The Color of Home: A Novel (2 page)

Sassa flowed toward Nick at twenty after eight, wearing a red sleeveless summer dress that reminded him of a picture of Charlize Theron he’d seen once. Her pumps matched her dress. A single strand of pearls encircled her neck. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, highlighting her makeup-less face.

“You look great. I love your hair.”

“Inspired by Liv. Sorry I’m late. I had trouble hailing a cab.”

“No problem.”

“Nice suit.”

He owned exactly one suit, black with dark blue pinstripes, which he purchased right after watching Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
give the greatest performance by an actor in the twentieth century. “Thanks. Let’s find a quiet table out of the way and start with a good bottle of wine.”

The sommelier took his order for an Amarone from his favorite vintner. As Nick waited for the wine to arrive, he detailed his love of dark reds. Full-bodied. A long aftertaste. Hints of oak and cherry in the best of them. The sommelier returned promptly and unknowingly echoed Nick’s view while decanting the bottle. He let Nick sample the vintage, then poured the first glass for both of them.

Sassa raised the glass to her lips and sipped the wine. “Oh my!”

Nick smiled and took a sip. He ripped off a piece of Italian bread, dipped it in hot pepper-infused garlic oil, and savored a bite. Since their last meeting, he’d been thinking about telling her about his past lovers, another thing he’d never done before with previous girlfriends. For the first time in his life, he wanted a woman to see everything, and despite all of the naysayers running around in his head, the ones who portended awful consequences after the big reveal, he pressed on. “Do you want to hear about who came before?”

“If you want to.”

“Okay . . . Basically, I was a jerk. I manipulated to get what I wanted.”

“We all do that.”

“Not like this. I didn’t treat my girlfriendw as equals. I held back and I tried to control everything.”

“Why don’t you tell me about one?”

Freshman year, Nick stepped onto the Columbia University campus feeling confident, committed. He intended to fix himself at school. He imagined leaving home and studying in the city as just the change he needed to get over what had happened to him. He’d made a pact with himself to try new things, to encounter new people, to study hard, to write more songs, and to seduce girls. He would heal. Or at least have enough diversions to keep his mind off his father.

He dated Raine only one time freshmen year, but she was the girl that stayed with him emotionally long after college ended. They had all of the same classes and, after continuously flirting one day, decided to study together that night. In the library, they found an empty table near a wall of Eastern religion books, and studied there for a couple of hours, though for a good portion of the time they whispered strangely erotic passages back and forth from random books.

Passages complete, he ushered Raine back to her dorm room. The campus night light pulsed as a driving wind paraded clouds past a crescent moon. Along the way, he fetched her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed each finger. At the entrance to her dorm, he pulled her in close and caressed her face, brushing his lips lightly on hers. As she moved with him, he gradually went deeper, with more intensity, until Raine snatched his hand and led him through the door.

An hour later, he slipped back into his jeans and pulled his shirt on over his head. He glanced over at Raine, still in bed, watching him dress. She glistened with sweat. There was something about working his way into a girl’s bed, then losing himself in that moment without thought where life and death intermingled.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“You scared me.”

“I did? Why?”

“How do you feel now?” she asked.

“Relaxed. The sex was intense.”

“That’s why you scared me. Do you think there’s a difference between intensity and intimacy?”

“Sure, I meant intimate. Sorry.”

She sat up in bed and crisscrossed her arms over her breasts, and that image stayed with him long after the night ended.

At the restaurant table, Nick folded his arms across his chest, and while looking right at Sassa, said, “I didn’t know the difference.”

She put her wine glass down, reached across the table, and placed her hand on his. “You weren’t ready. You were doing the best you could. Loss will do that to you.” She was quiet a moment. “You know, fear is a fickle companion.”

“Good line . . . I could have done better.”

“Not on the line.”

“Sorry, I meant—”

“We all need to forgive ourselves for who we used to be.”

