The Color of Us Page 12

  Alex drops from the porch and walks up and down by the creek, somehow not scaring the buck and doe, while I stew and try to come up with a plan in order to not humiliate myself.

  Google saves me. YouTube saves me. Mary Ann saves me when she replies to my text about picking up more breakfast sausage because I only had enough for Alex.

  So, brunch is doable.

  “Alex! Alex!” I’m finally smiling today.

  If he didn’t hate hugging, I’d wrap him in a bear hold, but instead, I wave my hand and beg him to follow me back to the kitchen, where I start rifling through the fridge and hurl ingredients onto the counter.

  “Okay, green peppers, tomatoes, goat cheese, butter. Your beloved eggs. Well, our beloved eggs, I guess. And cream. Oh, and pass me an onion from the counter, please.” My satisfaction when I face him cannot be contained. “We’re making a big ol’ frittata! Two of ’em. I can do that. And hash browns! My friend, you’re now on potato duty. I’ll show you how. I saw a grater somewhere, and I read that you don’t have to peel the red potatoes, but for fuck’s sake, don’t cut yourself, okay? We don’t need a trip to the emergency room.”

  “No,” he agrees. “I would not like that.”

  “And I have fresh fruit that we could cut up.”

  He says nothing but nods.

  “So, you’ll be my partner this morning,” I state. “We’ll do this together. And it’s going to be fine.”

  When he looks up, his sight line focused over my shoulder, I see a calm that filters back to me.

  I smile sincerely. “We are a team.”

  “Okay. Teams are nice.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “Teams are nice. Avoiding humiliation is also nice,” I say emphatically.

  After I set him up on one side of the small island and make sure that he is grating potatoes only and not fingers, I start chopping vegetables. It’s slow going, as I haven’t used a knife much, but eventually, I have a bowl of frittata ingredients. Probably way more than I need, so I beat more eggs, in case. Next, I slice the strawberries and sprinkle them with a bit of sugar. Apparently, they’ll do something called macerate, which sounds bad, but evidently, it means they’ll release juice and become more delicious, and then I’ll add sliced bananas right before serving.

  It feels as though there are a thousand things to keep in my head. Cook the vegetables and then mix them up with beaten eggs and cheese and then bake the frittatas until only barely set and still jiggly. Finish prepping the potatoes and then brown them off in a cast iron pan. Brew more coffee and find sugar and milk containers. Put out dishes and silverware …

  This is a lot, but I think I can remember what to do

  A bit later, when I’m feeling okay, the doorbell rings, and my stomach clenches.

  This brunch thing is happening.

  “Alex, do you mind seeing who’s here?” I’m in the middle of squeezing starch out of the potatoes, and I’ve got to stir my sautéing veggies in about a minute.

  “I am busy. I am slicing bananas to your exact specifications,” he states. “Answering the door would not only be inconvenient, but it might also upset my preciseness.”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” I mutter as I wipe my hands on a dishcloth. I shake the stovetop pan before I go to the door.

  “So cool that you wanted to host this brunch thing.” Danny is all smiles and waving around a bottle of Bloody Mary mix. Then, he sees my expression. “Oh.”

  “Yep.”

  “You didn’t take the warning seriously.”

  “I did not.”

  Danny shuts the door behind him. “Are you okay? What can I do?”

  “I’m fine. Mostly. I’m more worried about Alex. Things got weird for a bit, but I think we’re okay.”

  He frowns with concern. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s totally my fault, but Alex got stressed because I got stressed. I feel horrible, although he seems to be in a rhythm now.”

  “Ah. I understand.” Danny’s smile is comforting. “I’ve been there with him. We’ve all been there. It takes a bit to figure him out. What can I do now?”

  My sigh is not subtle. “Want a list? Because I’m about to mix up these frittatas and pray that I don’t overbake them. And there’s a hash-browns situation that I’m not feeling confident about.” I take the Bloody Mary mix from his hand and pivot toward the kitchen. “How do you feel about watching a few YouTube cooking tutorials? There’s supposedly something important about getting a sear on the grated potatoes that shall be hash browns before you start stirring them around. I dunno.”

