The Color of Us

by Jessica Park

  Danny laughs sympathetically. “Oh man. If you want to shut this all down, I’ll help.”

  “No, no.” I fluff Shallot’s ears and make silly noises. “No, no. Not at all. I want to make this happen. There just needs to be a bit of rallying on my part.”

  “I’m rallying for you then.”

  We’re driving away from the store when Shallots sneezes and makes us both laugh.

  Danny asks if I can look in the glove compartment for a tissue. “Sorry. Shallots is a little snotty now and then.”

  About a million things try to tumble out of the glove compartment, but what I notice most is a colorful glass piece. It’s an orb with striking swirls of rich colors. Before I can ask Danny about this, I catch his glance. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression and the way he looks away so quickly tell me that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I grab a tissue and wipe the sweet dog’s nose.

  The three of us arrive at my house, yet only two of us are helpful about bringing in groceries. Shallots is kind of a bust with those short legs and all, but he’s forgiven, even as he struts into my house and lazily curls up under the coffee table in the living room.

  We unload groceries, and when I get to cooking, Danny is super intuitive and understanding about being quiet and letting me focus on my recipe. He watches me grate red and white onions and carrots through the food processor, and then I sauté the ground beef before I add in the rest of the ingredients. The recipe asks for a bunch of nutmeg, which I find suspect, but I decide to trust the reviews that I’ve scoured.

  When the sauce is finally on the stovetop and simmering, pouring two big glasses of red wine seems to make sense. So, I do that and nudge us into the living room. Danny and I drop onto the couch.

  “Fuck, cooking is stressful,” I say with a laugh. “But it’s also not, if that makes sense at all. I so want to get this shit down. I do.”

  “I think you’ve got this, Callie. You’re a natural.”

  “I think I don’t, and I’m not,” I say as I roll my eyes. “But I guess I’m trying. And I’m sorry that it’s already past seven, and this sauce is supposed to cook for an hour and a half or more. I wasn’t paying attention. You’re probably starving and exhausted and—”

  Danny cuts me off, “And happy to be here.”

  We sit quietly for a while.

  “My dad and my grandmother both cooked, especially around the holidays. So much baking, roasted turkeys, thousands of side dishes. Totally glorious food. And ironically, you know what’s always turned me off from cooking? Holidays.”

  “Why?” he asks softly.

  “Because after my dad died, holidays always felt like an opportunity to tease me. We’d be gathered around a table, and at some point, it’d become a thing to make fun of me. Little jabs here and there, you know? Passive-aggressive shit. Comments about my lame job, not going to college, living at home. Roasting me. Pretending it was all in good fun, but roasting anyone is never all that funny. Then, lots of talk about Erica and her successes …”

  His arm pulls me in. “I’m with you. Holidays usually suck for me too. My mom’s schedule is always so crazy and unpredictable, so I end up at friends’ houses for some holidays.” He takes a minute. “Well, most holidays.”

  Neither of us says anything. And the silence seems to last forever.

  “Want to see something fun?” I finally ask.

  When Danny nods, I snag my iPad from the coffee table and show him a link. “A live feed of the polar bears at the San Diego Zoo.” It’s hard to contain my love for this site.

  “Polar bears? What? I’m so into this!”

  The way he focuses on the feed and begins asking me questions is crazy cute. He wants to know about these three bears and how they arrived at this zoo. It’s maybe weird how much I know about them, but he seems into it.

  I tell him how a mother polar bear had been tagged for research reasons and her collar sent off an alarm one day. When the team reached her, they found that she’d been shot and killed. Her cubs would have died had they not been rescued. The third is also an orphan, but they don’t know what happened to her parents.

  “So, I watch them every day. I love when they roll around in a snowbank, swim in the pool, and munch on bunches of carrots and shit. There’s nothing cuter. The San Diego Zoo also has more live cameras. Apes and hippos, but I haven’t investigated those yet because I’m already so obsessed with these polar bears.”

  “I can see why.”

