Pure Red (15 page)

“Has she been what’s distracting you?” I don’t look at his face. I just can’t. Instead, I turn to the bush next to me and pick at the purple flowers.

“Listen, Cassia, she’s important to me, but not in the same way
you
are. My love for you goes deeper than anything I’ve ever known.” His eyes are melting. “But I like Helga. Is this about me dating?”

“Part of it.” My head’s pounding. “There’s so much that’s been building up. Unresolved stuff.”

“Start from the beginning,” he says gently.

“Why don’t we talk about Mom?”

Dad’s eyes follow a fluffy black cat that scurries
through the garden. It’s feet pitter-patter along the paved area. Dad is still.

“Well, in the beginning, it hurt too much. Everything reminded me of her. How much I missed her. I was scared … it seemed easier to keep it inside. I thought you were young enough when she died that it didn’t affect you.”

I stand up. “But it did, Dad. Maybe not in the same way as you because I didn’t know what reminded me of
her. I wasn’t sure if she hated lemons or loved them. If she took two spoonfuls of sugar in her tea or one. But even though Mom was gone, I wanted to be reminded of her. Desperately. For six months I sprayed my feet every morning with
Lilies of the Nile
, her perfume. I sprayed my feet so I could keep the smell just for me. I didn’t want to share my memories of her with anyone, so mostly I kept quiet, too.”

Dad’s eyes are wet. His lashes are sticking together. “I’m so sorry,
ma cherie
. I didn’t realize that my sadness and guilt were taking such a toll on you.”

Now I’m in tears, too. It takes only seconds for my tears to become full-blown blubbering. I can’t stand to see my dad cry. For a long time I thought his stoic attitude mirrored the way he felt inside, but now I know that’s far from the truth. He missed her so much that he wanted to protect me from the hurt he lugged around with him every day.

I lean over and hug him. My dad. The man that loved my mother with all his heart. My tears leave a wet spot on the shoulder of his yellow cheese shirt.

“I’ll finish the painting of you and your mother. I promise,” Dad whispers into my ear.

His words leave a smile on my face.

ketchup sundae

You know you’re pathetic when … you take over three hours to prep for a date that’s not really a date, even if your best friend thinks so. Liz was really sweet and came over to help me get ready for my big dinner with Graham.

So here I am, standing in front of China Moon in complete date gear—full mask of makeup, black mini, and a lilac tank top. Purple is usually not my color of choice; I had to grab this one off the sale rack at the GAP, but if Graham likes purple, Graham gets purple. Now, if his favorite color was puke green, we’d have to talk.

Again, Liz means well but always goes a little overboard with her enthusiasm. So that’s why I’m wearing mulberry glitter nail polish and eye shadow. I had to put my foot down when she wanted me to use a tube of Purple Pizzazz to fill in my lips. We compromised with Pink Vixen.

I check my cell clock—7:04—and poke my head around the corner. No sign of Graham yet. Another five minutes and I’m gone.

Okay, now it’s 7:07 and my makeup is starting to melt. I should’ve known he’d stand me up. He’s probably too busy painting a self-portrait. He’s so going to pay for this. I stare at my cell clock again as it changes from 7:08 to 7:09.
This sucks royally.
I’m so out of here.
I’m walking past the door to the restaurant when it swings open.

“Oh, there you are. I was waiting inside,” Graham says. He ushers
me in.

“Oh, sure, right,” I mumble. Only a real doofus, me, would wait outside when it’s August in Miami.

Graham asks for a table and the hostess leads us to the back. Not to the romantic table by the Chinese dragon that I’d fantasized about (two burly guys in muscle shirts are at that one), but near the huge bamboo plant is good, too.

Graham looks down at my leg as we walk to the table. “No more crutches.”

“Thank God.”

“I guess you’re ready for your first surfing lesson, then.”

“I’d like that.” I stretch my foot, trying to ignore the pain. Maybe I wasn’t ready for heels just yet. “It’s supposed to feel close to normal in a few days.”

Graham pulls out my chair and waits for me to scoot in before sitting. Double points for being such a gentleman, especially on a non-date.

I’m surprised that he’s wearing a crimson Polo shirt. Did he wear red because he knows it’s
my
favorite? Or were all his purple clothes dirty?

Damn, he looks fine, like royalty. I heard that in China, the bride wears red instead of the traditional white. I wond
er if the groom still wears black. Red symbolizes passion and lust and I’m
all
about that tonight. Graham is so hot, I can hardly speak.

“You hungry?” I manage to squeeze the words through the paste of Pink Vixen on my lips.

“Yeah, I am.” Graham peeks over the menu.

“I mean, if you are, they have big portions here,” I say, trying to sound like less of a Neanderthal.

