The Color of Home: A Novel Read Online Free

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