  Danny is mesmerized, and we sit wordlessly for a long time until I reluctantly pull myself away to sauté chopped poblanos and garlic and toss them into the sauce before I hit it with a touch of heavy cream. After I boil up spaghetti and serve us both at the table, topping our bowls with a bit of Parmesan, Danny’s nodding and smiling, and after he takes one bite, he tells me that I’ve done well.

  He can barely look up as he eats. “This is a winner. For sure.”

  After I try a small taste, I agree, “It’s not bad, right?”

  “Not bad? It’s damn fantastic! You are on fire!”

  “I’m sure that won’t last. I’ve got to fuck up something soon.” One of us has to be realistic.

  “And so what? So what? You’re taking on something new. Who cares if you screw up now and again? You’re doing more than most of us. Hell, I usually live off of prepackaged burritos and mac and cheese. This? The way you’ve been feeding me? Shit, it’s all new and fantastic. I’m tasting stuff I never even knew existed.” He finds the bottle of wine and refills our glasses. “Cheers to killing it. Absolutely killing it. And making me like wine.”

  “Right? It’s my new drink.”

  “I’m now into all of this.” He swirls his fork around and looks at me. “All of this.”

  I manage to hold his eye contact for more than a fraction of a second before turning away. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” Then, I pause, and something hits me. “How hungry I’ve been for months. Years. Jesus, I’ve been living off of microgreens and shit for so long that I forgot how to really eat.”

  He laughs. “Whatever California diet you’ve been on sounds horrible, but it explains why you’re such a tiny thing. You can afford to indulge in all your new cooking, so enjoy it.”

  “I’ve been eating things pretending to be things,” I mutter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cauliflower pretending to be rice, oat milk pretending to be cow’s milk. Jackfruit pretending to be meat when it’s nothing like it. Nothing … substantial.”

  “All I hear is that you’ve been famished for far too long and for no reason. Eat up, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I nod in agreement. “I’m going to do that.”

  “Cheers to that!” he toasts, and I’m more than happy to clink my glass with his. “You can only get more beautiful, Callie..” He says this so factually that I cannot tell if there’s anything behind it, but I’ll take the compliment as is.

  Later, after Danny insisted on doing the dishes and we’re back on the couch with more wine, he asks to see the polar bears again. We watch for over an hour.

  “Look at that one, swimming in the pool. The cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Danny pauses. “And now, another one is rolling around in a snowbank. I’ve never seen any creature more delighted by anything. I could watch this forever. Although they don’t seem to hang out with each other much. They look like they should be snugglers.”

  “Turns out that they’re very independent, and it’s pretty rare that you catch them even sleeping close to one another.”

  He yawns and lets his arm fall across my shoulders. “That’s sorta sad.”

  “I agree.” My voice is only a whisper, as I’m so damn tired. “The feed won’t be live for much longer. Time change and all.”

  “I could stay like this forever,” Danny says.

  “Same,” I admit without reserve as I fall into him. Into the shape of him and into the way he soon eases us onto our sides.<
br />
  And I fall asleep to polar bears, to Danny, and to peace.

  twenty

  In the morning, I open my eyes and quickly realize that I am not starting my day with flashbacks of shitty dreams from a night of terrible sleep.

  Starting a day with some kind of peace is unfamiliar and so needed.

  I’m way too comfortable. On the couch, curled into Danny’s chest, his arms holding me against him.

  I take in the fact that we fell asleep together and try to figure out what that means, if anything.

  But after breathing in and out deeply more times than I can count, I get it. My heart sinks a bit, but I get what’s going on here.

  Danny is protecting me, as he protected Mary Ann.

  He sees how vulnerable I am. How much I’m hurting.

  He’s the guy who saves people. I’m another person on that list.

  He makes a sound when I roll onto my side and face the dingy, broken fireplace, but his arms stay around me, and he pulls my back against his chest.

  “How are the polar bears?” he mumbles.

  I laugh lightly. “It’s too early to know. Three hours earlier in California.”

  “That blows. Do you know their names?” His morning voice is even hotter than his regular voice. So scratchy and masculine.

