Twenty-Three
River
I’ve decided I’m not going to tell Summer that she basically confessed to me last night.
She was drunk and considering she hasn’t even tried to mention it all day, I’m assuming she forgot.
Or she regrets ever saying it in the first place.
So instead, I’ve been focusing on taking care of Summer as much as she allows me to.
We’ve been lying in my bed all day. I ended up texting Mario and telling him that I couldn’t come in. Summer doesn’t really need to know I did that because she doesn’t need to feel bad.
I wanted more of what happened in the shower this morning. More time to hold Summer without any expectation or being around each other and remembering these rules that we’ve set in place. I simply miss being with Summer.
So what if I miss out on one shift? Lord knows Mario will pile on three more of them in return anyway. For now, I’m good right here with Summer lying on my chest while we watch movies on her laptop.
“Don’t you think it’s crazy that they’ve never even dated?” Summer mumbles against my chest. “I mean, the chemistry is oozing off the screen.”
And indeed, Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves have a lot of chemistry in Speed.
“Who says they didn’t? What if they just kept it a secret and it didn’t work out?” I twirl the ends of Summer’s hair around my finger.
“I guess.” She sighs. “But they would make one hell of a couple.”
I chuckle and pull Summer closer, unable to help it, as if her leg isn’t already thrown over my waist and my arm isn’t around her shoulder.
Moose and Bethany have pretty much been cooped up in Moose’s room, so there’s been no one coming in here and forcing us to pull away from each other. But honestly, even if Bethany or Moose did walk in here, I kind of just plan on keeping Summer right where she is. If she’ll let me.
“Are you feeling any better?” I ask, tracing random shapes along Summer’s arm.
“Yeah.” She presses further into my side. “My head isn’t pounding anymore. I still feel like I’m sweating like a pig, though.”
I would love to stay right here for the rest of the night, but I know that staying in this hot apartment probably isn’t helping Summer much.
“Let’s step outside for a minute,” I suggest. “Get some fresh air.”
She groans against me but I beat her to the punch. “I know, I know, but I’m not asking you to run a mile right now. I just think some fresh air will do you good.”
It’s nearing evening so it should be cooler outside and the sun should be setting just enough for either of us to not wince from the bright light.
“Fine.” She sits up. “But only if you give me a piggyback ride.”
“Yes, Summer, I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”
It only takes about ten minutes for me to get Summer to drink some water—and to make sure she can keep it down—then we both put on shoes, though we keep our t-shirts and sweats on.
Summer’s only been on my back for about forty-five seconds before she officially deems it too “high up” and it’s making her dizzy.
I set her down and now we’re walking side by side.
Our pinkies brush against each other and I fight the urge to intertwine my fingers with hers.
But that’s something that we’ve never done, even as strictly friends.
I know that would be crossing that invisible line that we’ve drawn in the sand.
Now that Summer has been able to make it a block without throwing up, we’ve kind of just ventured away from the apartment and toward the main shops and stores.
“Did you end up texting your dad back?” I ask.
Summer hums. “Yeah, I told Dad and Papi that I was hanging out with friends. I thought it’d be best though to not mention that I’m completely hungover.” She laughs, carefully leaning into me. “Otherwise, I think they’d drive here just to scold me.”
“Oh, yeah no I can definitely see Nick doing that, but Santiago would probably just be disappointed at how few shots it took to get you wasted.”
“Hey!” She slaps my arm and lightly shoves me. “I can handle a respectful amount of liquor.”
I don’t say anything, but I do grin and this only spurs her on to shove me again. I just laugh and change the subject before she pushes me off the sidewalk and into oncoming traffic.
“Did Bethany happen to tell you about that end-of-summer get-together?” I change the subject.
Summer stops her attack but glares at me.
Almost like a silent warning that she’s not forgetting that I just called her a lightweight.
I was never there last night, so I don’t actually know how many shots it took to get her drunk but given her reaction, I don’t think I’m that far off.
Which shouldn’t be a problem but sometimes I think Summer likes to have an excuse to have an attitude with me.
“Yeah.” She nods. “The one at Moose’s uncle’s place? Are you going?”
“I planned on it but are you going?”
Summer stops and turns to face me, a soft grin on her face. “Now I am.”
