Текст книги "The Weight of Rain"

Автор книги: Mariah Dietz

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“I THOUGHT we talked about this smiling thing. I’ve only seen you down a couple of times: that first time we met, a few times early on when I knew Mercedes was giving you a run for your money, and now.” Robert’s voice is clear as he calls to me from his porch. I left early, before King got home, because I couldn’t face him. Not today.

“The good news is these downs remind you that you’re living. If life doesn’t offer both good and bad, we’ve lost our reason for existence.” His words replay in my head as he makes his way down the cement steps, his smile widening as I take a couple of steps up his narrow driveway.

His comment makes me think of the conversation King and I shared weeks ago now, and I attempt to smile though the thought makes me want to cry. “That attempt at a smile is a little pitiful. What’s bothering you?”

“It’s complicated,” I say with a sigh.

He shrugs noncommittally, and I’m suddenly curious about how often he and King speak and how detailed their discussions are. “Likely, you’re making it confusing.” He scratches his cheek that still looks too young to be capable of holding the title of grandpa to a ten-year-old. “You didn’t get accepted to Italy?”

I raise my eyebrows and stretch my hands out, feeling the tightness in my muscles and tendons stretch with a painful reluctance. “No, that’s the problem. I was.”

His eyebrows go up, clearly caught off guard. “You’re afraid to leave.”

“I finally feel like I’m in a really good place. I care about them. I can’t ask King to give up on his dreams and come with me.”

“No,” Robert says, slowly shaking his head. “You can’t. Just like he can’t ask you to stay. If either of you did, that wouldn’t be love.”

I press my lips together, feeling the burning threat of tears.

“My dad used to say that people generally start something out of love, but then it becomes a rat race. We lose our focus, our passion, our drive to complete our initial mission because we get so caught up in the competition, the bright lights, the distractions. You need to think about what your mission is and focus on it. You’re young, Lo. Don’t throw away your dreams because you’re afraid you’ll lose someone. All that will do is lead to later resenting him, and that won’t be good for either of you.”

“You guys need to talk about bikes, or … whatever it is you guys used to talk about before I stopped to ask for directions.”

His eyes reveal more humor than his faint smile. “He cares very deeply for you. Don’t doubt that.”

My lips roll against my teeth as I nod. “I know.”

“Do you? Because you look like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

I blink several times, unsure of how to respond. Instead, I numbly nod in response and fish out my phone to see what time it is as a casual way of finding an excuse to leave. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you.”

“When you’re sad, everything seems worse. Stop looking at things through jaded glasses and look for some rose ones.”

I lift my chin once in acknowledgement and then turn, taking two steps before he clears his throat. “The world needs smiles like yours, Lo. Don’t deprive people.”

Sometimes like now, I’m fairly certain he’s crazy. I’ve always lacked the enthusiasm that perpetually optimistic people seem to maintain regardless of what the world delivers. I much prefer to sit back and watch everyone, memorizing eyes and how they often reveal answers that lips rarely do, arms and how they can be so defensive and possessive with simple and slight differences, postures and how when you’re too far to see someone’s face clearly, you can generally read the excitement in someone’s bounce, or sadness with the roll of their shoulders.

I stop at the bus stop and search the cloudy skies that are a dark enough shade that I’m amazed it’s still dry.

I change buses and head south, getting off at Sonar, the restaurant that has been a constant during my time here in Portland. The air is warm and spicy with the hint of freshly baked tortillas that makes my stomach rumble.

Without taking the time to greet the others, I set up my supplies and fill the container I’ve designated for water in the restroom so as to get straight to work. There’s white noise behind me, but I easily block it out without even an ounce of thought being applied to it. I’m lost in a haze of familiarity with colors, textures, lines, and shading that blocks even the thought or concern of time.

I make a final sweep with my brush, smoothing a line, and take a step back.

It’s done.

I’ve been working on this for months, and now it’s complete. The swell of emotions that has my eyes blurring and my lips breaking into a wide smile surprise me as much as they overwhelm me.

Several moments later, I step closer to the painting, selecting a fine brush that I use to make minor corrections that most would likely never notice. This deserves to be as perfect as I can make it. I want Estella to feel as warm and loving toward it as I do about her.

