The Color of Us Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Jessica Park

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jessicapark.me

  Cover Designer: Ampersand Book Covers, www.ampersandbookcovers.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Marlana, who both shares and demands kindness

  more ferociously than anyone I know.

  And for Elliot, my Unicorn Boy, the second kiddo I never knew I needed.

  The world is a significantly better place because of these two extraordinary people.

  contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  epilogue

  acknowledgments

  one

  I stare at my ceiling fan. The rhythmic spinning and the dull, intoxicating sound try to lure me back to sleep. But I should get up. I should shower and get dressed and primp. But I don’t. I can’t. The snooze alarm is my ally. The shut-off button my best friend.

  It’s only when I hear my mother come home that I force myself out of bed. Seven p.m. is a reasonable time to start one’s day, right? It’s still light out.

  Fine, I know it’s not, I tell myself. But here I am.

  When I stumble into the kitchen, both my mother and older sister, Erica, are waiting. They are dressed to slay after their workdays, and I tighten my robe to hide my baggy shirt and frayed sweatpants. I force a smile.

  My mom begrudgingly smiles back at me before she crosses to the other side of the spacious kitchen. “Callie, your sister brought us quinoa bowls. Kale, green apple, tofu, and such.”

  “Sounds yummy. Thank you.” It sounds disgusting.

  Erica pushes a bowl across the table. “Thought I’d stop by after my video shoot. And,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’s not like either of you knows how to work a stove.”

  “Nor do you, takeout queen,” I point out.

  “I’m not the one who somehow manages to burn spaghetti while boiling it.”

  “At least I tried,” I mutter. “That one time.”

  Somehow, the plastic top to my scary quinoa bowl flies across the room as I open my dinner. It would have been nice if it’d hit my sister, but sadly, it just drops to the floor.

  I wish I liked her more, but I can’t. She could not possibly have on more makeup, but that’s to be expected, given that her makeup-guide YouTube tutorials have cultivated a huge fan base. Her face is so contoured with ten shades of bronzer that she hardly looks human. Also, I know for a fact that she hates quinoa, and she only eats it because she pretends to like trendy things that, in reality, taste like exotic animal poop.

  I make myself take a bite and fake what gratitude I can. “This is. . . Thank you. It’s so … healthy.”

  At least five silent minutes go by, during which we all pretend to be enamored with our dinner.

  “You’re at the paint store tomorrow?” my mom asks, trying to sound conversational.

  “Of course she is,” Erica says. “I’m not sure they could ever survive without her. Paint doesn’t sell itself.” She plops into a kitchen chair and crosses her legs, showing off her stupidly perfect and fake-tanned calves.

  “I do more than sell paint,” I say weakly. “I’m now a consultant.

  I go into people’s houses, see the rooms for myself, and help the store—”

  “Sell paint!” Erica finishes with glee.

  She’s got me there.

  It takes a minute for my mom to react. “There’s nothing wrong with helping homeowners pick out colors.”

  “Oh, I agree,” Erica says. “What twenty-one-year-old wouldn’t find this to be monumentally challenging, fulfilling work?”

  So much of me wants to scream at her. I’d like to launch myself within inches of my sister, knock her contoured ass to the ground, and tell her to go filter crazy forever. To keep changing herself into someone she’s not.

  Before I can do anything, my mother’s phone rings loudly, startling us all into and mercifully interrupting this family mess.

  I assume it’s one of her needy, high-end realty clients calling, given that her phone sounds nearly constantly with calls and texts, but she freezes slightly after she looks at the screen, before looking our way and waving off the call as nothing.

  “Paul, I know. I cannot come out there now.” Her voice has an edge. “Vermont? That’s a huge trip.”

  Now, I tense up, and Erica fiddles with her glass and nervously flips her hair.

  “So, can you just do the work?” my mom asks. Practically begs.

  She smiles tensely at us as she walks into the living room, thinking that she’s out of earshot. But there’s nowhere to hide in this condo. We can still fully hear this crummy conversation.

  “What do you mean that you need to have someone there to oversee things?” My mother’s stress rips through me. “What? There’s that much? A new roof too? A kitchen? Can’t I sell it as is? Why can’t you decide these—” She pauses, and I hear her exhale way too loudly. “I’m sorry. I can’t face it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, my sister and I are still pretending to enjoy our flavorless quinoa junk when our mom all too casually strolls back into the kitchen.

  Erica stands and strikes another perfect pose. “So, what was that about?” Her feigned ignorance is fooling no one.

  “A sale that I’m dealing with. It’s nothing.” But my mom avoids looking at us and busies herself with cleaning the already-clean counter.

  The three of us are silent.