“Easier said.” Why was forgiveness such a difficult idea for him? It had been for as long as he could remember. He didn’t understand its pull, its power. Even though others had pushed him toward it, he’d stayed firmly planted. In work. In song. In moments without thought. But somehow Sassa’s words made him want to try to take a step forward. More than her words. “Have you forgiven yourself?”

“I think about it now and then,” she said. Smiling, she slipped off her shoe and stroked his leg slowly, all the way from his ankle up to his thigh, and back down again.

“Oh my.”

“I told you words are overrated.”

The waiter arrived at the table with their entrees. Nick had ordered osso bucco with toasted pinenut gremolata, and Sassa had ordered tortelloni radicchio with parmigiano cream. To save money, they’d skipped the appetizers.

She took a bite. “This is fantastic!” She tacked on a little melody at the end of –tastic.

“Mine too.”

They ate their dinners slowly, savoring each mouthful. He fantasized that at any moment she might reach across the table, fork in hand, and let him taste her food. Instead, she deconstructed their entrees in glorious detail. He had no idea what gremolata or parmigiano cream entailed. He had no idea how much thought and work went into preparing food. He had no idea. Period. She was accomplished. And had fractal blue eyes. And had embraced his past. But what about her loves? What was her love story?

Over coffee and tea, he asked, “So how about you? How many people have you loved in your life?”

“I’ve loved no one.”

“Not even your parents?”

“I loved them, I guess. I don’t think about them.”

“Why not?”

She lifted the prongs from the table’s sugar bowl and slowly dropped three cubes of sugar into her tea, one at a time. Instead of stirring, she rocked the teacup back and forth until the cubes dissolved, then she took a slow sip. After the cup had securely returned to the table, she said, “They died, along with my sister, in a car accident right after I turned thirteen.”

“Were you with them in the car?”

“Only survivor.”

“I’m so sorry, Sassa.”

“Thank you. I’m okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Who raised you?”

“My aunt and uncle. They were genuinely kind, but you can’t replace parents.”

“How true.” He reached out, gathered her hands, and didn’t take the conversation further that night. He hated when people pushed him about his loss and had no intention of doing the same to her. They finished their dinner on lighter topics, then he walked her home.

Late the next evening, Nick waited for Sassa at a Village diner. He’d grabbed a booth and ordered coffee, tea, and a piece of German chocolate cake. Her favorite. As he sipped his coffee, he spun his fork around as if it were a bottle. She hadn’t loved anyone? How did she go all these years and not love a man? What exactly had happened to her parents and her sister in the accident? Where should he take the conversation when she arrived? Back to her story, to loss, to the accident, to past boyfriends? Or to
Romeo and Juliet
? With many of his former girlfriends, he’d directed a conversation about
Romeo and Juliet
, almost as a test, as a way to understand what they believed about love, about honesty. Maybe the time had come to do the same with Sassa? Maybe not.

After she arrived and over the delicious shared piece of German chocolate cake, he jumped right in and asked, “What do you think of
Romeo and Juliet
?”

“Have you used that line before?”

“Kind of.”

“Maybe you could try something a little more unique?”

“I’m sorry. The words are unique but informed by the past.”

“That sounds like another line.”

“I may have to stop.”

“Your choice. Don’t stop for me.”

He stirred his coffee with his cake fork. Maybe he should stop. He had used the line before and had always been disappointed with the resulting R&J conversation. Past girlfriends didn’t have a strong enough view of love. Or honesty. Or how to evolve a relationship. But Sassa was different, and he had to know where she would take R&J, had to know if it would help open her. He cut off a piece of cake and popped it in his mouth. Chocolate and coconut—what a combination. “Okay. One last time. The ending wouldn’t have been tragic if either of them had practiced a little more honesty.”

Her eyes narrowed and she touched the base of her neck. “Didn’t we talk about this with
Persona
? I hope you’re not a one-trick pony.” She sat up a little straighter, pulled a quarter out of her purse, and slid it across the table. The quarter hung over the edge. “Touchdown. 1–0.” Leaning in, she waited for the return shot.