Sighing, I drop my brush on the tray I converted into a painting tray and step back to look over it again.

“You were made for this.” King’s soft words don’t surprise me. Not in the least. I think I subconsciously felt him here the last few hours.

“I can’t believe it’s done.”

“It’s amazing, babe.”

“King.”

His eyes sweep over me, hearing the emotion in my voice. They’re focused and tender, yet determined.

“Let’s go back to your house.”

“Is it hard to leave it?” he asks, running a hand over my shoulders.

I nod. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully explain how I’m feeling. I imagine it’s much like a mother sending a child off to college. This is my first and largest wall mural, and while I completed Kash’s first, there is something so significant about this painting. I’ve spent hours upon hours creating this wall that is now covered with a large group of people dancing to a song I could physically feel and hear as I painted. There is a beach in the distance, an expanse of sand that’s been stamped with people coming and going. Love and happiness are carefully etched across each of the people in the picture, reflective in every last detail. The emotion I feel about leaving it scares me about the prospect of how many works I’ll be leaving an ocean away next fall.

Time freezes, but my heart accelerates. Have I already decided I’m going?

“Let’s go,” I say, plunging my brush into the water and quickly swirling it clean before grabbing my other brushes and dropping them in their case.

“Estella’s still here. I think she’s waiting for you.”

“Art is meant to be looked at alone. No expectations.”

“You don’t want to see her excitement?”

“Not this time.” I don’t. I can’t. Another emotion isn’t able to fit in my head right now.

King wraps an arm around my shoulder again, his warmth causing my head to naturally recline back.

We step out into the cool spring air, and King digs in his pocket. I watch him flip two pennies on the sidewalk before we reach his truck.

“Are you excited for your event Saturday?” I ask, reaching forward to turn down his music that is always loud from when he rides alone.

King looks over to me, his lips drawing up into that perfectly imperfect smile I love. “It’s insane. I can’t wrap my head around it all.”

“You’re going to be great. I need Summer to take a ton of pictures. I’m going to make your logo so sick, you will freak out.”

King’s eyebrows draw up faintly, his lips still raised. “You’re going to design my logo?”

I feel slightly embarrassed, uncomfortable by my presumptions.

“Swear. Swear to me you’ll do it,” he says, grabbing my hand.

My eyes are on his, which are wide with an intensity that makes me wish he had bench seats. I want to be as close to him as I can.

“I swear.”

“I didn’t want to ask you because I knew you’d feel obligated, but seriously…”

“No, I’d really like to do yours.”

“I’m going to give you the orgasm of your life tonight.”

“You already did that on Saturday, remember?”

“You’re going to see stars tonight for sure,” he says with a grin, making me regret telling him what Charleigh used to call him.

“Can I ask you something?”

King looks over at me, his eyebrows high with surprise. “Am I really always that great in bed? Yes. With you, definitely yes.”

I roll my eyes, feeling my cheeks heat with how to phrase my question so it doesn’t come out as an accusation. “How does Isabelle know how you like your coffee?”

King’s eyes flash to mine and then the street that is unusually busy for how late it is. “What do you mean?”

“She corrected me Saturday when I was putting sugar in your coffee.”

King lifts his shoulders and reaches across the small space to hold my hand. “She’s like a sister, Lo. I get how you could take that to mean something, but I can guarantee you it doesn’t. She was around a lot when I was growing up. She’s gone on vacations and camping with us.”

“She gets along with everyone so well, and she’s beautiful, and smart…”

“Are you trying to convince me to date her?”

My eyes narrow in annoyance, although he’s right—I do sound like I’m trying to up-sell her. “I just don’t understand.”

“Isabelle is a great person. Some guy is going to be very lucky one day to be with her, but that guy will never be me because I don’t feel anything when I’m around her except for friendship. I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone I care platonically for. I want someone that is going to make me think and will constantly push me to improve. Someone that distracts me while I’m in boring-ass business meetings without even being present because I can’t stop thinking about the way her hips move and the many things I want to do to hear those sounds again.”

“What sounds?”

King shifts in his seat, his eyes returning to mine for another fleeting second. “Tonight you’re going to have to stop watching so much and listen.”

