33. Ellie #2
I suppose there were instances, like when you needed someone with an eye for interior design instead of computer design, when it might be good for a relationship to contain multitudes, when the idea of opposites attract might come in handy.
But I’d never regretted that Sully and I had the same interests, that we’d grown up on the same love of books and movies and games.
That for years, we never ran out of things to talk about.
That I could show him something I designed, created with the click of my keys, and he could appreciate what it took to do.
“You always have been an extension of me,” he murmured, seeming to echo my thoughts.
His voice was breathy as his eyes flicked over me, his chin tilted down as though not wanting to miss an inch.
“But you can’t tell me that you aren’t creative.
You create entire worlds on your computer. You are…magic.”
“That doesn’t mean that I understand…” I waved a hand at the wall, trying not to choke on a tickle of emotion. “Color theory.”
Sully was still looking at me, a half-smile on his face. He looked for so long that I was about to prod him when he jumped into action.
“I have a theory,” he stated, and then he began to pluck colors from the wall. At first, I thought it was random selections, but then he stooped down, clearly looking for something specific before snatching a warm, honey color to add to the others: a rich crimson, a sunny yellow, and a pure black.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sullivan, but I’m not sure those go together.”
“Don’t they?” He straightened, eyes landing back on me. Wandering again. “I’ve seen them on other canvases, and they are…stunning.”
“Other canvases?” I repeated, curious when Sully had become a surveyor of the arts.
“Yeah,” he said simply, and I frowned, confused, until he lifted the sample with the soft brown to my face, lining it up with my eyes. He cocked his head to the side, a smile sliding into place on his handsome face. “Yeah,” he echoed, this time more definitive.
Something flipped inside me.
“Sawyer.” My voice was low, a quiver in it. “You cannot paint your mother’s house brown just because it is the color of my eyes.”
“Why not?” he argued, and then he pursed his lips. “It’s much more than just brown, Eleanor. It’s warm and homey and—”
“Which room are you thinking?”
He was still staring, looking between the sample and my eyes. “The kitchen, maybe?”
“What about these other ones?”
“Well, this one—” He pulled out the dark cherry red. “—is the color of my favorite dress.”
A sound bubbled out of me, incredulous and oddly giggly. That had been the last thing I’d expected him to say, but now my insides were turning to goo. “Oh, is it?”
“And my favorite flower,” he added.
“The rosebushes are one of the best parts of the house,” I agreed, somehow pulling myself together. “And it would be fun to bring a bit of the outside…inside. But it’s a very bold color, Sul.”
“That’s why we’re just getting a sample,” he said, all pragmatic.
As though any of this was logical. “We can experiment with it.” His head turned on a swivel, looking down the aisle of the store.
“We could also see about replacing some of the wallpaper. If a solid color is too bold, maybe there’s a design with this in it. ” He tapped the red paint sample.
“That sounds nice.” I smiled—but mostly because Sully’s expression looked alive in a way I hadn’t seen for a long time, transporting me back to a time when we’d wander these aisles and tackle other projects together. “What about this color?”
I pointed at the sunny yellow swatch, trying to puzzle out his reasoning for that one.
Sully lifted one shoulder, looking slightly sheepish for the first time.
“What about it?”
“Why the yellow?”
“Yellow is a happy color, isn’t it?”
He lifted a hand to my hair, twirling his finger around a strand, and I nodded, mesmerized by the way he was touching me and the heat that emanated from him. Like he was the sun.
Maybe that was why he’d picked yellow. Maybe the yellow was…him.
Sully bent closer to me, so close that my body responded, arching back and tilting my head to follow his movements.
His head dipped lower, and a part of me wondered if our first kiss in five years was going to be in the middle of this aisle in a small-town hardware store while deliberating paint samples.
But at the last second, his head turned to the side. Our cheeks brushed instead. His lips grazed my ear as he murmured, “I can’t think of a single fucking thing that makes me happier than you.”
The world was spinning when he pulled away, and I found myself clutching him, needing something solid to hold on to. And God, was Sully solid.
Solid and real and unwavering.
“Yellow is…” I began, feeling slightly speechless.
“You,” he answered simply.
Warmth found me again. I certainly hadn’t felt like yellow lately, but maybe it was still inside me somewhere. Maybe if Sully believed it, I could believe it, too.
“And the black?”
Sully tugged on the ends of my hair, reminding me that he still had his finger wrapped in it, and I shook my head with a laugh.
“No,” I said.
“No?” He sounded hurt, but I knew it wasn’t genuine.
“I can get on board with the other options, but we are not painting your mom’s house black because it matches my hair.”
“Hmm,” Sully hummed, close enough to me that I could feel his chest vibrate. “I think it is sort of your house now, Eleanor.”
“Then we are not painting my house black,” I laughed again. “You can get the other colors, but only if I get to pick one of my own out.”
“Why, of course.” Sully took a step back and swept a hand out in front of him, as if to say, “By all means.”
With that cue, I walked up to the wall, scouring it for the right shade of blue.
And when I found it—something that was similar to cerulean but called some ridiculous other name, something that was mostly blue but with a tiny touch of London green, something that reminded me of the ocean and the seas we’d gotten a little lost in—I stood on my toes and held it up to his face.
Right next to his eyes.
“There.”
Sully didn’t look at the color, but he did look at me.
“Yeah, El?”
“Yeah.” I nodded resolutely. “This one will do.”