Secondary Colors by Aubrey Brenner Page B

mouthful. “I’m not picky,” he says after swallowing. “Thank you.”
    “Thank you,” I reply, “for being understanding, listening to me, helping me get through the storm last night, everything.”
    “If I said I didn’t get anything out of it, I’d be lying.”
    “How?” I ask, placing my hand over my mouth to hide the huge wad of tuna tumbling around inside.
    “Traveling around is isolating.” He breaks off and flings a corner of his sandwich at Max lounging in the shade nearby. He gobbles it down before it hits the ground. “I enjoy my time with you, Hathaway. I don’t feel so isolated.”
    I respond, “I’ve enjoyed my time with you, too, Turner.”
    Maybe more than I should.
    He lifts his hand to my face.
    “You have some—” He wipes mayo from my bottom lip with his thumb, then onto the leg of his jeans. I nervously lick my lower lip, making sure it’s all gone.
    His devastating eyes loiter on my mouth before they fall away. We continue to eat our sandwiches, silently regarding the lake in the distance.
    Once we’ve finished, we sit a while longer, enjoying the quiet and our lemonades. A part of me wants to talk about the picture I found this morning, but I’m not the kind of person—usually—to push personal boundaries. I like keeping myself at a distance. You can’t get hurt. Plus, it probably wouldn’t make him happy I went rooting through his personals. I’d hate to rock the boat when we’ve managed to keep it from tipping over.
    “I’m going to get back to work,” he says, shattering the silence.
    He stands and dusts off the grass blades clinging to the back of his jeans. I catch myself staring and avert my gaze to the grass.
    Something shifted during the storm, something I can’t pinpoint, but it’s there. I want to know this man, understand those physical scars, and discover the scars you can’t see, the ones on his heart, the ones responsible for the sadness behind those ochre eyes. I want to know Holt Turner—and it terrifies me to death.
     
     
     
     
     

     
    three colors, blue, red, and yellow, the foundation for all color combinations
     
     
    I finish at the shelter and run one or two errands before driving home for the evening. When I get there, I take my supplies into the kitchen. My mom must be out because her car’s gone. But I saw the light on in Holt’s room, so he’s probably upstairs reading, which gives me free range to do what I need. I mix the ingredients into a bowl, place the mixture into a baking pan, and shove it in the oven. Then I start dinner.
    When everything’s ready and set out on the table outside, I call for Holt, “Could you come down here?”
    He appears from the back door a few moments later, his eyes growing large at the birthday cake lit up on the table.
    “I know I missed it, but I thought—”
    “You did this for me?” he asks, astonished.
    “You’ve done so much for me and my mom. You deserve someone to recognize your special day. I don’t know. Consider it a peace offering.” The corners of his mouth curve skyward. “Blow out your candles.”
    He steps toward the table slowly, as if the cake’s going to explode in his face. He inspects it and then me, his eyes delaying on my lips.
    “Make a wish.”
    He leans above the glowing dessert and extinguishes the flickering flames with a single strong breath.
    “What did you wish for?”
    He stands up straight and glances at me with a secretive smile. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
    “You can’t possibly believe that.”
    “Maybe not, but I really want this one.”
    Our gaze locks.
    “I hope you’re hungry.” I sever the contact of our eyes, increasingly uncomfortable by the way his seem to see right through mine. “I made a feast.”
    “You made me dinner?”
    “I made us dinner, but yes.” I pull out his chair with a bouquet of balloons tied to the back. “Sit.”
    I go into the house and bring out the plates and bowls of food. We eat, mostly in