MY BACK is pressed firmly against King’s chest, our legs intertwined down to our ankles. I definitely saw stars tonight, an entire sea of them. After we had both been exhausted and sated, I curled up in the large chair in King’s room wearing a pair of his sweatpants and an old T-shirt as I sketched the outlines of five different expressions of King that I wanted to ensure I would never forget. I don’t know why I did it. I know without a doubt I won’t forget them. Even if I tried, I don’t think I could. He’s become a part of me.

“I thought you were exhausted?” he asks, brushing his fingers over my arm.

“How’d you know I was awake?”

“You’re a loud thinker.”

I shift to my back so I can see him, but it’s too dark to make out more than the faintest of outlines of him.

“Want me to close the window? Is the storm too loud?”

I shake my head, nestling closer to him. “I love the rain.”

King kisses the tip of each of my fingers, pulling them back slowly, deliberately so that they drag across his bottom lip.

“You’re like the rain,” I whisper, turning so that I’m completely facing him. “No matter what kind of barriers I tried to put up, you slipped through all of them. You’ve coated every last part of my skin and have worked your way into every depth of me, parts I didn’t even know existed.”

“Everyone else hates the rain.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Are we speaking metaphorically?” I ask, suddenly confused and slightly flippant since I was trying to be sweet, and I’m pretty certain he’s trying to be a pain in my ass.

“I thought we were talking about the rain.”

“You’re so freaking annoying.” I shove King and roll to the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my feet, making me even more angry with him because I was warm and comfortable mere seconds ago.

“Where are you going?”

“We fight. Like all the time. That’s not healthy. How can we be in a relationship when you constantly see the left side of the map while I see the right? That’s setting ourselves up for a collision.”

“We barely fight anymore. I, for one, kind of miss it.”

I lower my chin and glare at him even though I know it’s too dark for him to see. The light beside his bed flips on and I squint, completely ruining the effect.

“People only fight with those they either really hate or really care about. Everyone else no one gives two shits about. We started fighting because you wanted to hate me. Now we fight because you don’t want to love me.”

My eyebrows rise and my eyes stretch wide with disbelief. Love? “You’re crazy.”

“When it comes to you, I’m in need of an institution. You get so damn stubborn, and you do things that aren’t safe, or even smart—”

“You do tricks on a bike for a living! I’m not the one living a life of danger.”

“You’re so difficult, and as much as it drives me crazy, I love it.” A heavy breath blows through his open lips. His brown eyes close for the briefest of seconds and then settle on my own. “I love your passion. Your passion to be right. Your passion to be independent. Your passion to help others. Your passion for art.” He smiles widely, erasing that slight variance of his lips. “In case you haven’t caught on, you’re really passionate about everything.”

“Except cooking,” I add, lifting a shoulder.

King raises a fist and puts it in front of his mouth as he laughs hard enough his eyes close. It causes that warmth in my chest he’s brought to life to swell and a smile to spread across my own lips. He nods once and lowers his hand. “Except for cooking,” he agrees. “I don’t care if you ever learn to cook. Or if you don’t get accepted to Florence. I just want you to keep painting the beauty in this world that so many forget to notice. You can paint it on canvases, or walls, or with spray paint on abandoned buildings, or chalk downtown, I don’t care. You can paint every square inch of the shop and this room.

“You wanted labels, I gave you them. Now I want you to start realizing that what we have isn’t going to end in June.”

My heart aches. Physically aches. I wish I hadn’t opened that letter today. I wish I didn’t know I was accepted to Florence.

“I love you, Lo. This shit isn’t going anywhere, certainly not in a few weeks.”

Tears course over my cheeks and my nose runs. I can’t see King clearly, but I hear the sheets shift and feel his arms encircle me seconds later.

“You got in.” There’s no inflection to his words because they aren’t a question. He knows. “Lo, you can’t be upset, babe. This is great! It’s amazing! You worked your ass off for this!” He briskly runs his hands up and down my arms as if trying to spark some enthusiasm.

“How am I going to leave you?”

