Текст книги "The Weight of Rain"

Автор книги: Mariah Dietz

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

I’m staring at a large photograph on the wall of kids wearing nicer and more adult-looking clothes than I own, and notice Mercedes shrink behind a clothing rack. I peer around the store, looking to see what could lead to a reaction like this, and notice a couple of girls around Mercedes’ age coming toward us.

I look back to Mercedes and find her eyes fixed on me with a scowl that has me taking two steps back and raising my hands in surrender. I’ve never been the quote unquote cool kid, but I was never seen as a social leper before either. Babysitting is not only honing my cleaning skills, but it’s also thickening my skin and teaching me how to brush off being looked at as a loser from a ten-year-old.

“Is there something I can help you find?” an employee asks from my other side. She’s around my age, and like so many here in Portland, her outfit screams fashion.

“Thanks, but I’m okay. I’m just waiting on…” I whirl around, searching the entire store, coming across the girls who entered, but not finding Mercedes. “Oh, God.”

I dash out of the store and whip around, looking in each direction for her dark hair. “Mercedes!” I yell, catching sight of her on the escalators across from me. She doesn’t look up, keeping her attention focused on squeezing past a man in front of her.

“What the hell?” My nearly silent question is meant for both of us as I race toward the escalator and mutter apologies as I step around people, working to not trip and watch where she’s heading.

“Mercedes!” I yell again as she sprints toward the exit doors of the mall. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even slow down.

The air is cool and wet as it’s carried against my skin by a strong gust of wind that has my eyes instinctively closing. I shield my face with a hand and look each direction before I spot her.

“Mercedes!” My steps increase of their own accord because I’m too frustrated to think clearly. “Mercedes!” I yell again, louder this time.

She stops and her head turns ever so slightly, making her dark hair shift.

Then she runs full out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, shaking my head. “I’m not chasing you!” I’m not sure if she can even hear my words over the wind, rain, and traffic. She certainly doesn’t slow down to indicate she does. A heavy sigh empties my lungs before I grit my teeth together, considering a thousand ways to repay Kenzie for this job opportunity. Then, I run after Mercedes’ small silhouette.

My long strides cover more distance, but she’s fast and too young to be suffering a side ache after running down the escalator, outside, and a brief sprint. The idea of yelling her name again to see if she’ll stop crosses my mind, but I can’t waste my breath on calling out to her and keep running, so I gulp more cold air and feel a burning sensation along my shins.

Mercedes runs along the sidewalk, oblivious to the leaves swirling and rain pelting us from what seems like every angle. The rainfall here in Portland is like nothing else. The drops are the size of quarters and are so dense it takes mere seconds for your clothes to become sodden. Even my Toms have been penetrated.

The cars beside us begin moving with a wave of exhaust as they pass through the green light, and Mercedes follows with their movement, crossing the intersection without hesitation. A thick chunk of my wet hair wraps around my throat as I continue the race, making me feel nearly strangled by the combination of it and my obvious lack of conditioning.

A truck unloading a crate of boxes slows Mercedes’ steps down and brings her head to jerk in each direction twice before I catch up to her and pull her thin jacket tightly in my fist. Her head falls, her long hair protecting her like a shield as we move forward at a slower pace. My lungs are burning, working so hard to try to hold air that I can’t speak. It’s probably for the better—nothing running through my mind is appropriate for her ears.

My heartbeat is pumping in my ears; it along with my heavy breaths drowns out the sound of the traffic that’s becoming more congested with the late hour, and the slap of our footsteps on the wet sidewalk, until a sniffling sound mutes everything. I turn to get a better angle of her face, but her head is still down. My fingers begin to loosen with guilt, and my mind begins to wonder how to sound caring and authoritative at the same time.

“You can’t do that. You can’t run around downtown Portland, trying to get away from me. If you don’t want me to be your nanny or whatever, just talk to your dad. Getting hit by a car isn’t the right way to resolve this.”

“It has nothing to do with you.” Mercedes’ tone is verging on angry, but the vulnerable side of her has won, making her words quiet and hitched.

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Her seafoam-green eyes are rimmed with red as she flips her face toward me, and I shake my head, clueless and caught so off guard by how hard she’s working to conceal her pain that it squeezes that maternal need building inside of me once more. “They hate me. They all hate me.”

“The girls at the store?” I think back as I pose the question, seeing the way Mercedes had recoiled. I thought it was directed toward me but realize I had absolutely nothing to do with her reaction. “What happened?”

“They call me a boy. They tell me I’m gay because I ride bikes. And say I have two dads.”