I decide on chicken with cashews. Lo mein is a defi
nite no for a first non-date. Graham orders Volcano chicken. Does that rule out a kiss at the end of dinner? I have no problems kissing a fire-breathing drago
n.

Graham unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap. “You look really nice tonight.”

“Thanks.” I blush and instinctively tug the bottom of my shirt. “This is a new color for me.”

Graham leans forward. “Good pick.”

“Your favorite?” Could I be any more desperate?

He shrugs. “Yeah, you could say that. I like a lot of colors.”

“Me too.” I unfold my napkin. “I’m constantly analyzing everything by color. It’s almost a sickness.”

Graham leans forward. “Tell me more.”

“See that guy over there in the pink shirt?” I gesture with a nod of my head.

Graham turns to his left. Then right. “Where?”

“One table over. Sitting with the blond lady. Can’t miss him.” Not only is his shirt bright, but so is his skin. He’s sporting a lobster sunburn.

“I see him now,” Graham says. Maybe Graham could use a pair of glasses—he’d look cute.

“In his case, I think the pink is a sham. Pink usually means love and happiness. He’s definitely a blue guy—cocky on the outside, insecure in the inside—but he chose this color because he thinks it will get him what he wants.”

Graham looks perplexed. “What’s that?”

“In her pants.”

He bursts out laughing. “What does my shirt say about me?”

I twist the napkin on my lap. “It means you have confidence to go after your dreams.”

Graham smiles big. Not a tooth out of line. “Huh. You could be right.”

“Well, this is the first time I’ve actually seen you in red. You wear
purple more.”

“Right.” His chin drops. “What’s the scoop on purple?”

“Purple means imagination and balance. It’s a favorite among artists. It can mean other stuff, too.”

“Like what?”

“That you’re trying to overcome obstacles in your life. But really, this isn’t a science. I pick up a lot of info
f
rom books, the Net, my dad … ” I’m blabbing on and on. I didn’t even realize our food is sitting in front of us, untouched. “Should
we eat?”

“Good idea.” Graham unwraps his chopsticks, cautiously.

“Listen, I’m not trying to make assumptions about you because of what you wear.” I pick up a cashew with my chopsticks. “I must sound like such an idiot.”

“No, you’re right.” He hangs his head low.

Whoa. In an instant, all the red confidence has washed from his face. Maybe I’ve said too much. “Color doesn’t d
efine the person,” I add quickly. “I’m sure there are many confident people who wear a lot of gray and many depressed people who wear bright red all the time.”

“Yeah, but I do wear a lot of purple.” His face sours. It’s lost its usual glimmer. Maybe it’s the lighting in here.

I splash some soy sauce on my plate. “So, it’s cool.”

“No, it’s not.”

Now I’m confused. “Why?”

“It’s not cool if you
have
to wear it.” He looks down at his food.

What, his mom works at the Purple factory? He belongs to a secret Barney cult run by crazed fans? “I don’t understa
nd.”

“It’s just that … ” He takes a sip of his Coke. “No, it’s nothing, really.”

This time I reach across the table for his hand. “Graham, I told you about my mother, my father. Really, you can talk to me.”

How did a conversation about purple get so deep? Did I miss something?

“I don’t see the same way you do.” He pushes the chicken a
round in his plate, then
drops his chop
sticks.

I so called it. “You wear glasses? I think guys in glasses are cool.”

“I do wear contacts, but that’s not it.” He looks away from me, in the direction of the guy in the pink shirt.

He’s fashion-challenged? Color dyslexic? The last thing I want to do is give the guy a complex. At the risk of sounding like an overzealous teacher, I say, “We all see things differently.”

“No.” Graham shakes his head.

“No?”

His green eyes are like stone walls. “I’m colorblind.”

What? I’m stunned. Here I am, blabbing on about color like a know-it-all and he doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.

“I’m so sorry.” I put my hand over my mouth.

“Don’t be. I do see color, just not the way you do. I see shades and hues. That’s why I like bold, pure colors. Purple, even.”

I lean forward and my hands graze his. “But that’s what makes your artwork so unique. Your paintings say so much about life, and your use of texture is amazing.”

“Thanks. I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

“Whoever doesn’t think you’re an amazing artist is blind.” Ah, way to stick my foot in my mouth. I slap my forehead. “Stupid thing to say.”

“Relax.” He reaches for my shoulder. “I know what you meant.”

“How do you do it? I mean, without color?”

“I don’t know any different. And I notice other things. Like, for example, ketchup and chocolate syrup look the same color to me, but they’re clearly different consistencies. And for the record, I’ve never put chocolate syrup on my fries.” He laughs.

I laugh too. “It sounds a lot tastier than a ketchup sundae. Wanna taste my cold cashew chicken?” I slide the plate toward him. He scoops a little off my plate and I take a bite of his Volcano chicken. I need a refill of Coke after a few bites.

