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Randolph was still a child when he learned that colours existed. A boy at school distributed the information across the playground. That night, Randolph climbed under the covers and repeated the words like a litany: the sky was blue, the leaves were green, the sun was yellow… He hoped that if he uttered them enough times and with enough conviction, he would be able to experience it for himself. Still, to his disappointment, when he opened his eyes the following morning, all he could see around him were shades of grey.
He was eleven when he decided he wanted to know why. It seemed unfair to him that the world of colour was closed off to him and, a curious child by nature, Randolph needed to understand. His mother sat him down and explained: colours were a gift, a reward for patiently waiting for your soulmate. It seemed so simple to him, straightforward. He decided he would make peace with his black and white world while he waited, diligently following his mother’s instructions.
It was of his mother’s words that he thought as he watched Donna walk down the aisle. With every note of the wedding march, Randolph pictured the future that he was agreeing to, one filled with birthday parties and family Christmases and waffle Sundays. The officiant proclaimed them husband and wife, and he hoped that the sense of belonging that grew inside him in that moment was the sign he had found his soulmate.
Everyday he wished for the colours to show up, to come home one day and see the yellow flowers on the table. Yet, month after month the flowers remained a pale shade of grey, so instead he worked to keep his disappointment at bay. They were happy, and maybe that was enough.
Six years later, Randolph watched her walk out of the house for the last time. They never discussed their monochrome world, but he knew the fact loomed over their relationship like a dark cloud, and now the rain had started to pour. He permitted Donna her outburst, allowed himself to be called selfish and destructive. It was his punishment for not waiting patiently for his soulmate like his mother advised. Randolph thought of young Jake, and hoped that he would never find out about soulmates – it was not the black and white world that caused the dull ache in your heart, it was the knowledge of the unreachable alternative.
By the time he met Lauren, Randolph’s naive hope for a soulmate and the colourful world they would introduce him to had long been eroded by life’s harsh weather. In its place was acceptance that he would have to settle for something less poetic. They had fun going out to dinner and parties and undeniably had their fun in bed, so when she asked whether he was ever going to propose, he could not think of a reason to say no. He did, however, glance at the dark grey dress that lay discarded on the floor, wondering if the woman it belonged to cared he would never be able to compliment her on the colour of it.
It took two years for Randolph to see that the perfectly satisfactory partner he thought he agreed to turned out to be difficult to coexist with. While Randolph could resign himself to a life without love, he maintained that there should at least be a general liking for each other. As he signed divorce papers for the second time, he signed away another part of himself that still held out hope for a soulmate.
The death of the optimist within him came in the form of Lane Hunter. It was a slow death, a knife puncturing the heart and not being pulled out until it was too late to fix. He was too intoxicated to notice, and he hated himself for it.
“Do you believe in soulmates?” he asked once, the words escaping from his lips, lured out by the false sense of security.
“No,” was her reply. “It takes away too much agency.”
Randolph liked her answer. He had spent too much of his life waiting for fate to run its course and all he wanted was the reward. He kissed her, fully in control of his actions. He was going to regain his agency.
Clips of the arrest played on the TV in the bar. If he closed his eyes, Randolph could see the accusatory look on her face as she was dragged away by the FBI. He made the right decision, but it was a decision made by Dr Bell. Under the surface was Randolph, struggling to accept that he once again chose wrong. He stared at the drink in his hands and scoffed at his mother’s words. The gift of colour was not worth the struggle of love, he concluded, not for the first time in his life. He was a doctor, and he did not need colour to consult or cut or suture, and if it made no difference to his life, why should he keep putting himself through the pain and frustration? He downed the drink as a goodbye to Lane Hunter and childhood fantasies.
Randolph did not quite notice how Kit Voss earned her place in his life. She was just another doctor he selected to join the Chastain team for her surgical skills and stellar reputation. He did not notice how they casually transitioned from being colleagues to confidants, but eventually he noticed that it was on her door that he knocked when he found himself in need of companionship.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s like? To be able to see colours?” she asked one afternoon. The two of them sat in Randolph’s office, hiding away from the commotion of the hospital.
The question startled him. He had never discussed the subject outside his family home. “Sometimes,” he finally replied. He was not being entirely truthful. The thought rarely left his mind, and the harder he pushed it away, the stronger the force with which it would come back.
“I’m almost ready to accept it as a myth.”
“Me too.”
They sat in silence until it was time to part ways. Then, just as they were saying their goodbyes, Randolph thought he saw her scarf turn a pale shade of pink. He was tired, he rationalised to himself, it was no surprise his mind was playing tricks on him. Still, he could not forget that moment, when the sea of black and white and grey was interrupted by a burst of colour.
Randolph walked up to her door slowly, taking in the significance of this evening. It was their first date, and he wanted to remember every second of it. Taking a deep breath, he rang the doorbell and put his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting as he waited for Kit to come to the door.
When the door swung open and Kit emerged, it took Randolph several moments to fully take in the sight. She was wearing a burgundy dress. There was no doubt that the dress was burgundy. He knew it in a way different from his knowledge that the sky was blue or the leaves were green – those were facts he memorised and grew to believe. This was an intrinsic knowledge that washed over him the instance he saw it.
“Ready?” he heard Kit say and all he could do was nod. He was ready. He had been waiting for colour all his life.