My steps stop and my hand moves from her jacket to her wrist. I’m over a foot taller than Mercedes, and the thought of kneeling on the wet cement crosses my mind before I realize she will likely find the gesture demeaning. Instead, I shake my head again and rake a hand across my forehead until I feel a familiar purse of skin from a long-forgotten scar. “That’s bullshit, Mercedes. Complete and total bullshit.” My hand smoothes the hairs that fell while I was running, and I look across the street, focusing on a trail of leaves blowing. “I don’t know why the terrible things said to us are what we hear while we try to sleep, or what feed us when we’re struggling and starved for encouragement. I guess it’s because as much as we don’t want to care what others think, we do.” My eyes move back to her face and catch her gaze for a second before she drops it to my feet. “They’re trying to get a rise out of you because that’s how they feed their ugliness and insecurities. They’re likely so afraid to be the next target, and their victims are too concerned with wondering if the attacks hold any truth that no one sees that the person behind the hurtful words is the one with the problems.”

Her eyes look away from me. Either she has been told something similar, or she isn’t ready to believe my words.

“If you’re gay, that’s no one’s business but your own.”

“I’m not gay.”

“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that your sexual preferences are yours. God, what am I saying? You’re ten. You shouldn’t have sexual preferences.” Mercedes’ chin drops to the side, and she shoots a leveling look to me. “If riding bikes is something that you love, then you can’t let them ruin it for you. Being different doesn’t make you a freak; it makes you brave. And that bullshit about two dads? I don’t even know where to start on that one.” A chill shoots down my spine as I catch several drops of rain in the face from looking up, and I shrug before facing her again. “It doesn’t matter if a person is purple, green, male, female, gay, or straight. All that matters is that they love you, protect you, and care for you. Hell, even with your brooding attitude and death glares, I’ve started to fall in love with you and feel these really weird surges of motherhood that scare the shit out of me because I don’t want to have kids. Obviously you have something great in you for that to occur.”

I feel like I’m modeling in front of a class of artists again with the way she’s reading each of my features.

“Are you ready to go home?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Her reply nearly gets lost in the sounds of the city, her voice is so quiet.

“Let’s go. We’ll order a pizza on the bus.”

The two of us turn, my hand still firmly gripping her shoulder, now less because of my fear that she’ll run and more because I want to comfort her.

“Hey, Lo?”

I’m sure my surprise at her calling me Lo is written across my face as a small smile turns her lips up. “I only like cheese on my pizza.”

“I’m good with that.”

Her smile widens, and I know I’ll be sketching this expression in the near future. It’s frame worthy.

I PULL the third load of laundry for the day—a heap of white shirts—from the washer and shove them into the dryer. My hands freeze. I think all of me has. A familiar scent is tickling all of my senses, causing my thoughts to race in a void of blankness. I reach for the same pile of shirts and bring them to my nose. The clean, crisp scent of the laundry detergent is prevalent, but there’s also the faint trace of men’s cologne, or body wash—something male. I take another deep breath before dropping them back into the dryer. Maybe it’s the same laundry detergent my mom uses? Or the cologne from someone I know? Or maybe it’s simply the act of doing laundry that’s making a piece of my mind think of home, but something has me feeling weak and dazed with nostalgia.

“Lo, you know you don’t have to keep cleaning, right?”

I turn to acknowledge Kash. I’ve started calling him the nickname that the others all use in the last week, though it sometimes still rolls off my tongue a little strangely. My cheeks heat as my nails run along my forehead. “Yeah, I know.” I don’t see much of him, and when I do, Summer and Parker are usually close behind. The way Summer watches him, tracking his movements and always being a step ahead of what he seems to ask or think of, makes me fairly confident she has feelings for him, but Kash is difficult to figure out. He is flirty and kind to her, but he is with me as well. I think it’s just his personality to be that way.

He smiles and takes a step back so I can exit the laundry room.

“How’s it going? Are things working out with your professor now that you’re attending your Wednesday class?” Kash tilts his head with a slight mock lighting his eyes. I finally had to approach him and discuss coming later on Wednesdays so I could attend my Comparative Art History class after being reminded by a friend that attendance alone is thirty-five percent of my grade.

“Yeah, thanks.” My professor is still intentionally calling on me more than any of the other students to prove his point, but thankfully, I’m catching up.

“How have things been going here?”

“Good. Mercedes is in her room finishing homework, so I thought I would put in a load really quick,” I say as we head back upstairs.

“Homework? I didn’t hear any complaining.”

“Yeah, I bribed her with ice cream.”

Kash laughs, following me into the kitchen where he leans both elbows on the granite counter covering the bar. “So, I saw on your paperwork that you’re from Montana.”