“You aren’t,” he says adamantly. “You’re going to go on a work trip, and then you’re coming back. We’ll figure out where you’re going to live, but you’re coming back to Portland. And while I think long-distance relationships seem like hell on earth, we’re going to walk through the fire together, and we’re going to come out on the other side. I don’t care how hard it is. I don’t care that it’s going to be a fucking pain in the ass to find time to talk because you’re going to be nine hours ahead. You and me, Lo, we can do this. We’ve got this shit.”

“I love you.”

“I know you do, and that’s how I know we’re going to make this work. We’ll figure it out.”

“King, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you.”

“Now tell me you believe we can do this.”

SATURDAY ARRIVES too fast. I’m sitting in the stands between Summer and Mercedes, waiting impatiently to see King for his first event. He’s just been announced, and my heart is beating a mile a minute with anticipation and nerves.

“He’s gonna kill it,” Summer says, changing the lens on her camera. “The cocky bastard is going to create a name for himself today.”

I see Kash first, his bright red hat visible in a sea of helmets and other baseball hats.

“This is going to be epic.” Mercedes is calm, poised in her seat, ready for things to start, fully confident in King’s abilities.

“Alright, any special shots or you just want as much as I can do?”

“The latter.”

Summer laughs softly and brings her camera to her face, obscuring the expression I know is mocking me.

King rides along the top of the rink a couple of times and then proceeds to bounce the bike in place a few times on the back tire. I’ve seen him do this a hundred times and still I’m captivated, watching the fluency he has with the bike. He slides down the ramp and does a single flip, landing seamlessly on the next one, which he pedals down with a fierceness and determination that I can feel in my own muscles. He goes up and rotates so many times I lose count before he lands again, this time securing to the concrete with only the front tire and swinging the bike around as he stands on a peg, precariously close to the edge. The crowd is insane. They’re cheering and screaming, so amped up on the show he’s delivering that I’m realizing everyone is feeling the adrenaline rush he’s creating. He bounces the bike a couple of times and then soars back down the ramp, landing and then flipping along with the bike so that it looks like the bike is doing a back handspring with him along for the ride.

It’s perfectionism in motion. Not a single thing could have been done more flawlessly, and the crowd knows it. Their cheers grow louder before he lands his final stunt and moves so that he has both tires firmly on the ground. Then his bike is down, his eyes wide.

“Go!” Summer demands, pushing me out of my seat. She points with one arm, still holding her camera with the other, and I don’t ask. I go.

King must see me as I hedge against the rail to the aisle, because he’s running toward me, his fingers releasing his helmet. I climb over the wall that holds the audience back, and Kash is on the other side, offering me his hand, but I don’t need it. I hop down, and the moment I do, King is there. He’s sweating and his muscles are vibrating with adrenaline and excitement that I know is going to make him crash later, but right now, I want to bask in it with him. My hands are fisted in his shirt and my lips are sealed with King’s, giving and taking in a kiss that clearly states we wish we were alone and could ride out this high, pushing each other to the very limits.

When we part, King holds either side of my face and presses his forehead against mine. “Thank you.”

“This was all you, babe.”

“This was all you believing in me.”

“You owned it, King. It was flawless. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” I don’t know if he can hear my last words over the announcement being made and the deafening crowd. Still, I yell how much I love him, and hear him yell something in response, and though I can’t understand it, I know he’s saying the same.

ALTHOUGH IT’S Monday, I have a bounce in my step as I make my way to the Knight residence. My hair is being unnaturally even-tempered for how damp it is, and I don’t have to work at the restaurant or shop. I essentially have the next six weeks to finish school, watch Mercedes, and spend time with King. Not to mention I’m starting to feel comfortable with my decision to go to Italy for the summer. I’ve never been abroad, and in this case I will not only be going to a beautiful city filled with culture and beauty, and as King assures me, delicious food, but I am going to have the opportunity to work on some of the amazing art that fills the city.

I bound up to the door with a smile stretching my lips wide and check to see if the door is unlocked. It swings open, revealing someone is home. A song is playing in my head, a sketch occurring in my mind as I shed my coat and bag and then stop, hearing soft murmurs followed by a sound that has become nearly foreign. My feet take me down the hall until I reach Mercedes’ room, and I stop in the doorway, where my heart lurches to my throat. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything wreck me like watching Mercedes cry. It creates a chaotic mess of emotions that make me think of the time I tried splatter painting, which involved dipping a paintbrush and then using sharp, jerky movements to splatter paint across a canvas. Lights covering darks, hues that didn’t belong together comingling, undefined shapes and borders. It was too messy for me, and I feel like that now. My anger is peaking. My eyes are heavy, stinging with tears. My need to make her happy and laugh is pushing me to forget the other emotions, and it ends with me staring at King, whose eyes have lifted from Mercedes to look at me.