  Even Erica can’t pretend that she doesn’t know what’s happening. The phone call was about my childhood home in Vermont that my mother still owns. The one where I grew up with her, my dad, and sister. The house where life felt idyllic.

  Was idyllic.

  Erica grabs her coat and makes an excuse to explain why she has to run.

  I start to walk to my room, but then I hear my mother in the kitchen, and I backtrack slowly.

  What I hear halts me.

  My mother’s pain halts me.

  She’s hunched over the counter, her sobs and still-fresh grief echoing painfully throughout the room. It’s been years, and her agony is as present as mine.

  I try to put my arms around her, try to hold her up. “Mom, let me help—” I start.
/>
  She takes deep breaths and stands upright, and I know she’s trying to calm her emotions. “I’m okay. There’s nothing you can do. I’m okay, Callie. I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry.”

  I feel helpless. And incompetent. And I know that I’m the last person my mother will accept comfort from because for reasons we don’t ever talk about, she faults me for the pain we all must fight.

  And she’s right to blame me.

  My mom wipes her eyes, suddenly acting like everything is super normal. “Okay, enough of that. I’m going to dive into a tub of ice cream before bed. Want to join me?”

  Because I’m also not big on dealing with feelings, I nod. “Sure. That sounds great.”

  After my mother and I silently go through spoonfuls of salted caramel and after she heads to bed so that she can be up early to sell stupidly expensive real estate, I dig into the back of the freezer for the vodka I’ve stashed there.

  Ice makes the first glass of alcohol go down easily. I take the second onto the porch of our condo and look out over the city. Los Angeles is so beautiful at night, but the night sky only shows the bright spots. The dark reality of my days is hidden.

  A third drink should help.

  two

  The next morning, I’m literally watching paint dry. And trying to ignore my hangover. The sound of impatient pacing feet echoes throughout my client’s living room, yet somehow, she’s not making the paint dry any faster. The samples that I’ve thrown on her wall are nearly identical. Blue is blue is blue. But Mrs. Crane is going to disagree with me.

  An exasperated sigh from my client practically blows the hair off of my sweaty shoulders. “You must have something to say. This is my living room, and the color we choose is crucial in setting the right atmosphere. Amelia Price next door went with a green that is the color of a molding lime, and I can’t even think about going to one of her parties and having that vile shade reflecting over my skin.”

  The eleven paint swatches in front of me look identical. Totally freaking identical. I scramble to come up with any sort of commentary. “Well … blues can be tricky.”

  “Tricky? I know they’re tricky! That’s why I had Paint Your World send you here!” She jabs a finger at paint swatch number four. “This one is a possibility, don’t you agree?”

  I glance at my clipboard. “HL-three-eight-seven-six-three.”

  Mrs. Crane turns and scowls at me. “Not the number. The name. What is the name of this color? That’s important too. There’s no way I’d pay money for a color with an unpalatable name. Like, there will be no Bosom of Bluebells in my house.”

  “Um, I don’t think that’s actually a color.” I look down and frantically flip pages. It’s almost ninety degrees in Beverly Hills today, but that’s not why I’m sweating. I’ve got to get out of here.

  I work at a paint store. I sell paint; I mix paint. End of story. I’m not exactly da Vinci, so why my moron of a boss sent me, of all people, out for this consult is beyond reason.

  “How about Grecian Morning Sky Passion?” Somehow, I manage to say this without laughing. I step forward, make myself smile, and hold my palm up under the wall sample of GV-49228, like I’m a game-show hostess trying to wow a contestant with an air fryer or a unicycle.

  “Sell me on this color,” my client demands as she lowers her glasses and squints back and forth between me and the Grecian-nonsense swatch. “You have thirty seconds.”

  A stream of nervous bullshit flies out of my mouth. “What could be more perfect? Who doesn’t find Greece to be a top travel destination? You know, all those white houses and ocean views. Plus, the name has the word morning in it, and mornings … mornings are all about coffee and eggs Benedict and mimosas. Looking out at the sky is always nice. Not on the smoggy days, obviously. That’s not pretty.”

  Mrs. Crane’s frown is not helping me here.

  “And then passion? Er, who doesn’t like passion, if you know what I mean? Morning passion, right?” Then, unable to stop myself, as though my body were not my own, I give an exaggerated wink. Oh God, what am I doing?

  Mrs. Crane folds her arms. “I’m allergic to eggs. I think we’re done here.”

  I give a meek wave when I slink out to my car and leave the disastrous consult. By the time my air-conditioning fights through the soaring temperatures, I’ve already wiped my forehead five times. It’s only eleven a.m. And I’m sweating vodka, so that’s cool.