Appreciative of the change in topic, I nod. He can’t be oblivious to the fact that he’s a slob, and I sort of fear that my efforts are being seen as intrusive, but thus far, he hasn’t spoken to me about it until now. “Yeah. Have you been over there?”

“I went to Yellowstone once, as a kid.”

“That’s usually what people go for.”

Kash returns the smile I’m giving him to show my statement, though true, is intended to be lighthearted. “What do you think of Portland?”

“I love it. I love the people and the buzz around the city. I love the peaceful tranquility you find outside, and the food and music. I even love the rain.”

His head shakes as he quietly laughs. “Nobody loves the rain.”

“There’s something beautiful about it here. It’s intense. Almost cleansing.”

“Yeah, until you nearly drown in a puddle or get pulled down a river running down Highway 26.”

My cheeks lift so high my vision is slightly obscured as I nod my head in agreement. “I do sometimes feel like I need a raft. But there’s something special about this place. It just feels different.”

“Is it all of the weirdos?”

My cheeks are still stretched as I shake my head. “No. I have learned in my three years of being an unofficial Oregonian to recognize the transplants. There’s authentic weird, and then there’s trying to be weird.”

There’s a quiet rumble of laughter from Kashton as he leans farther against the counter. “You don’t seem to try to pose as weird. Are you sticking to your clean-air, backwoods Montana image?”

“Backwoods?” My eyebrows rise and my chin drops, making Kash’s laughter increase. “I am the definition of weird! I go to school for art.”

“I ride a bike for a living,” he counters.

“I know, but that’s cool. You do tricks, and jump, and…” my hands lift in the air to reflect movement, “…you do all that crazy stuff.”

“You have no idea what I do, do you?”

I shake my head and fight my lips from turning upward. “No, I really don’t.”

“I’ll show you. Next week I get to be in the editing process of some videos and images that are going with this Swiss campaign. You can come check it out. Give me your expert art advice.”

“I would love to, but I know nothing about film or photography. That’s a whole other world. Kind of like cooking.”

He laughs again and then resituates his baseball hat as I see a thought cross his features. “I want to see some of your artwork. Kenzie says you’re pretty good.”

I try to mask my surprise by shrugging.

“Oh, so you’re one of those people.”

“One of what people?”

Kash shakes his head, curving his lips into a smile. “I’m not sure,” he admits with a chuckle. “Your reaction didn’t give me much. I was hoping you would either admit that you’re really good or play it off and act like you suck.” His eyes narrow slightly and then his index finger taps his temple. “I’ll get you figured out soon enough. First, I need to see some of your work. Show me something.”

“I don’t have anything with me.” I don’t. My portfolio rarely travels with me.

“Bullshit. Open your bag and show me something.”

“You think I’m bluffing?”

“No. I think you’re ignoring the fact that I know what it’s like to have a hobby that you love. You live it. You breathe it. A piece of it goes everywhere with you.”

I nod a couple of times in silent understanding and then move to get my bag beside the kitchen table. Kash follows me, keeping a respectable gap between us, allowing me to choose what I want to reveal. I used to have a hard time showing people my work. There’s something very personal about it. I’m not showing you a scene or a person; I’m showing you how I see a scene or a person. In the last two years, that discomfort has ebbed as I’ve been trying to circulate my portfolio in an attempt to get my name out into some different circles. For some reason, showing Kash my work is comfortable, almost easy.

His lips curl into a knowing smile as I lift a sketchpad from my bag and hold it out to him. Without hesitation, he takes the book, holding it as though he understands and respects the countless hours that have been poured onto the pages.

“Holy shit.” His voice is barely audible as he stares at a sheet.

My curiosity is piqued. I move to look over his shoulder and see a drawing of Mercedes. Her hair is down, wrapped around her in curling vines, and her eyes are bright with a happiness that I’ve only recently been subjected to. Her mouth, however, is straight, reflecting little emotion as it does too often.

“You’re an artist.” His words are filled with admiration and a sincerity that makes me suddenly feel nervous. “This is insane!” He stares at several of the pages without a word, just silently inspecting each of them with a level of respect that makes me feel proud.

“These are really cool. Whose hands are these? Your boyfriends’?”

That damn flush returns to my cheeks and I shake my head. He can tell they’re intimate even though there is nothing sexual on the page. “No. Nothing like that.” I know what page he’s looking at by catching sight of a heavily shaded corner. I had drawn a series of pictures with hands from all different angles. Every perspective I can still picture them being from that night: balancing a bottle, resting on his thigh, holding my hand, running along my sides. I have worked to block the memory of him but still find myself mindlessly sketching parts of him.

“These are amazing, Lauren. Truly amazing.”

