The Color of Us Read online

  He turns our way and waves to Danny and Matteo to stop what they’re doing. Even from the dock, I can see Slowski’s face, the way he’s taken aback, the smile as he walks across my roof. And I can also see how his demeanor changes when we drop down to our bikinis and crawl into the floaties. It’s a good change, as he’s now speechless and staring and ogling. And maybe seeing Mary Ann in a new light. Like maybe she’s not one of the guys after all.

  Danny thumps Slowski’s chest and calls out, “Well, morning, ladies.”

  “Morning,” I reply.

  “What are you girls up to?” he asks wryly because he totally knows.

  “Thought we’d go for a swim,” I say nonchalantly. “Maybe make you lunch later, if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely interested,” Danny shouts back.

  It takes a hard second for me to reply. “And is Slowski interested?”

  We both look at Phil, and given that he is frozen in place, his stare transfixed on Mary Ann, I’d say he is.

  “I’m gonna confirm that we’re all in,” Danny assures me with a laugh. And before the three go back to removing tiles, Danny points at me. “So. Not. Subtle.”

  “But it worked, right?” I yell.

  “Yeah.” And he doesn’t even try to hide the way he looks me up and down in my barely clad state. “But it was already working.”

  I hold his look for a moment before I turn away. It’s warm out today, but the way I’m shaking is undeniable and embarrassing. It doesn’t matter that Danny and I haven’t spoken today. Some long follow-up on the other night isn’t what either of us wants—I can tell. I don’t want to talk about anything else deep or real or insightful. Neither does he. Not right now.

  Matteo gives me a thumbs-up when the other two aren’t looking.

  After Mary Ann and I both kick and float for a while, she paddles toward me and grabs my floatie until we bump together.

  “Holy crap. Okay, holy crap!”

  “It seems you got his attention, girl.”

  “You got his attention for me.” Her smile is everything. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing. That was going to happen at some point.”

  We spend the next few hours sunning ourselves, getting to know each other, swimming in the chilly water, and periodically gazing at the boys on the roof. It’s definitely not a bad morning. I catch Danny’s eye on me more than once. It’s flattering, but I try to enjoy it for what it is.

  In a measured whisper, Mary Ann says, “You and Danny should come by soon. The farm is well in season. Pick some corn. And strawberries. Arugula, spinach, and asparagus.”

  “I’d like that. But you should be there too. Don’t act like you’re setting up a date, okay? Unless you ask Slowski and need buffers. It’s not as though Danny and I are a couple.”

  “You could be!” Mary Ann excitedly spins her silly sloth tube.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well, why not? You’re single; he’s single. You’re both super hot and awesome.”

  “Mary Ann.” It takes effort, but I reach a foot out and stop her spinning. “I’m not here forever, and I don’t want a random hook-up. So, let me enjoy the view.”

  “And the flirting and the sexual tension and the adorableness?” she asks coyly.

  “Yes,” I happily agree. “I’m down with that.”

  “Yeah, we’ll see if that’s all it is.” She tosses her head back and soaks her hair in the lake. “Still, you guys are coming by the farm. That’s decided.”

  “What would I do with all that produce?”

  “Hello? You’re a cook. You’ll cook shit up!”

  I laugh. “I’m hardly a cook.”

  “Maybe you’re in the egg-and-chicken stage, but I already know you’re a food lover, and you’ll become a home cook, if nothing else. Unless you have an egg fetish? Which would be weird.”

  “No, I do not have an egg fetish. It seemed a basic place to start. To learn.” Now, it’s my turn to go silent for a beat. “But I’d like to. Have skills, you know? So, I’m trying with some cooking. Some house stuff. I’m doing as much research and studying as I can. I want to do something right. Besides chicken.”

  She clears her throat. “We’ve all heard about the chicken.”

  My groan is loud. “Yeah, I know. I’m humiliated. I’ve been teased enough about that. Those butchers will never forget me.”