“They all hate me, King. I can’t go back.”

I watch his throat move as he swallows words and threats I know he’s experiencing because I am as well. “They don’t hate you. They’re jealous.”

“They aren’t jealous! There’s nothing to be jealous about. That’s what people tell others so they don’t feel bad. They hate me! They hate everything about me!”

“There is nothing about you that anyone could hate. It’s not possible. They’re being assholes to get a rise out of you. It’s people like that you should pity. They don’t see the joy in life. All they see is the threat they offer, and to try and maximize that threat, they act like a bunch of assclowns and attack. They’re vicious and heartless. You have to…” King’s words drift off, and his brows furrow in pain. He isn’t sure what to say. I’m sure his instincts are providing instructions on how to be a bigger asshole in return, but something is stopping that advice, and it turns my stomach because although I hate the thought of her being equipped with how to be the bigger bully, I loathe seeing her in this kind of pain and feel subsequently responsible for prolonging it.

I take a step closer to the bed to ensure she will hear me when King doesn’t speak. “You don’t want to become them, Mercedes. You want to be like Summer: talented, strong, and loving. Those girls at your school are never, never going to be like Summer, not even half as good because they’re going to get so distracted in their lives by trying to ruin others, they’re going to miss their own opportunities.”

King releases a deep breath and closes his eyes, making it unclear if he believes my insight or hates that he does.

The afternoon is slow. My previous mood has, like the rain, washed away, but as many rainbows as I try to create, Mercedes refuses to see any of them. I can’t blame her. Sometimes we all need to respect and acknowledge the pain we’re experiencing. Otherwise, it just festers. Sadly, King vanished shortly after I arrived, and I hate wondering if he’s upset with me for interfering.

I SET up the stairs of my apartment complex, my hand reaching for my phone to see if King’s sent me anything, and stop when I see Charleigh on the landing, her movements stalled, waiting to see my reaction.

“Hey,” I say, taking the last step so I’m standing on level ground with her.

“Hey.” There’s a faint smile on her lips.

“So, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened exactly. I think I just got a little jealous of you spending so much time with your new boyfriend, and you not introducing him or telling me about him, that when I heard you dropped out of the show, I was so shocked I didn’t know how else to really react.” I try to trace back to that day and what all we said to each other. “I understand why you’ve made the decisions you have.”

“Because of King?”

“Not just him. Because of Mercedes, and Kash, and Summer, Allie, and you. You guys have all taught me about love and how life is too short to waste it doing something you don’t love.”

“I’m sorry I blew up on you. I never meant to hurt you or Allie. You both mean so much to me, and I just got caught up in things. I want you to meet him, but I also want to spend some time with you, catch up.”

“I’d like that.”

“Have you heard back from Italy yet? Are you going to be saying things like ciao, and mi scusi?”

I take a deep breath and nod. “I’m hoping my accent will be better than yours, but yeah.”

Charleigh’s eyes grow wide, lacking a reciprocating smile. “You’re going?” The lilt in her voice makes it difficult for me to decipher between it being a question or disbelief.

“June second.”

“But it’s good … right?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

Charleigh’s eyes are still wide as she nods, her motions stiff and forced, making it clear it was disbelief.

“Hey, if you don’t have anything going on Thursday, I was wondering if you and Allie could convince a few of your stylish people and models to do a field trip?”

“A field trip?”

“Yeah.” I take a long breath, glancing at the clouds heavy with rain. “Mercedes is having a really rough time with a couple of kids, and I am hoping we can share a little sense with them.”

“We’re twenty-two. Are you sure we have sense to share?”

My lips curve into a smile. I’ve missed her. “Hopefully we do collectively.”