August is approaching rather quickly, and the summer is ending in the blink of an eye. Lily will be here soon. Classes will start up again. Summer will be preoccupied with actual training and swim meets and I’ll be busy with all the student customers who are coming back for the fall.
I hate that it feels like an ending when it should be a beginning of some sorts. Maybe Summer and I won’t feel the need to dance around each other. Maybe in fall, I’ll have my best friend back.
Summer points at something behind me. “Have you ever been in there?”
I follow her finger to see she’s pointing at a shop across the street. Declan’s Art Boutique.
“A couple times, yeah.”
Summer’s grin is soft and tired but she tugs me along anyway, taking my hand in hers.
It’s almost pathetic how fast I grip her hand, afraid that she’ll somehow change her mind. Summer looks both ways, tugging me across the street and when we’re honked at, it only causes our laughter to intensify.
A few people walk past us, making sure to take a couple of steps away from our stampede. I can’t blame them. We’re laughing at being honked at. Nothing groundbreaking but everything seems lighter whenever Summer’s around.
I wipe my eyes and look up at the tiny, familiar building. Fairy lights decorate the window and door, with flyers for art shows plastered across the glass.
It’s not a place that blends in very well in Ellingbrook.
It’s all warmth and has personality. Whereas Ellingbrook gives off old town vibes slowly transitioning into its own modern take.
What once used to be a small college town, is moving toward the hustle and bustle life that carries in from the main city.
For whatever reason, I run my fingers along the painted flowers and swirls decorating the brick wall. Maybe somehow hoping that just by touching the paint, I’ll somehow unlock a new level and the world will quickly become colored.
But it doesn’t.
I’m still staring at a colorless wall with swirls of paint I so desperately want to see. I can see shades of black, white, and grays but some days it’s not enough. I find myself craving more.
Sometimes I forget that people see the world differently and life isn’t black and white for everyone else.
I mean, besides having to wear sunglasses during sunny days—because the splitting headaches from my photophobia make things look as if a camera’s exposure is turned all the way up—I don’t even think about my lack of seeing color outside of art.
But as an artist, sometimes I can’t help but feel broken. I’ve had teachers in high school art classes tell me that maybe having achromatopsia is a sign that I wasn’t meant to be an artist. Because of course no one wants to look at colorless—or in their words, lifeless—art.
So I keep my sketches and paintings to myself. It’s just a pastime, really. It’s not like I want to be a paid artist anyway. Or maybe I do.
Actually, I don’t know what I want. A lot of people tell me that I should know. That I should have goals set in place already. I do, however, know of one thing I want but I can’t have that either.
Summer tugs me along again. “Let’s go.”
“Really?” I don’t know why I hesitate, but I do.
Summer is still holding my hand as she pushes open the door. The bell above the door chimes, ringing a song into the air that almost blends into the music quietly playing.
There’s a woman at the counter, helping the one guest that’s in here.
The worker’s hair is in box braids with highlights—I guess based on the lighter shades of gray in her hair. The stars painted on her dark skin complete the look of someone who seems to fit perfectly in a place like this.
“This is so cool.” Summer is already busying herself by looking at the table of handmade jewelry. Like her wrists and hands need any more. “I don’t know how I’ve never been here before.”
I stand close behind her, watching the way her fingers delicately sort through the bracelets and wishing she’d hold my hand again. Or I’d be brave enough to reach for hers but I’ll take just watching her exist.
“Okay, pick one.” Summer gestures toward the rows of bracelets. I step closer now that I have the excuse of having to obviously get a good look here. Summer doesn’t try to create space.
“What are the colors?” I ask because I can’t have her walking around in a color she hates. She’s very particular about what bracelets go on her wrist.
The others she kind of just hoards.
Summer shrugs. “Just pick. Go based on vibes.”
I hum, looking down at the jewelry and trying to concentrate on anything that would give me an indication of what each one looks like but alas, nothing. So, I do what Summer says.
My hand brushes over the rows before stopping and plucking one off the table, holding it out to Summer.
Her lips purse and my shoulders drop in feigned disappointment. She snatches the bracelet from my hand and grabs another one off the table, handing it to me.