  “What? No. I mean, about the chicken salad that you served. Danny and Paul mentioned it to a few people, and now, everyone in town wants your recipe.” Her voice softens. “Callie, wait. You think people are laughing at you? Not at all! They’ve been laughing at our butchers, who didn’t know what you were talking about. And they were laughing at themselves for not knowing about that spatchcock chicken term. Nobody meant to make you feel badly. Truly.”

  “So, I can go back there?” I ask hesitantly. “I haven’t branded myself as a freak in my hometown?”

  “You’re fine. Everyone is so proud of you for coming back to Wake. Especially considering how you had to leave.” She pauses. “Or were forced to leave. I know that I wasn’t here then, but I’ve heard.”

  In order to hide my stupid, gleaming smile, I roll off the floatie and push myself underwater, and despite the jarring cold, I swim.

  I hold my breath and swim a lap and back. And then I stop and sit in this glorious lake. I don’t resist when my body wants to struggle, when my lungs burn, until I sink.

  Lake water doesn’t push back the way ocean water does. No salt water or waves to force you to float. It’s so damn calm right now, and I love this feeling. When I’m ready, when I’m fully deficient of air, I let natural buoyancy carry me to the surface.

  “It’s a Jamie Oliver recipe that I adapted,” I answer while panting.

  Mary Ann’s arms are around my rib cage, hugging me as I paddle.

  “The chicken. I’ll send you a link. The recipe.” My thoughts are so hazy. “But you’ll like it.”

  “Shit, I thought you were drowning for a sec there.” She hugs me harder before letting go.

  “Not at all,” I reassure her through my ragged gasps. I crawl happily toward my sloth floatie and lift myself up. “The total opposite. I couldn’t feel more alive.” Every breath feels brilliant and perfect. Clean. I cannot get enough. “I want to float more. Talk more.”

  “I do too.” She slowly spins three times. “I think we both need to talk. So, talk, girl. Go first.”

  So, I do. I tell her about my dad, my mom, and my sister. How my sister makes crazy money, posting about makeup, viral products, and about her fake face, fake hair, fake life. About growing up in LA. About my repeated failures, about my nothingness. About how I’m here in Wake as a designated nobody. Someone to do a job that anyone could. And how it’s maybe a way for my mom to get rid of me for the time being. And how I’m starting to think that I could make it about more.

  Mary Ann drifts for a bit and clearly thinks before she replies. “The only thing that matters is what you think of yourself. Not what your mom thinks of you.”

  “You’re right.” And she is. I can logically see this now, maybe even believe it.

  After a long period of silence, she pivots to face me, waves a hand, and sends me a look that makes me relax. “But what I care about most right now is why you asked me to pick up such awesome bread. Is there a meal coming my way? Should we un-float at some point?”

  “Yes, and yes, we should. There might be a snack in the near future,” I acknowledge. “Danny basically dared me without knowing it, and so now, I have to win. And you guys are victims to that challenge. Apologies in advance.”

  She scoots us toward the dock. “I’m Team Callie. No doubt.”

  “And I’m Team Mary Ann.”

  It’s a good thing that my dad taught me how to blow a loud whistle with two fingers because I use it now and get the boys to look our way. Danny doesn’t stop hitting tile, but he sees me. And he nudges his friend hard until Slowski also st
ops.

  Mary Ann makes a fun show of slow-crawling out of the water, flipping her hair, and loosely wrapping a towel around her waist as she intentionally does not look up at Slowski. “I’m going to hell,” she whispers. “Feminist hell.”

  “You’re a goddess. Own it!” I’m much less suave and way clumsier as I climb out of the water before throwing on my wrap, but I’m okay with being me. “Snacks for all coming up soon!” I scream.

  Inside, after we’ve changed into dry clothing, I begin grabbing bowls, pots, and skillets, and I ask Mary Ann to pull eggs and cilantro from the fridge.

  “What’s happening here?” she asks.

  “Just … I don’t know. I mean, I do, but can you help me?” I beg, slightly panicked.

  “Of course.”

  My new friend proves to be excellent at taking instructions. She can tell that whatever I’m doing is not easy for me.

  While water with a hint of white vinegar heats in a large pot, we both crack a total of five eggs into individual bowls.

  Then, I hear Paul’s truck pull up. “One more egg!”

