Free Secondary Colors by Aubrey Brenner Page B

says, patting the mattress beside him.
    The idea of lying beside him makes me shake more than the residue of my nightmare.
    “I could take the couch.”
    “It’s pretty lumpy. You’d probably be more comfortable in the bed with me.” He sets his hand down on the empty space and runs it back and forth. “It’s roomy. We don’t have to cuddle or anything.”
    I’d be kidding myself if I said I didn’t want to fill that emptiness, bring his warmth closer to mine. It’s not from attraction. It’s a need to feel safe and not so alone. I hurry over to the bed with a skip in my step, crawl in, and ball up, leaving a two foot gap between us.
    “Thank you.”
    I sink my head into the coolness of the pillow. My body eases, taking comfort in his presence. However, I can’t relax completely until I address what happened this evening. “About earlier—” my voice melts into the silence of the room, unsure what I want to say.
    “I blame it on beer.” He smiles apologetically.
    “It was more than that.”
    His throat clears. “It was my birthday today.”
    “You didn’t say anything.”
    “Why would I?” He places his book on the bed between us and crosses his arms over his stomach. “We hardly know one another.”
    “I—”
    He’s right. We’re barely holding onto friendship, constantly teetering between like and dislike. But knowing he has no one to celebrate it with or wish him a happy birthday makes me responsible to do so.
    “Happy Birthday, Holt.”
    “Thanks.”
    His eyes remain forward on his lap. He seems uncomfortable talking about himself. I figure a change of topic is in order.
    “What are you reading?” I tap the hard cover of the book lying in the middle of the bed with my nail. He lifts it to show me the title.
     
    The Catcher in the Rye
    J.D. Salinger
     
    “Do you like it?”
    “It’s well-written, but this kid rubs me wrong. He’s a spoiled little sociopath.”
    “I thought so, too.” From my warm, safe place beside him, I search for a television to turn on to drown out the storm. There isn’t one. “Don’t you watch TV?”
    “Used to. When you travel the country, you don’t always sleep in a room. I entertain myself by picking up books wherever I find a bookstore. It’s gotten to the point I don’t miss it anymore. But I enjoyed that movie the other night. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
    Our eyes latch, the only connection our bodies share, which we delay severing.
    Lightning strikes again. My spine clenches up, preparing for the thunder. I hate loud noises. I always have.
    Holt gestures for me to move closer. I remain where I am. He reaches out and brings me to him, pacifying my worries with caresses of my hair.
    “What was your nightmare about?”
    I bury my face in his shoulder, not quite through the mental forest of isolation and misplacement my dream left me in.
    “The same thing it’s been for years.” I’m vague in the hopes that’ll be the end of it.
    Wishful .
    “What?” he prods further.
    “I never remember once I’ve woken.”
    Lies. All lies.
    “When did it begin?”
    I stare into the shadowed corners of the attic, visible when the lightning flares.
    “A long time ago.”
    “Alright. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it.” He hums to himself while thinking of another topic. I swear I see the lightbulb flicker on over his head when it comes to him. “If you could do anything, what would you choose?” He makes idle chat to take my mind away from the storm and my nightmare, pretending to care. I appreciate it whether genuine or not.
    “I love art. I loved to paint, to envision images in my head and then bring them to life on a canvas. It was rewarding.”
    “If you loved it, why don’t you paint anymore?”
    “How do you know I don’t?”
    “You said loved, not love. Plus, your brushes and paints are unused.”
    His observation catches me off guard. I wouldn’t have bet he paid me much mind, let alone notice small details about me.