Page 47 of The Two of Us

He scratches at the scruff along his jawline. “Your entire house is covered in yellow icing? Why didn’t you go with the blue?”

Brandon interjects before I can respond. “Because yellow’s her favorite color. The blue went better with my decorations anyway.”

My dad looks at Brandon as if he’s just now realizing he occupies the same room as him. As if Brandon’s an annoying little fly you forget is there until it whizzes across your field of vision.

“Her favorite color is blue,” my dad says matter-of-factly.

Brandon doesn’t respond, just smiles at my dad. To anyone else, it would have seemed like a normal smile but there’s something imperceptibly challenging about it. My dad looks to me then to settle the debate.

I shrug in discomfort. “My favorite color is yellow now.”

I turn away from the disappointment on my dad’s face as the microwave beeps. He grabs his mug and leaves the kitchen without another word.

An hour later after I’ve told my dad Brandon was leaving and I was going to take a nap, I run upstairs to open my window as Brandon climbs his way up the trellis. We splay ourselves across my bed, a jumbled mess of long limbs and warm hands exploring each other. I love moments like this with him. Everything’s instinctual and I’m not required to take part in the mental Olympics of figuring out what I should or shouldn’t say to him. I never disappoint him when it comes to my body.

Brandon kisses down the length of my neck and blows gently into the hollow of my collarbone, knowing it’s one of my tickle spots and I giggle and squirm beneath him. His fingers linger at the waistband of my sweatpants, grazing the skin below centimeter by centimeter, trying to see how far he can get. When his thumb hooks the band of my underwear, I quickly roll out from underneath him, knocking the picture frame off the side table with my elbow.

“Shit.”

I reach down to pick it up, but Brandon beats me to it. “Why do you still have this? Aren’t you all basically strangers now?”

I snatch the frame back and clutch it tightly to my chest as if I can protect it within the confines of my rib cage. “Cat and I are still friends.”

He snorts. “Barely.”

I sit up straighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed. “Nothing. Please don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. Then, “I’m gonna head out. My dad comes back from his work trip today and I promised my mom I’d help make sure the house is spotless.”

My heart softens. Brandon loves his mom immensely and doesn’t care who knows it. I’ve only met his dad a few times, but it was enough to know that his idea of love is throwing money at people or buying them things instead of developing an actual relationship. Whenever I try asking questions about how they get along, Brandon brushes me off, showering me with stone-cold silence. I’ve learned to stop asking.

“Give Sheryl my love. And if you need any help cleaning up, call me. I have nothing else planned for today.”

Brandon shifts uncomfortably before giving me a quick nod. “Later.”

I secure the latch on the window and settle back into bed, exhaustion seeping into my bones in a matter of seconds. Maybe I do need that nap. I stare at the framed photo—the last picture I have in my head before I go to bed each night. I allow the memories flowing through me to remind me of simpler times and soothe the unacknowledged ache in my chest. And as I drift to sleep, the comment I made only a few hours earlier wriggles in the recesses of my mind.

It’s not my favorite, I realize.

The color yellow.

***

Christmas has only been officially over for seventy-two hours, but I already miss it. Dad and I spend the day curled up on our couch, rewatching classics like It’s a Wonderful Life and White Christmas. He tops up my hot chocolate every hour and I catch him singing along to the films when I’m not looking. When my mom calls me in the afternoon, she’s on her way to some swanky Christmas party thrown by vagabond artists. I can barely hear her above the backdrop of busy streets and pedestrians, but she assures me my gift is on its way.

“It’s a Yves Saint Laurent lipstick set. All red. Very Parisian.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be a surprise?” I say, popping a marshmallow into my mouth.

“You’re too old for surprises, Mara,” she says, her thick accent making my name sound like Ma-duh.

“Okay, Mom. I mailed you your gift too, but I’m not sure when it’ll get to you. Customs confuses me.”

“That’s okay, baby. I have everything that I need here.”

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