  “Kalluk and Tatqiq are the brother and sister. Chinook is the third bear I told you about.”

  “That’s a lot to remember. I’ll try. Complicated names and shit.”

  I smile. “I know.”

  “But I’m on board. Bookmarking that link today, for sure.”

  “Not to give you any spoilers, but when you see the bears sniffing like crazy? It might be one of the times that the zoo releases smells from diffusers, signaling what kind of treats they will be getting the next day. Like a lemon scent means that boiled eggs will be showing up in the mock eagle nests.”

  “So, if I smell lemon wafting from your house, it means eggs Benedict is coming up? Because I think I smelled lemon the other day.”

  I laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

  We stay quiet for a bit before he says, “So, Wakefest will be here soon enough.”

  “I remember hearing about this.”

  He adjusts his hips and his spot on the couch. Yet he keeps me in his hold. “I’m thinking that we always need volunteers. Are you willing?”

  “Of course. Whatever you need.” I stay still, not wanting to interrupt whatever he is doing. “What do you do at this Wakefest?”

  “Nothing major,” he answers. His hands start to move. Just a bit.

  Maybe his touch is nothing; maybe it’s something.

  Suddenly, the front door opens, and a groan roars through the house. “Oh Christ. You two? I’ve got a hundred projects to deal with, and this kind of canoodling is not going to fuckin’ help.” Paul stomps in and marches around, shielding his eyes. “No canoodling, understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Danny sits and tries to smooth back his hair. “And nobody was canoodling!”

  I hop up and straighten my shirt. “No canoodling!” I agree. “Nothing like that.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Up off the couch, you two! Danny? I expect you outside within the hour. This roof is not going to finish itself. And, Callie? You want to be a tile queen? You’re laying tile ASAP. Today. I’ve got a guy coming to hang the wallpaper tomorrow, so no dawdling. Also, windows? Stair stuff to deal with in the upcoming weeks? S craping and painting the house? Happening this week. Sleeping and working only, okay? No weird … whatever this shit is!” Paul waves his hands around, frowning, and whips out the front door.

  “Well, that was fun,” Danny says sarcastically as he pushes himself to a stand and looks at me groggily. He rubs his face and yawns loudly, his hair all wonky and his eyes sleepy. Only he could look so damn cute after a night on the couch.

  “It’s how we all like to wake up,” I agree. “A Paul figure having a breakdown and screaming at us.”

  “Yeah. And who the fuck uses the word canoodling?” Danny is still adorably half-asleep and disoriented. It takes a minute, but he hasn’t forgotten. “So, you’ll volunteer at Wakefest, right? Even though there are no polar bears?”

  “Sure. I’ll do anything.” It’s impossible to look at him directly because I’m sure I look gross and morning-ish. “Breakfast interest? There’s something I’m going to try. It’ll probably suck, but … well, if I fuck up, then I can make you a boring bagel or whatever.”

  “Go for it, I say.” His sleepy smile is enough to make me throw him back on the couch. “Take failure off the table.” His confidence is enough to make me believe him. Before I can say anything else, he saunters off and is back in a heartbeat with a glass. “Icy orange juice for you. Drink up, cook what you want, and then tile later. I’ll take Shallots out for a bit.”

  Watching him leave is only tolerable because I know he’ll be back.

  Eggs Benedict sounds so easy, but all of my research tells me how crazy complicated it is. The real skills have to do with the poached eggs and the hollandaise sauce, but I at least have the eggs down.

  I want to make and serve this successfully so badly that it hurts.