I fan my mouth. “So, when did you know you wanted to be an artist?”

“I don’t know exactly when, but I started drawing way before I started doing much else. The hardest part was convincing my parents.”

“Why? Your talent is obvious.”

“My mom couldn’t see why a colorblind person would want to put themselves in the position of working with color. She doesn’t know that there’s so much more to art than color.”

“Really?” I bite the inside of my lip, because she’s not the only one.

I look over at the Chinese dragon. It’s covered with a multitude of colors—crimson, jade, gold, black—but really, they could be any colors. It’s the intricacies of the design and carvings that make it amazing.

“At first my dad thought being colorblind was something I could turn on and off. See this?” Graham points to the scar on his arm. “I was helping him with some wiring at a job site when I was eleven and I mixed up the red and green wires and burned myself. Had to go to the hospital. It wasn’t until then that he realized I wasn’t going to get over being colorblind. Before that, he thought it was a disease I would grow out of.”

“It’s amazing how parents can make themselves believe whatever they want. Just like my dad thinking if we don’t talk about my mom, we’ll both heal.” I slide an amethyst bracelet, which Liz insisted I borrow, up and down my arm.

“I know what you mean. That’s why I didn’t let my parents stop me.”

Then why am I such a coward? I forgot to mention that red symbolizes courage. Maybe that’s why Dad uses a lot of red in his paintings. Why I choose it, too. “My mom’s birthday is in eight days,”
I announce, like we’re guests on a new talk show called
Spill It All
.

“That’s awesome.” Graham smiles. “You should do something for her. In her honor.”

I nod. “I don’t know what yet, but I plan to. This is a big one for her. For us.”

The waiter comes over to clear our plates. “Any dessert?”

I look at Graham. He turns to the waiter. “Sure. Do you have fried ice cream?”

The waiter clears our plates and promises that the ice cream will be right out.
I’m in no hurry
.

“So, tell me about your ceramics class,” Graham says.

I jerk my head back. “Who told you I’m taking ceramics?”

“I have my sources.” He laughs.

“What? Did Dad post a status update on Facebook?” I scan his eyes for an answer but come up with nothing. “It’s great. I really get lost when I’m at the wheel. It’s much more intense than I ever imagined pottery to be.”

“Enthusiasm will do that to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what it feels like to really love something, have passion for it?” Graham’s eyes sparkle wide.

I’ve only been searching forever for that feeling. I’ve only had Ms. Cable’s ominous words in the back of my head for months.

I stare down at my lap. At my lilac tank top. Purple doesn’t go well with the yellowish tone of my skin. “No, I don’t, actually.”

He takes a sugar packet in his hand and taps it against the table. “It’s that feeling you got when you realized you liked ceramics. That’s what carries you from one project to the next.”

“What if you don’t have a real passion?” I look down at my hands, at my painted fingernails. I tried three different polishes of Liz’s before I settled on the mulberry. “I get this grim image of myself in twenty years. I’m working behind the grill at Paloma’s Diner, passionless. Then, after work, I go home to my efficiency in a seedy neighborhood. I eat tuna straight out of the can and share it with my cat.”

“Hey, you’ll find yours. You have to trust yourself first, though.” Graham taps my arm with the sugar packet. He makes it seem so simple. “Besides, I’m sure you’d at least put the tuna on a nice plate!” He laughs.

“You’re such a punk!” I laugh back.

The fried ice cream arrives. I let my spoon sink in. Then I slowly bring the ice cream and melted chocolate to my lips. Now this, I have passion for. I look over at Graham’s scrumptious lips. Ditto. “You’ve got a speck of chocolate there.” I point to his mouth.

He dabs with his napkin. “All gone?”

I shake my head no.

A sly grin emerges on his face. “Then help a guy out, will you?”

I lean across the table with my napkin. His grin is now a smile. I reach for his face—my lips are inches from his. My heart is beating like crazy. I focus on the redness of his lips. The color of courage. I let the pure-white napkin fall from my hand. I press the tip of my tongue against the spot of chocolate syrup on his bottom lip. He grips my shoulders and kisses me. His kiss is sweeter than the ice cream. Sweeter than the hot fudge.

Oh my freakin’ God, I just kissed Graham Hadley
.
I have been struck by lightning a thousand times over. When the trembling subsides, I ease back into my chair and realize the edge of my shirt is now covered in ice cream. I dab at it like crazy with my napkin and Coke.

Graham takes the bill from the waiter. “See, and I’m colorblind, so I wouldn’t have noticed the stain on your shirt if you weren’t scrubbing at it like a mad woman.”

I know that’s not true, but it still makes me feel better.