I STEP in front of the class and ponder if I should have told Kash or at least King that I was planning this. I shake my head and remember I should have told Kash since he’s her dad. But the teacher is introducing me and moving to the side of the room, queuing that it’s my turn to attempt to resolve this issue that is not only breaking Mercedes’ heart and spirit, but all of ours as we watch her endure it.

I press my palms together. They feel sticky and too big like they often do when I stand in front of a group, especially one consisting of small and obviously judgmental girls, ready to make fun of me for any slip. I remind myself three times that I don’t care what they think of me when one whispers to a friend, eliciting a snicker. I take a deep breath. “My name’s Lauren Crosby, and while none of you have ever heard of me and may never again, it doesn’t matter because others will. I’m an artist.” I look to the far right of the classroom where there’s nothing but empty desks because the students are all gathered around the large blue area rug, facing me as a small laugh gets caught in my throat. “I’m a really good artist, and it’s taken me a very long time to admit that to anyone, including myself.” I press my lips together and feel a confidence carry my gaze back to the group. “You see, all my life I grew up thinking I was going to work with my dad and brother on our family farm.” I swallow, keeping my gaze on no one. “I never thought I’d leave Montana because so many of my friends and their families never did. I thought I was Lauren, dairy farmer, tall, skinny, too young to do most things I wanted, and too old to do the others. But then I took a chance. I decided I wanted to see what other potentials were out there, and have learned that those things that I thought defined me, these arbitrary numbers that so many of us allow ourselves to be described as, are nothing but a bunch of numbers that mean absolutely nothing, unless you allow them to.

“Height, weight, age, they’re all just numbers. Numbers that make you feel inadequate because they’re always either too high or too low. You will never be the perfect weight. People will either find you too thin or too heavy. You’ll be too young to understand or too old to relate. You are too tall or too short because everyone always bases the height of others upon their own. You can’t let a bunch of bullshit numbers define you. All they do is tell you what size of clothing you need and your shoe size. That’s it. The rest of them mean nothing.”

I hear a giggle followed by a whisper that clearly contains the word bullshit, and guiltily look toward the teacher and mumble an apology.

“We need to forget about numbers and where we come from because we have the ability to change perceptions. To mold ideas. Challenge society. You guys can be anything you want to be if you have the right drive and focus. The thing is, breaking others down is never going to make you feel better. It might for a few minutes, maybe even through your years at school, I don’t know, but I can guarantee that while you may think it’s making you stronger, better, and smarter than the person you’re putting down, it’s not. It’s distracting you from what you need to be focused on. There are a hundred people waiting to show they’re better than you, and chances are, many of them will be, but you have the choice to focus on what you want to accomplish, or on them.

“But here’s the real kicker. You guys have it tough. There’s a ton of responsibility on your generation and mine. We’re supposed to clean up the planet, find alternative fuel sources, control knowledge that continues to grow for both good and evil, and differentiate the two. Women are supposed to be more independent, gorgeous, and powerful, yet we tear each other down as soon as we see another as a threat. We want them to be good, just not as good as us, certainly not better. Men do it too. You have to walk a fine line between being affectionate and masculine, so you never know if it’s appropriate to share or discuss feelings. It’s confusing! And it’s ridiculous. We have to stop listening to these absurd notions and just live for ourselves with the objective of making the world a better place by being a better person.

“Being nice isn’t hard. Life isn’t a competition against another person. It’s a competition against yourself. You are working to be the best version of yourself possible. And I’m not talking about being the thinnest, fastest, smartest—those are numbers, and again, they mean nothing compared to sincerity, genuineness, compassion, and humanity. That’s what we all need to be pushing ourselves to be the best at.”

I can’t tell if my words are making sense to them, or if they’re working to digest them, or are still stuck on the fact that I clumsily said the word bullshit at the beginning of my speech, but I pray that a few of my words will get lodged to the inside of their brains and one day they’ll make some sense. Or maybe one or more of the others will be able to speak to them on a level they can connect with. That’s why I invited several people. I wanted them to see people of all shapes, sizes, and professions so they could recognize that although we’re all different, we’re still the same.

I take a few steps back as Allie moves into place. She is comfortable, confident as she introduces herself, and then blows me into next week when she clearly states her continued struggle with an eating disorder I’ve never known about, all because of the years she was teased and tormented creating an internal fight she still has to bear.