“Lo.”

Kash and I both turn toward the hallway where Mercedes is standing.

“What?” he asks.

“Her name’s Lo, Dad.”

He smiles and nods. “Did you know Lo is a flipping artist?”

“They look like pictures taken from a camera, don’t they?”

“Yes! It’s crazy!”

Kash’s form of artistry is a different realm altogether from my own, but his compliment feels nearly equal to hearing an accolade from Douglas McDougall or Anselm Kiefer.

“HEY, LO. Are you ready?”

I turn my head to look over my right shoulder and widen my eyes in question. “Ready for what?”

“The shop is finally ready!” There’s a giddiness in her eyes and voice that I haven’t heard before, and it makes my heart swell, but it’s the smile on her face that makes it feel like it may burst.

“Show me!” I don’t even consider what we’re going to do. I mindlessly follow her out into a light and steady late October drizzle. We pass the yard and continue on a well-worn dirt path to the large shop that can be seen from the house.

“Are you ready?”

“Want a drum roll?” Mercedes rolls her eyes with my dry tone, making me break into a smile. “Show me this world you love.”

A smile creeps back across her lips as she turns and pulls the door open. My nose wrinkles with the assault of fumes as we step inside, but I don’t focus on it. I can’t. My eyes are trying to ingest all of the gray tones of cement and the wide path running around the parameter. There are long rails along a set of stairs, a large pit of foam, and two wide ramps that curve up in giant cement C’s, all surrounded by bright white walls.

“This place is huge.” My voice is an echo, getting lost in the vastness.

“Isn’t it awesome?”

“Hey!” Mercedes and I turn and find Kash and Summer in the doorway. Kash is looking to Mercedes, obviously seeking approval. “What do you think? Pretty legit, right?”

“It’s blowing my mind.” Kash’s smile grows with Mercedes’ approval.

“Are you ready to break this baby in?” he asks, clasping his hands together.

“What about King?”

“He sent me a picture of the Alps yesterday. I think it’s a pretty even trade. Parker will be here in five.”

“Come on, Lo, let’s pick a bike for you.” Mercedes takes my hand, and I truly consider following her before I stop.

“Yeah, I think I’ll break in the bleacher seat,” I say, nodding to a long bench against the wall.

“What? No! You have to come ride with us,” she objects.

“I haven’t been on a bike in like ten years. I don’t think my outer layer of skin is going to look very pretty on these new floors.”

“Everyone can ride a bike.” Her head falls to the side, daring me to disagree.

“Not well,” I assure her.

“Come on, Mercedes. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t have to,” Summer objects. The fact that her eyes won’t settle on me makes me realize her sentiment is lacking something basic. Her outfit is simple and easy: a pair of skinny jeans and a graphic T-shirt. Somehow, the way she manages to wear them makes me feel uncomfortable and underdressed in comparison, though my mint green pants and floral blouse were even marveled by Allie yesterday when I set them out. I could likely wear one of the beautiful dresses that Allie and Charleigh create and still feel inadequate. Summer has a presence I can’t begin to compete with, let alone relate to.

“Yeah, remember? You never push someone’s comfort zone on a bike. It makes Uncle King pissy as all hell to do all the paperwork that goes with broken bones.” Kash looks from Mercedes to me and winks, leaving me to wonder if he’s serious. “We can help get her comfortable with riding again by showing her how fun it is.” His eyes are bright, and his smile has become wide and inviting. “I bet she’ll want to join us soon!” He grabs a bike leaning against the wall and swings his leg over the seat. It looks too small under him, like it’s made for a child. He grips the handlebars and pulls up, making the bike bounce on the back tire as he twists his body to turn it. The movement is clearly practiced. It’s smooth and looks so simple, my brain tricks myself into thinking I’ve done the same maneuver myself in the past. Like I can feel the jars from the pavement as the front tire hits the cement again. Then he twists the bike below him, and suddenly, my eyes can’t move fast enough.

Kash moves with a grace and elegance that doesn’t seem possible. It leaves me mesmerized, watching as he glides through the air, turning and twisting, leaving me with an envy and appreciation I didn’t know I would possess for the sport.

Parker walks in shortly after, joining Summer and Kash in perfecting moves that seem impossible. Mercedes rides for a while and then returns her bike and sits beside me, naming moves and spins, and telling stories about the group and her own experiences. This isn’t the first time I get lost in her words and completely forget that she’s only ten. The fact that she hasn’t been treated like a child—given the ability to pretend that the world holds only hope and potential—saddens me and broadens that maternal instinct I feel toward her.