  I might hesitate a few times, but finally, I swirl the hot water, creating a vortex before gently pouring in the egg. I wait three minutes before lifting it with a slotted spoon—surely, my dad’s—and setting it aside. I’m realizing now that I didn’t read about whether or not I could do a bunch of eggs at once, but this one looks right, so I’m sticking to this one-at-a-time method. And the boys’ meals can be delayed and maybe even cold. I mean, I’m not a restaurant.

  When I ask, Mary Ann cuts slices of the beautiful bread and rubs it with butter while I smash up avocados to make guacamole. This is one of the few things I have made many times, and the mix of avocado, cilantro, red onion, lime, jalapeño, and salt never fails.

  She begins grilling the bread over medium heat, and I nod when I think it’s ready to flip.

  The golden color is perfect.

  She nudges me. “Told you. Team Callie.”

  Together, we make our way through six eggs and six grilled bread slices.

  While she calls in the boys and situates them at the table, I slather guacamole over hot toast and top each piece with a poached egg, a hit of salt and pepper, and a shot of hot sauce.

  “What’s all this?” Danny asks as I set down the last plate.

  “Retribution. Or vindication. Or winning. Something.” I stand at the head of the table, nervously crossing my arms and then resting a hand on my cheek. “I don’t know. But this is a version of avocado toast, a California staple that you laughed about, and it’s not shitty. I mean, my version might be, but it’s not shitty usually.”

  Paul stomps in, surveys the scene, and grabs a seat. “Lay it on us!”

  All I can do is retreat to the kitchen and wait because I can’t watch. Why I care so much about how a snack is received is still beyond me. Failures have been routine in my life.

  My hands are gripping the sink when I hear Danny call out, “Fine, you win. That avocado toast about brought us all to our knees. It’s not exactly a Vermont staple, but it’ll have to be now. Or it will at least have to be a Wake staple.”

  Matteo adds, “Why the avocado things be so small? I like another. Or another two. Is possible?”

  Having a full-blooded Italian god who likely grew up on delectable local cuisine ask me for more is not too shabby.

  I turn slowly, and I cannot think of a single thing to say. I’ll take this win.

  Danny makes it even more okay when he continues talking to me from the other room. “This afternoon, I’m going to finish work on the Pathfinder while Slowski and Matteo finish scraping off the roof,” he says through his last bite. “By tomorrow, you’ll have a car and a naked roof.”

  I find my way to the entry to the dining area. “Let’s hope my roof isn’t modest.”

  eighteen

  It’s a good thing that the doorbell is broken because the pounding on the front door is already more than enough to irritate anyone. It’s Sunday, and I want to be sleeping in. My robe is only halfway on when I open the door, and I am ready to scream.

  Alex sticks his hand out and presents my hat. Only this time, it’s vacuum-sealed. “I am returning your hat. And I am here for brunch.” He marches past me and sits at the table. “I do hope you have breakfast sausage this time.”

  “Fine. And I do,” I say as I process the weird hat situation. “But you’re going to help me cook. It’s early, and I’m tired, and I haven’t had coffee.”

  “You need coffee before brunch?” he asks.

  “I do. Would you like one?”

  “No, I would not. But I will wait.”

  “Fine.” It’s by a thread that I contain my grumbling.

  While my coffee brews and I’m inhaling my usual frozen orange juice, Alex pops his head into the doorway.

  “And we’ll feed everyone?” he asks.

  Everyone?

  “Um, who is everyone?” It’s about all I can do not to throw my hands up.

  “Everyone,” he states. “Mary Ann. Paul. Danny. Slowski. Matteo.”

  “Fine.” I can handle that group.

  “Nicole. Ray. And Amelia.” he adds.

  Nicole, who cooks crazy-mouthwatering crepes? Yeah, I’m sure that I’ll impress her. At least Amelia from the checkout counter seems kind and less intimidating. She was so sweet to me. I start to relax slightly.

  Then, I panic. “Wait. Ray? The butcher?” Somehow, I don’t collapse. But this is bullshit. It sucks, and I’m pissed. “Ray, who spatchcock-shamed me all over town? Even though he admitted he was wrong?” Now, I cannot keep any kind of grumble, much less alarm, from my voice.

