a moment that defined you. I’ve seen it in my own eyes time and time again. It’s the look of regret and heartache.

  “What made you come to this conclusion?”

  “I’m surprised you can still form a coherent sentence after the last four shots,” he directs the conversation onto me.

  “I bet I can drink you under the table,” I challenge him.

  Lifting his shot glass into the air, he says, “Blind bet. Winner chooses loser’s penance.”

  “I like that wager. I’m going to enjoy this.” I raise mine and clink it with his. “Get ready to lose, Turner.”

  “You better hope I do, Hathaway.”

  He won by only one shot. But I didn’t go down without a fight. He refuses to tell me what I’ll have to do, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. I’ll have to remember never to make a wager when tequila is involved.

  After Billy, the really friendly bartender, drops us off, Holt carries me into the house over his shoulder, trying to keep me quiet. When he starts climbing up the stairs, instead of walking toward my room in the back of the house, I mumble, “Are you kidnapping me?”

  “I’m taking you to my room where I can watch you.”

  “That’s disturbing,” I tease him. “Do you do this often, watch me?”

  “More than you know,” he mumbles.

  “What did you say?” I ask, perhaps a little too loudly.

  “Nothing. Be quiet.”

  I place my finger against my mouth and shush, “Shh,” with a giggle.

  We enter the attic, and he comments, “You’re an obnoxious drunk.”

  “Well, you’re obnoxious sober.”

  He crosses the living room to his bed, with me still flung over his shoulder, and flips me onto the mattress. I bounce a couple times and then settle, drunkenly laughing and snorting. Grabbing my feet, he removes my shoes with a tiny smirk, chucking them on the floor, and then yanks off my jeans.

  I clumsily prop myself up on my elbows.

  “Are you going to take advantage of my drunkenness?”

  “Even though I find you hard to resist,” he shifts my legs over, straightening me out, and tosses the covers over me, “I’ll take a raincheck.”

  I reach up, latch my arms around his neck, and yank him down to me, his lips almost making contact with mine.

  “Evie, no.” He removes my arms and holds them down at my sides. “I don’t want to do this right now.” He rises up. “You should sleep.”

  He ambles into the kitchen.

  “I’m not sleepy right now.”

  “Suit yourself.” He takes a glass out of the cupboard, fills it with tap water, and brings it back with his hand extended out for me to take it. “Drink this. Your head will thank me in the morning.”

  I push it away.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” he sighs. “You don’t want to sleep. You don’t want to drink water. What do you want?” I open my mouth to answer when he clarifies, “And no sex. We already took that off the menu.”

  “I wasn’t going to say sex.” I pop up onto my knees, poking him in the chest. “I don’t beg.”

  “Alright, drunky, then what?”

  I jump off the bed to locate the iPod and speakers I used when I painted and my mom never removed from the attic. I locate them in an odd drawer, push random, and turn up the volume.

  I bob and sway at first.

  “You dance much?” he asks.

  “Not in front of people,” I admit.

  I start to shake and move, bouncing around and whipping my hair about. I dance like no one’s watching. I’m too drunk and this song is too good to care either way. I just dance.

  “Oh, nice. Pulling out your big moves there. Is that the robot?”

  I don’t care what snide, witty, adorable comments he makes right now. I’m feeling the groove. I’m bustin’ a move. I’m—I’m gonna ralph.

  The room teeters as if we’re on a boat during a storm. Nausea washes over me, a burning lump riding the wave from my stomach to my chest.

  “Aw, dance yourself out, did ya?” he asks with a condescending tone.

  I bolt toward the bed, motioning my hand toward the wastebasket beside it.

  “I’m gonna be sick,” I tell him.

  “Now?”

  “No,” it rises in my throat, causing me to choke on my words, “tomorr—”

  Making it with no time to spare, he holds it below my hanging head. I vomit, my body heaving with each acidic surge up my throat. As I physically reject the toxin invading my system, the pressure between my temples builds until I whimper in agony. It refuses to stop.

  Once I’ve expelled my organs, I topple back onto the bed with a thankful groan. “I’m ready to sleep now.”

  At some point before sunrise, I get out of bed, mouth dry, and stagger into his kitchen with dragging footsteps. Holt’s there, sitting on the counter and drinking a glass of water.

  I shuffle over to him, eyes heavy. I stand between his legs and mutter, “Water.”

  He tilts the rim of the glass to my lips, the H2O seeps down my dehydrated throat until it’s gone. Drops trickled out of my mouth and over my chin. I lean into him and wipe with lethargic strokes on the front of his shirt.

  “Better?” he asks.

&nbs
p; My heavy eyes drag up to his face, and I nod lazily.

  “Ready to go back to bed?”

  “Yes.”

  He locks his arms around me, mine cling loosely to his neck, and lifts me up, so my head rests on his shoulder. My legs hug his waist. He takes me back to bed, lying us down in the cool sheets, interlocked.

  Waking with a massive hangover is a rotten way to start the day. My vision wanders in and out, the ceiling repeatedly distorting and refocusing before eventually fixing. My mouth feels like I chewed on a big wad of cotton and tastes closer to ass than I’d prefer.

  “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.