Secondary Colors by Aubrey Brenner

Why does it give me a rush of satisfaction?
    “Why did you stop?”
    “I went through something major and my priorities changed. I needed a degree to fall back on. I couldn’t guarantee a steady future as a starving artist.”
    “Isn’t that the beauty of art? You invest yourself into it fully.”
    “Not everyone has that luxury, Holt.”
    “What could’ve altered your priorities so much, you’d stop doing what you love?”
    “Life. There are circumstances that change you forever. When they occur, nothing is ever the same again. The things that seemed important before, aren’t as important after.”
    His eyes glaze over as he retreats inside himself. I study him, searching his face for a glimpse of his soul, wondering if his scars run that deep.
    “If it’s any consolation,” he says, coming out of his thoughts, “I think you should keep doing it. You’re good, Evie. It’s a shame to give up on true talent.”
    “Do we have to talk about this?”
    “No.” He shifts his book aside and turns toward me, propping his head in his open palm. I do the same.
    “Can I ask a question?”
    “Sure.”
    “If you could do anything, what would you choose?”
    “When I was a kid, I wanted to be an architect.”
    “Really? Why?”
    “I liked the idea of building skyscrapers and magnificent bridges, leaving my mark on the world. That was a childhood fantasy, though. I don’t know. I’ve really enjoyed fixing this place, restoring the property to its former glory.”
    “You’re really gifted with this type of work. It’s like your form of artistic expression.”
    “I guess it is.” He lies on his back again, staring up at the ceiling shrouded in darkness. “Why does everyone call you Evie?”
    “It’s my name.”
    “Meredith calls you Violet. Why not Vi or Lettie?”
    “When Tay and I were kids, she started calling me Evie and it stuck. Plus, I’ve never really liked my name.”
    “I like it, Violet,” he utters so sweetly, it takes on a whole new sound.
    “Do you mind if I move closer?” I ask in a whisper.
    He reaches out and drags me into the warmth of his body. I relax into him with a deflating breath.
    “Thank you for pretending to care,” I mutter through a yawn, sleep dragging me under.
    “I’m not pretending.”
    Wondering what this—whatever this is—will look like in the light of day, I shut my tired eyes, sheltered in his assuring embrace, the unyielding rain steadily drumming on the roof.
     

     
    Reaching for Holt, my hand instinctively searches for the warmth of his body, discovering cold emptiness beside me. I’m in his bed, the faded memory of him and the storm lingering in the front of my mind. Lying on my back, I tilt the crown of my head into the pillow and glimpse out the window behind the bed. It’s a perfect clear sky, the kind you see after a cleansing storm. The hammering in the distance informs me he must’ve gotten an early start on the horse paddock.
    In need of caffeine, I climb out of bed and amble into the kitchenette. I grab the canister out of the cupboard, dig out two scoops of ground coffee, and pour water into the coffeemaker.
    I lean against the counter and glimpse around the apartment, noting the difference morning brings. Curiosity killing me, I snoop around while I wait for my wakeup brew to finish.
    Most of the furniture and appliances were picked by my mom, but there are little hints of him hidden about the apartment, books crookedly piled on the nightstand, his clothes in the closet, and his scent in the sheets.
    I casually spy his leather wallet sitting on the nightstand behind his books, next to a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses. Praying I don’t turn out like the cat in the proverb, I feed my curiosity and flip it open. His plastic protected driver’s license confirms everything he told me. Holt Turner from Chicago, twenty-six years of age, organ donor. I continue to root through his wallet. There isn’t much else, cash, receipts for things