  He laughs. “I’ll become a fan.”

  “If you can also find yet another cast iron pan, you’ll be my hero,” I mutter. “The cooking people say it’s crucial for making hash browns.”

  Danny does turn out to be my hero, and I pour frittata batter into skillets and try not to devolve into a ball of sweat.

  Every time I hear the front door open and close, I cringe, and so I continue to hide in the kitchen and hover, doing my best not to open the oven too often to peer at what I’m about to serve to this group of people I barely know. Danny enlists Alex to set the table while he takes charge of the hash browns.

  “It was a smart idea to have two pans going,” Danny says. “These potatoes never would have fit in one.”

  “I was damn happy that you found two cast iron skillets.” I’m pacing, checking my iPhone timer over and over. “Shit! Juice glasses!”

  “What?”

  “We need juice glasses on the table—not to mention, the actual orange juice. Do I have pitchers? And the Bloody Marys! Oh, and what about something to set down the hash browns and frittata on the table? Trivets?. Hot plates. Do I have those?”

  “You’re sharing your frozen orange juice? That’s love.” Danny winks, giving the hash browns a last shake before moving them off the burner. “Alex and I are on it.” His hand moves slowly to rest on my shoulder. “It’s brunch. Everyone here is on your side. Breathe. Just breathe. That’s all you have to do.”

  And so I do. The frittatas look good when I pull them from the oven, but who knows what they’ll taste like?

  “Okay, go check the table for me?” I beg.

  Minutes later, Danny is back. “Coffee, OJ, and Bloody Marys are now out.” Danny shows me the hash browns that he put in a ceramic dish. “Alex has the fruit salad. Hot plates are on the table. You ready to go? Serve your masterpieces! Alex and I are ready.”

  “Sure. Right behind you.”

  I want to be right behind them, yet I have to take a minute. It’d be nice if I had more confidence in myself, if I wasn’t so shaky and nervous. If I didn’t feel like some kind of everything was on the line right now.

  As Danny said, it’s brunch. End of story. So, I will be proud that I tried.

  When I peek my head around the corner, I see that the dining table is full and the conversation is flowing—voices loud—with abounding laughter, so I have to eavesdrop a bit.

  Nicole is laughing so hard that she can barely speak. “Remember that time that I found our young Danny pinned between his front door and the storm door? What was he, two years old?”

  Amelia giggles. “I was with you because we were dropping off groceries for Andie. Danny had tried to sneak out of the house, but he got trapped, all splayed out in only a diaper. He looked so cute and surprisingly calm, like he knew someone would free him soon.”

  “And we did!”

  The women clink glasses.

  “He was the cutest kid,” Amelia says and turns to him. “Danny, you really were. Do you remember when you broke your arm and asked us all to sign your cast under a celebrity name? It was so great, having you stay with us for the weeks after you tumbled out of that tree. Not that I liked that you’d broken your arm, but it was still so fun to have you with us.”

  He chuckles, but I know a damn fake laugh when I hear one. And I know pain when I see it.

  “I’d always wanted to meet Denzel Washington,” he says. “Who do
esn’t?”

  I have to stop this. “Frittatas for all!” I call out.

  Danny gives me a grateful look as he, Nicole, Amelia, Ray, Jackson, Matteo, Slowski, Mary Ann, Paul, and Alex generously applaud.

  “Cherie, is lovely.” Nicole grabs my hand when I make my way around the table. “Is so lovely. I know how much I will like this. You make a special day for us all.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “I hope so.”

  Matteo gasps and claps. “Bellissimo! Sembra così delizioso! Sembra così delizioso!”

  And I about melt.

  As I’m about to take my seat, Ray stops me. “Having all of us here and being cool about it? Cooking up a storm when you probably don’t remember any of us?” He crosses his arms and looks away. “We remember you, kid. We remember you and your family. We remember Mike. And we all love you.”

  “Despite the spatchcock incident?”