  “Yes. Him,” Alex says calmly. “Ray.”

  “Sure. I’ll miraculously make this happen,” I whisper to myself. “I’ll make a brunch out of nothing for all of the people I don’t know or barely know and all while I can barely feed myself.”

  “They will be here in two hours.”

  Alex is suddenly right behind me, and I whip around.

  “Dude, are you kidding me? I cannot make brunch for all of these people!”

  “Yes, you can. You cooked for me and for the worker boys here the other day. Now, cook for new people.”

  “Oh my God, no. It’s not the same. At all. Cooking for a crowd is way different. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” My huge groan is a sign that I’d prefer to completely topple over and run than deal with this.

  Alex stands in place and says, “But we all like brunch. Just make brunch.”

  “Yeah, I know that we all like brunch. That’s a given. Everyone likes brunch. So, how about you make brunch for a big crew? How about you humiliate yourself?” Now, I’m pacing, and my stress and panic are causing me to raise my voice when I turn to him and spit out, “Shit, what have you done? I cannot handle this!”

  Alex backs away. He’s suddenly severely agitated, his hands over his ears as he rocks harshly back and forth on his feet. “You are yelling at me! Why are you yelling at me?” he demands. “I don’t like this! Please stop!”

  His reaction is not what I was expecting, and I feel awful.

  “You’re right,” I say gently.

  “I did not yell at you! Now, you’re angry with me!” Alex unleashes in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “I thought I was doing a nice thing, but I was not. I made a mistake. Now, you’re angry. Now, you’re angry!”

  I flinch when he pummels his fists against his thighs and starts spinning in place.

  Fuck.

  I don’t know what to do. I walk toward him and reach out, but when he flinches and turns away, I can tell that’s the wrong move. He doesn’t want physical touch.

  “You did do a nice thing, and I’m not angry. Hang on. Give me a minute,” I say. “I have to think. You have to think. Let’s give each other some space.”

  He settles some.

  So, after I’ve brewed my coffee and had half a cup on the deck by the creek—and when I’m less of a horrible monster
—I peek around the corner and call out, “You’re right, Alex. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.”

  Alex meets me outside and sits at least six feet away. He avoids eye contact and clasps his hands tightly together. “Okay.” He rocks forward and backward over and over.

  I can see how that’s soothing for him.

  “Oh, deer,” he whispers.

  “Yes, oh dear indeed. We have a situation on our hands.”

  “No,” he continues in a whisper. “Deer. A real deer. In the water.”

  “What?” I look up.

  He’s right. There are two actual deer not far from us, casually drinking from the stream. It takes me a minute to remember that the male is called a buck and the female a doe. They are so peaceful, and I freeze, not wanting to scare them away. We used to have a family of deer that visited my own family a long time ago. I can’t help but feel like this is a sign.

  “I found some recipes the other day,” I share casually while trying to keep my voice steady. “One’s from my grandmother that’s called a Dutch-oven pancake. Maybe that would work?” I glance tentatively his way.

  His hands relax a touch. “Yes. Okay.”

  “I remember. Yes. That’s also called David Eyre’s pancake because David Eyre was famous for it. It’s a puffy thing you bake in the oven, and you serve it with confectioners’ sugar, jam, or lemon juice. Or all of those.”

  “That sounds delicious. I’d love to make this.” But then I realize something and drop my head into my hands. “Shit. I can’t do that for this many people. You need a certain kind of pan. Like a cast iron skillet or whatnot, and I’d have to have a bunch of those and a bigger oven.” Now, I’m rocking, and I can see how it does help.

  “Eggs. You like eggs. People like your eggs. That is a brunch food.” Alex is gazing at the creek and the rushing water.

  “But I can’t only do stupid scrambled eggs for this group. Not with Jackson and Nicole there. This needs to be more impressive. And individual omelets take too much time.”

  Alex balls his fists up again. “Scrambled eggs are not stupid. Eggs are not stupid. Do something with eggs!”

  The deer flinch, so I control my response as much as I can. “Okay, fine. Fine.”