“There,” Summer declares. “You wear that one and I’ll wear this one.”
“What color did I pick for you?”
“My favorite.” She smiles.
Purple. Perfect.
Summer grips the bracelet and moves her attention to one of the many walls of paintings.
“Oh my God, I love this color,” she gasps.
I look over to see what painting Summer is looking at, dodging the canvases resting on the floor and leaning against the wall. Delcan’s Art Boutique is made up of different kinds of art that artists sell to the shop in hopes someone else will see their artwork and purchase it.
Summer steps closer to the painting of a moon surrounded by swirls of clouds. She’s quick to answer my silent question. “Eggplant.”
Instead of trying to describe what colors look like, Summer and Lily decided from an early age they’d just compare a color to food.
Because trying to explain something I’ve never seen before to me is kind of difficult.
It’d be like trying to imagine something you didn’t know existed and have never seen a day in your life.
There’s really no effective way to explain what a color looks like to me.
I know the grass is green and the sky is blue. I can differentiate lighter or darker colors based on what shade it is, but I can’t imagine something I’ve never seen before.
“Eggplant is also a shade of purple,” Summer says.
I hum, never really understanding the analogy but I like hearing Summer and Lily try to come up with different foods that match a color.
Their theory was that if I can’t see the color, I can “taste it.”
“What about that one?” I gesture to a different painting, purely enjoying the sound of Summer’s voice.
She tilts her head back and forth, focusing on the painting of a cluster of eyeballs.
“Broccoli,” she says abruptly. “With a side of baked potatoes and…the sky.”
I laugh. “I’ve never eaten the sky before.”
“You know it’s blue.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what that looks like,” I playfully argue.
Summer huffs. “Ok, fine. There’s blueberries.”
Okay. I like blueberries. Sometimes a little tart but other times really sweet. It’s a hit or miss.
“Why don’t you do this?” Summer finally turns to look at me. “Bring some of your art here?”
Right, because bringing my lifeless art into what I can only assume is a colorful place and watch it collect dust is exactly what I want to do.
When I roll my eyes, Summer does the same as she turns away to sort through a rack of graphic shirts. “I’ve seen artists online who are also colorblind and their work is amazing.”
Yeah, but I feel like you’d have to create exceptional things and I just…don’t.
I sigh. “I don’t know. I haven’t really been working on anything.”
Summer seems to catch onto the lie almost immediately. “I’ve caught you multiple times working on something and each time you hide that goddamn sketchbook. That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“I already told you—”
“And I don’t believe you.”
“Summer.” I step closer to her and lower my voice so that the girl at the counter—who is most definitely watching us—doesn’t hear. “People look at art to feel something. They’re not going to necessarily want…bland food.” I decide to continue with her analogy.
Summer begins to hold up shirts to my body, but we both know she just needs something to do with her hands.
Her next words are soft. Gentle. The same way she sounds when she’s tired or saying something that’s important to her.
“I just want you to have the things you want and if this is what you want, then I say go for it.”
The idea of having to come in here and hand over art I’m not completely proud of doesn’t sound appealing.
“I don’t know.” I shake my head and begin looking through the same rack of shirts. “I’ve just never thought about it.”
I have, actually. It’s why I stepped foot in Declan’s in the first place. Now every time I come here with a few pieces of my work in my backpack, my determination to pull them out and ask about getting them in the boutique quickly dwindles. I always chicken out just to come back a week later.
Rinse and repeat.
Because suddenly in those moments, everything that I was proud of no longer felt good enough.
Try harder, Jaejoon.
Your father and I have given our lives up for you and your siblings.
You don’t appreciate anything we do for you.
I don’t try but I often find my parents’ words seeping into the life I’ve been trying to create for myself.
You take and take—never contributing anything good.
The irony of me loving art and not being able to see color falls quite in line with me being in love with the most perfect person in the world—and not being able to come close to what she needs.
It’s sickening.
“I think you should give it a try.” Summer nods her head, determination taking over her features. “You don’t even have to tell me about it.”
“Why wouldn’t I tell you?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. If that’s something you want to keep a secret between us, then I’d say keep it. But just this once.” She turns away, something else catching her attention.
Just this one secret?
I think we’re stacking those up, Pretty Girl.