  The oven preheats while I set a pan of water over a low flame, drop Canadian bacon onto a cookie sheet, crack an egg into a small bowl, and pop English muffin slices into the toaster, so they’re at the ready for when it’s go time. The kitchen is full of old cooking equipment, but I know I’ve seen a stainless bowl somewhere. All of the videos I’ve watched about making hollandaise sauce insist on using one, so I clarify butter—a term I find annoyingly pretentious, but it’s apparently necessary, so I do it anyway. I grab a whisk and beat the shit out of egg yolks and lemon juice in the stainless bowl over a simmering pot of water, periodically taking them off the heat so that they don’t scramble, until they are pale yellow and doubled in volume, and I somehow use my free arm to set my slices of Canadian bacon into the oven. My whipping arm is already aching, but I keep going and slowly drizzle in the melted butter while I continue beating egg yolks. This whole ordeal takes about eight minutes, and I’m embarrassed at how much my arm muscles are burning, so this sauce had best be a damn success. I take the bowl off the heat and season it with salt and a hit of Tabasco. My taste test makes me think the hollandaise is right, but I’ll need to hear it from someone else.

  Now that I know what I’m doing to some degree, it only takes a short time to poach the egg.

  My assembly might not be perfect, and I should probably have some kind of fancy garnish, but I don’t. Oh, until I remember that I have chives in the fridge. No idea why I bought these, but it sounds like something that would work, so I quickly chop up a bit to sprinkle over the top. It doesn’t escape me that in the past weeks, my knife skills have gone from zero to something. And that I’m even thinking things like knife skills.

  When Danny and Shallots return, I present my plate. And I cannot help but hover and tremble. “Eggs Benedict. Or at least, my attempt.”

  He sits and asks, “Wait, where’s yours?”

  “Oh.” It hits me that I only made one serving. “I guess that I only cooked for you.”

  “Shit, that’s an honor. Thank you.” Danny raises his fork as a toast. He takes a bite and groans. Like, he literally groans. “Are you kidding me with this? What is this damn sauce? I want to mop up everything I eat in this! I didn’t even really know what eggs Benedict was when I mentioned it. That was a joke.”

  Oh. Okay, I pulled off hollandaise, and I hold back a smile as he devours his food.

  “Danny! Come on!” Paul’s voice booms from the yard. “This is getting done today!”

  Danny polishes off his plate, and he pulls himself away. “Brilliant. Totally brilliant, Callie. Finishing your roof now before I beg for more food.”

  As I’m cleaning up the kitchen, Paul steps in. “C’mon, tile girl. It’s your time.”

  Fear and excitement overtake me. This could be a great day, or it could be a disastrous day. This bathro
om might end up in ruins.

  For hours, Paul hovers over me. Even though he approved my plan, he still stays with me every step of the way while I cut and place everything. And I can’t complain about his relentless presence because I don’t want to screw this up, but my God, I’m wiped when I finish placing the last tile.

  My body aches all over but wonderfully so. Every jolt of pain feels marvelous.

  “Good job, Callie,” he says. “Damn good job.”

  “Thanks.” The cerulean tile is officially in. Being soaked in sweat and heartache couldn’t be more perfect. “But I’m not done,” I acknowledge.

  “That’s right. You’ll have to grout and seal.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and makes me sit up. “Look around. This bathroom is going to be like no one else’s,”

  So, I do. It’s hard to admit, but he might be right. Even though I want to pass out, I manage to say, “Thank you. And I’m ready, Paul. I’m ready for the fireplace.”

  Cleaning up after my tiling today isn’t fun, and taking a call from my mother is significantly less fun.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi. I just tried to do a video call with you, but you didn’t pick up.”

  “Something’s going on with my camera. Sorry.” It’s a lie, but I don’t want her to see the state of the house, which she’d likely criticize, so I didn’t accept her call.

  “I wanted to check in. See what’s going on.”

  “Everything is fine. I think we’re making decent progress.”

  “I’m happy to hear this. I was curious though because I got a credit card statement, and the charges from Vermont seem low.”

  “Well, that’s because …” I slump against the wall and think about how to explain that I’ve been spending my own money. “Because I found stuff on sale. We got deals on so much.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  I change the subject. “I think the living room needs to be updated. I mean, if you want to sell. It’s so dark. Painting the wood walls a light color would help. And maybe doing something fun with the fireplace.”

  It takes a really long time for her to respond, but she finally replies with a simple, “Yes, sure. Whatever Paul thinks is best.”