Secondary Colors by Aubrey Brenner Page A

he’s bought for the house, and a slip of paper with a list of classic books scribbled in his handwriting. Some have been crossed off, presumably the ones he’s already read. I note the ones he hasn’t then slip it back into the main pocket. I come across a secret compartment and retrieve a folded picture. Ready to split at the crease, I gently unfold it. It’s a photo of him and another boy. He appears to be about thirteen or fourteen, maybe younger, but his height makes it hard to tell, his face already showing the signs of an attractive man. His arm is around the neck of the boy beside him, leaning into him, both smiling from ear to ear. The other boy appears to be a handful of years younger than him. They share similar faces, so I assume this is his brother or cousin.
    The coffeemaker stops. I prepare a cup and admire the picture, thinking a million thoughts.
    Who is that other little boy?
    Does he come from a good home, a good family?
    If so, why does he travel the country like a vagabond?
    If not, what caused him to leave them behind?
    What is he running from?
     

     
    Scheduled at the shelter later this afternoon, it affords me the morning to do what I like. I spend it cleaning up Holt’s apartment, to thank him for the night before. I throw on a tank top and paint-splattered overalls Meredith forgot to remove from the bottom dresser drawer and tie my hair into a sloppy bun. Turning on some essential eighties’ tunes to help the time go faster, I vacuum and wipe down every flat surface while getting down and funky. His place isn’t very messy. He keeps it rather tidy for a man. It’s comfortably lived in, but needs little attention.
    Once I finish, I straighten up the first floor and sweep off the porch. Living in a small apartment off campus, I forgot the effort it takes to maintain a house of this size. I understand why my mom brought him here.
    I smile, grateful for everything he’s done for us.
    I stop cleaning when my stomach screams at me for sustenance. Figuring Holt must be hungry after his long morning working outside, I whip up tuna fish sandwiches, with a side of chips and lemonade, bringing it out to him at the paddock.
    The rain-cleansed air is thick with the scent of damp earth. It hits me in the nose the second I step outside. It may even be a few degrees cooler today, which is appreciated with the record summer we’ve been having.
    He doesn’t hear me approach, the radio blaring some alternative rock band. I slide the tray of food onto the makeshift table it’s sitting on, constructed from a large piece of plywood across two sawhorses, his tools neatly laid out across it. I walk up to him, his partially deformed back facing me, sweat glistening across its tanned skin. My fingers sting with the urge to run over the raised flesh. As they unconsciously gravitate toward the marred shoulder, he turns his focus from the fence, my hand withdrawing to my side.
    “I thought you’d be about ready for lunch,” I comment.
    “I’m starving,” he says, “but I want to finish fixing this gate first. Can I get your help for a second?”
    “What do you need?”
    He places the end of a plank to a post.
    “Hold this in place while I secure the other end. Keep it even.”
    He picks his side off the ground, screws pre-placed in the holes, and positions it against the stake. Taking a drill off his work belt, he lines the tip to the head of the screw and bores it in deep, repeating with the one below. He moves over to my end and does the same. Once we’re done, he removes his work gloves and shoves them into his back pocket.
    “Thanks,” he says with a smirk.
    I return one.
    He handles the tray and follows me to a nice spot under the shade of a maple tree to eat our lunch. I sit between two roots at the base of the trunk. He sits on the ground next to me and sets the tray between our outstretched legs. I hand him his plate, and he digs in immediately.
    “Hope you like tuna.”
    He nods, chewing on a