  When I return to work, my boss, Lewis, is fussing over a display of brochures touting paint shades that will give a house the Victorian appeal it deserves. Los Angeles is not exactly littered with Victorian houses, but Lewis has been so enthralled by this line of paint that he even made me spend two hours helping him assemble a three-dimensional miniature wooden house, each detail highlighting one pastel color after another.

  “Hi, Lewis!” I say brightly as I breeze past him to set my sample bag in the office. “Well, I think that went very well! Mrs. Crane is considering a number of options, but we narrowed it down to a few exceptional choices. I’m leaning toward one in particular—”

  “You can cut the bullshit, Callie. She called.”

  Shit.

  I take a few deep breaths before I turn to face him. Lewis is only a few years older than I am, but at twenty-six, he’s found his calling as the manager of this boutique paint store. He takes everything about working here way too seriously, so I’m pretty sure that whatever Mrs. Crane told him has been added to the growing list of what he considers are my monumental screwups.

  A salty glare bores through me, and Lewis pushes up the sleeves of the baggy V-neck sweater that hangs over his skinny frame. It reeks of the ammonia-like cologne sprayed throughout his favorite clothing store. I pray he doesn’t get closer to me, or I might not be able to stop from gagging.

  “Listen, Callie, you’ve been here for over a year and a half. You should be able to handle a simple color consult.”

  “I tried,” I say with false enthusiasm.

  “In that case, we both have more to be disappointed about than I thought. If you don’t like working here, then maybe you should try going to college, like most people your age.”

  Most people my age would be on the verge of graduating. Struggling at community college didn’t do much to bolster my ego.

  I smile halfheartedly. “Maybe I’m not cut out for home visits. I’m sure that’s where you shine though, right? You’re so creative, all that thinking-outside-the-box visionary … drive …” My sad attempt at ass-kissing does nothing to change his expression, and I’m literally saved by the bell when the door jingles as a customer enters.

  “What is it with you and your absolute refusal to refer to the paint colors by their names?” he whispers. “A team of marketing people worked long and hard to come up with enticing names, ones designed to appeal to buyers, and there you are, all robot-like, yammering, ‘B-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven!”

  “That’s not even an identifying number,” I point out.

  “That is not the issue!” Lewis becomes visibly unglued, waving his hands about and rolling his eyes. “The issue is that you act like this is a bingo hall! Or a math store!”

  I touch a hand to my chin. “I don’t … think … that’s a thing. A math store?” Of course, we’re in Los Angeles. Everything could be a thing. “And the delightful game of bingo does not have so many numbers—” I start.

  “That’s it!” Lewis exhales deeply. “I can’t do this anymore. You’re fired.”

  “I’m quitting.”

  “You can’t quit because you’re already fired.”

  “I’m quitting because you’re firing me. It’s insulting.”

  “Get out.” Lewis turns and starts to walk away but then stops. And with his back to me, he says, “You need to get your life together, Callie.”

  Yeah, I think, no shit, genius.

  He should have stopped when he did but adds, “I’m sure your father would be so proud.”

  If I could have made a smooth,
stoic exit, I would have.

  But Lewis is a monster.

  He knows that my father died when I was eleven.

  three

  My car idles in the parking lot outside the mall while I knock my forehead against the wheel and try not to cry. I’m going to wait here until my scheduled appointment to have the letter E key on my laptop replaced. I’m hoping that enough time will pass between now and facing my mother that I’ll have pulled myself together. Maybe I can tell her that getting fired is a positive thing. Getting fired by a twerp of a boss from a job that I was terrible at could be an opportunity to do something else. Something better.

  When I realize that my forehead is starting to hurt from my repetitive bonks, I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes.

  Fuck.

  Well, this appointment cannot be the worst of my day. I won’t allow it to be. How hard can it be to switch out a keyboard letter?

  When I enter the store, I’m overwhelmed by the number of employees swirling around, and it’s a shock that I’m not trampled by any of them. With all eyes expectantly on me, I narrow in on a woman not much older than I am.

  She lurches forward and beams. “Hi! How can I help you today?”

  “I have an appointment. I need a new E key.”

  “Wonderful! I’d love to help you with that!” She glances down at her tablet. “Name?”

  “Callie Evans.”

  “Okay, great.” Her frown leads her to wave over two other employees. “Hey, friends! This is Callie. She needs a new eekie, and I’d love to help her with that, but I’m not sure what that is.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I stare at the two supposedly genius dudes in front of me, and they’re perplexed to all hell by her statement.

  “Hmm,” one says. “An eekie. Let’s see if we can figure out what that is.” He starts tapping his own screen with great intent. “What’s your name?”

  “The same as it was a minute ago. Callie Evans. I have an appointment.”

  “Wonderful!” the second guy exclaims. “So, er, what is this eekie you’re looking for? Might there be another name for it.”