On the return trip, the quarter flew off the end of the table into her hand. He’d played quarter-football as a boy, with his friends, with his dad. In absence, he’d lost his touch in the last decade. Did she somehow know the game had been one of his favorites?

“Better go back to stuff you’re good at,” she said.

“Right. . . . So they loved each other for sure, but they folded each time.”

“Stuff gets in the way.”

“If they had interrupted the story, spoken openly to one another, or to anyone around them for that matter, they would have been okay.”

“I can’t believe you’re rewriting Shakespeare. Some things are better left alone.”

A homeless person, with long matted hair, and layered in ragged clothing all dusted the same dirt color, walked into the diner. Stopping in front of Nick, she asked for spare change. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to her. She continued on to the next booth until the owner chased her out.

“Do you always do that?” Sassa asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“There’s a lot of suffering in the world.”

Her hand carved through her hair, and holding it back for a second, she gathered it into a temporary ponytail. Then, reaching across the table, palms up, she took his hands and gently shook her head from side to side.

“Okay to keep going?” he asked.

“It’s a small price.”

“If Romeo told Tybalt about their secret, that would’ve interrupted the story. Or Mercutio could’ve reached Romeo in time. Or Juliet could’ve waited for confirmation from Mercutio before she swallowed the elixir.”

“That would have made it a boring story.”

“A different story, for sure.”

“You’re better on suffering. There’s no conflict or action in your version.”

“Sometimes ideas are the action.”

“Not in the real world.”

A reflection of the ceiling fan spun in his coffee. As the light danced on the top of the black surface, forming constantly morphing images, he couldn’t help but smile. So far, the conversation had gone well. In unexpected directions, but well. He raised his head, looked right at her with probing eyes, and said, “Let’s say none of the tragic events occurred, and instead the story focused on Romeo and Juliet’s true love, a love that brings together two warring sides.”

“Do you believe in happy endings?”

“Doesn’t the world need stories that break down barriers?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

“Nice.”

She yawned and stretched her arms up into a touchdown position, as if she’d scored the game-winner, as if words, one-liners, tie-backs to earlier conversations had replaced the quarter and table edge. “We should call it a night soon.”

“Ten more minutes.”

“Five.”

“Okay, five. . . . So there are many tragic stories, but few about ways to be truly happy. We need more of the latter.”

Her eyes went wide. Picking the quarter up off the table, she spun it, studied it as is sphered across the table until it slowed, dropped back into a circle. Frowning, she said, “Whatever. The story is more about what happens to good people in a series of bad circumstances.”

“Not really. It’s about a violent world where everyone lies and keeps secrets.”

“Which is our world, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but we need to change it.”

“And on that note, I’ll be right back.” Placing her hand on his shoulder, she bent down and whispered in his ear, “Get out of your head.”

As he waited, he took stock of the diner and gleaned things, apparently always there, that he hadn’t noticed before. A Mario Batali cookbook. A Japanese cast-iron teapot. A poster of the Swedish women’s national soccer team. He did need to get out of his head more. She was right about that. And she was also the one person who had ever called him on his habit, his pattern, to over think, over intellectualize everything. So far, she’d navigated the R&J conversation well. More than well.

Sassa glided back to the table with a slight bounce in her step, somehow different. Brighter. Like the short break had given her a shot of adrenaline. Or like she’d constructed the perfect winning argument. “Okay, I’ll play more.”

“What happened?”

“I want to see if you took my advice.”

“Oh.”

She waved the waiter over to the table and ordered another piece of German chocolate cake and a chocolate milkshake.

Nick’s eyes widened. “Sugar for thought?”

“The first piece was so good.”

They drifted in small talk for a few moments until the waiter returned with the cake and milkshake. Sassa placed a chunk of the cake on her fork, ate it, and washed it down with a swig of milkshake. She cut off a piece of cake and guided the cake-filled fork into Nick’s mouth.