  “Your father would have laughed and cheered you on, sweetheart.” Ray adjusts his water glass and looks away.

  It’s true. My dad would have loved that messed up shopping trip. He’d have also loved that I’m hosting a brunch, as his mother used to.

  I raise my glass. “To my dad. To all of you. And to all of you who won’t own up to caring for this house and for me. For cleaning, for doing laundry, for making beds, for filling my fridge. For knowing that orange juice has to be nearly frozen to be perfect. For remembering me and my family. For caring. And for getting through my novice cooking. I’m trying, and I’m trying to have fun.” I start to clink glasses, and as I do so, I realize that I am having fun. That’s the truth.

  But when I sit down, I am slammed with more thoughts. Would my mother be proud of me? Would she care about this brunch or my perfect chicken? Or wonderful boys or working cars or the fact that I chose a tile color? That I chose cerulean? That I’m turning this house into something special?

  I don’t know.

  Yet everyone at the table plows through their plates, and I hear nothing but praise for what I’ve served.

  They care. They appreciate me.

  It’s going to take a bit for me to accept this support.

  “I am done eating and have to go home now,” Alex says as he abruptly stands and looks at me. “I would like to have a lemon to take home. Callie, do you have a lemon for me? I will return a similar lemon.”

  “Yes, of course.” My smile is sincere. “And, Alex? I’d be happy to give you a lemon.”

  nineteen

  Even though I think my YouTube videos have taught me all that I need to know about tile work, Paul has been insistent in agreeing with Danny. I’m going to get long lessons with the tile cutter before I’m left alone with that beast. Not to mention that he’s not about to let me lay tile for the first time without making sure that I know what the hell I’m doing, lest I leave the bathroom in worse shape than it’s in now. Or cut off a finger.

  Paul stares me down while the boys remove the toilet, sink, and washing machine and dryer. “Do you want to use a penetrating sealer or a membrane-forming sealer in a bathroom?”

  “Penetrating.”

  “You’re going to have thin grout lines. Do you want to seal with a sponge or an applicator brush?”

  “A sponge,” I say assuredly.

  “How long does it need to dry?”

  “Twenty-four to forty-eight hours. It depends on the brand of sealant.”

  After a long, formidable glare, he cracks a smile. “Well done, kiddo.”

  His shocked face fills me with triumph even though I haven’t technically done much. Nonetheless, I tell him, “Ha! I told ya!”

  Paul fires more questions at me, and is ultimately impressed with my responses to his impromptu quiz.

  To which, he begrudgingly laughs. “Okay, fine. You’re overly prepared—I’ll give you that. Let’s give this a go.”

  “The wallpaper for the bathroom? The toilet and sink that I ordered? The new washer and dryer? Those are up to you guys though.” It’s shocking how much time I spent browsing bathroom stuff—not to mention, how much of my own money I spent—but I think I picked out nice things. I’ll have to make sure that Paul charges me though and not my mother.

  “That’s how I make my money, kiddo.” Paul winks. “But let’s get started on this shit you busted up. Bathroom first, fireplace another day.”

  He spends part of the day showing me how to properly demo the bathroom. Rage removal is evidently not the way to go. My hands are raw and aching when Paul finally lets me stop killing the rest of the tile and brick. It’s taken me hours, but he’s finally declared that the bathroom is done. Done meaning ready for new facing. He wants heavy plywood flooring in the bathroom and some other kind of resurfacing over the fireplace before I can try my hand at tiling.

  It’s okay that I’m hurting all over right now because I am more than happy. I’m euphoric.

  The only downside is that I’ve missed seeing the boys on the roof today. The hot, muscly boys on the roof. The noise from their relentless construction cut through the music I was blasting over my headphones and through the sound of every tile I broke, so it was hard not to imagine what was going on up there.

  What they might look like.

  What Danny might look like.

  I’m limping to the kitchen in need of a vat of water before I take a shower when Danny catches me off guard as he walks through the front door. Shirtless, sweating, tan.

  “Oh, sorry. Hi.” He brushes a hand through his thick auburn hair. “I was hoping to grab a shower, if you don’t mind. I mean, if you still want to hit up Mary Ann’s farm today.”

  I notice the change of clothes he’s holding. “No problem. Of course. I was going to do the same.” Somehow, I get myself into the kitchen and focus on filling my tumbler with icy water. I need to cool down—in more ways than one.

  “Okay.” There’s a long pause. “You all right?”

  “Perfect. Shower away. I’ll go next.” My tumbler is overflowing with water, but I don’t move.

  “Thanks, Callie.”

  I can’t help but tremble when he leaves.

  Fuck. I need to get myself under control.

  He’s a family friend. A childhood friend. That’s it.

  But I also need to get laid because it’s been a million years.

  I stomp to my bedroom and get into my robe. And think. Anything with Danny would never be solely about getting laid. It would be about so much more with him. At least for me.

  So, no. No to the whole idea of anything with Danny or any guy. Not when I’m heading back to California at some point.

  Exasperated with myself, I tighten my robe, swing open my door, and almost barrel into Danny as he’s leaving the bathroom, but he manages to put a hand against my shoulder to stop me before I cause either of us bodily harm.

  “Easy, girl. That eager to strip down?” he asks with a smile. “Sorry I took so long, but that felt great. My body is beat up after today.”

  It takes me a second to say anything because he’s only got a towel around his waist; he’s all muscular shoulders and biceps and ripped chest, and I can’t think.

  “No worries. You don’t look too beat up.” Trying to look around and pretend that I can’t meet his gaze quickly becomes useless, but when I do, my nerves ease. As much as Danny can rattle me, he also makes me so comfortable. So, I breathe and steady myself. “If you’re too tired to go out, we can do this another day—”

  “No way,” he says firmly. “I still want to go to the farm. I still want this afternoon with you.”

  “Okay,” I say in a whisper.

  His smile broadens, and he winks as he holds up his change of clothes and backs into my old bedroom. “Besides, if I’m going to spend my summer busting my ass on this house, I should keep getting to know the girl who lives in it again.”

  He makes me laugh. “I’ll be ready in a few.”

  If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have gotten ready before Danny so that I’d have some time
to primp, but as I don’t want to keep him waiting, I scrub myself down as fast as possible and toss on shorts and a tank and knot my hair in a scrunchie. Going out in LA meant way more prep time, but this quick routine does not suck. What’s more awesome? Not caring what I look like and not worrying what someone else will think. Or fussing over every part of my outfit, makeup, and hair. It’s a no-brainer. I’ve already shown him who I am, so there’s no reason to back down now.

  When I hop into his truck, Shallots snuggles up to me, and it couldn’t feel more natural.

  The next two hours at Mary Ann’s farm are bliss. We pick strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, corn, and arugula. She also shoves a bag full of baby lettuce through the window before we take off.

  “Make a crazy salad!” she screams as we roll out down the dirt road.

  On the ride home, I ask Danny if he minds making a quick stop at the market so that I can grab a few things. “I’ve been wanting to try out a recipe for a poblano pasta sauce. So, if you want to stay for dinner—”

  “Don’t ask twice,” he says as he parks in front of the store. “We are so stopping for whatever. I haven’t eaten this well in my life—until you started feeding me. It’s a huge step up from my frozen burritos.” He leans his seat back. “Shallots and I will keep the car running while you grab what you need.”

  Shopping is so different this time.

  Doug happily gives me a pound of ground beef and grins. “My wife, Patty, is dying to meet you on Sunday!”

  While I have no idea what he’s talking about, I smile back.

  As I’m checking out with poblano peppers, Amelia, the checkout girl, lights up. “See you again on Sunday! I’m bringing my girlfriend, Maya. So honored to be invited!”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say meekly, as I’m rather confused.

  I slug my bag into Danny’s car and climb into the passenger seat.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I’m not hiding my confusion well. “Yeah. Just another billion additions for brunch next week. A brunch that I’m evidently hosting every week. But at this point, it’s whatever, I guess.”