“Dude, you aren’t watching! You’re going to miss it!” Mercedes cries, plunging a hand forward to redirect my attention to the ramps. I oblige and within seconds feel her head resting against my shoulder.

It feels like the biggest accomplishment I’ve yet achieved.

“WHAT ARE you doing?” I ask.

“Freaking out!”

I watch Allie pace her and Charleigh’s loft. Her neck is stretched forward and her shoulders are hunched as her eyes intently move around the crowded tables and fabric-covered floors. “What are you looking for?”

“The fabric I picked up last weekend!” Her eyes swing toward me with a look of anguish that makes my eyebrows rise. “Sorry.” Her apology is clipped, removing any trace of sincerity, but I accept it and move to the kitchen where I take a seat on a stool so as to be out of the way. It’s moments like these that I really resent Kenzie and her male visitors.

“Remember telling me I have a long torso, so empire waists look…” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what you said, but you said to wear an empire waist dress.”

I track her as she rifles through her shared closet. Her hands are quick and aggressive but gentle as they shove the materials around.

“Yeah…”

“You know that silk we picked up last weekend when we were in Seattle that matched the cotton voile so well? It had the really big print with coral and black and gray? The cotton had the coral and gray with darker undertones.”

I saw so many fabrics at the store last weekend, I feel as though I can picture nearly any possible pattern. I have always loved clothes, and while some of the patterns were both thrilling and inspiring, others were completely overwhelming. The passion for design that Charleigh and Allie share makes my love for the arts expand into new regions. Since meeting them, my closet has grown and small accessories have been added. They both enjoy talking to me about sizes, patterns, colors, and shapes—things all artists like to brainstorm about. Allie feels that my knowledge and experience with drawing so many people and figures helps me see patterns better. I’m still not sure she’s right, but I’ve enjoyed working through some designs and the creation of some of her work. I nod absently and her eyes harden, recognizing it as a lie.

“How could you forget that fabric? It was gorgeous!”

“Do you know where Charleigh is? I tried calling and she didn’t answer,” I ask, deflecting her question.

“She was staying late to cut out some patterns.”

I nod a couple of times and slide from my stool. “Alright, well I’ll see you later.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Allie turns toward me, her hands on her head. “I’m just so stressed out about the show now that themes have been announced, and I really want to make a dress to wear to the show that doesn’t cover any of them to hopefully showcase another design.” Her hands drop, followed by a loud sigh. “I think I need Drew Barrymore. Let’s order Chinese and watch Ever After.”

“You and Charleigh and food. It’s like your comfort.”

“Food is comforting to most people. It provides memories and a good reason to sit down and talk, or not talk and just fill yourself with yummy goodness. It’s like whenever I’m feeling homesick, I always make English muffin pizzas. It’s not because they’re my favorite food or the best thing my mom made, but whenever my dad worked late, she and I would make them together.” Allie shrugs and takes a seat on the couch. “Didn’t you guys have food traditions?”

This time it’s my turn to shrug as I think back. “Not really.”

“Sunday dinners? Weekend breakfasts? After school snacks?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Alright, well, new tradition: Chinese food is now the comfort food to cure long days and stress.”

“Deal,” I say, sitting beside her as she scrolls through the menu on her phone before calling in our order.

“How are things going with the new job? You seem happier lately.”

“I am. Things are improving. And that house was such a mess, and it’s finally starting to come together.”

“I can’t believe you’re still cleaning! It’s been a month!”

“I know, but when you discover the sink isn’t really taupe—it’s white—it takes a while.”

Allie’s nose wrinkles. “That’s disgusting.”

I nod. “And slow moving.”

“What’s slow moving?” Charleigh’s voice rings out.

“We’re just discussing how Lo became a maid.”

“I’m not a maid.”

“It sounds like they’re allowing you to be,” Allie says, flipping on the TV.

“It’s kind of weird, Lauren. It’s not like your room is super tidy.” Charleigh steps over my feet and sits beside Allie. The two of them have a special rhythm, a bond. Though they’ve become my best friends, I know they are best friends with each other, and I am their close friend. I try to not resent this because I don’t want them to be upset, or worse, feel guilty for being so close. The two share a love for fashion, reality TV, expensive fabrics, and similar childhoods. I’m an artist, so I can join in many of their conversations, enjoying most of them, but our focuses are often as different as night and day.

“We ordered Chinese,” Allie explains.

“Did you get it from Panda Box?”

“Yes,” Allie answers, flipping off the movie and pulling up their DVR. “And I got you the beef and broccoli and sugar snap pea chicken, the two dishes that are as close to a hamburger as possible.”

“Thanks, love. Lauren, how are you? You look happier today.”

“That’s what I said,” Allie cries enthusiastically, sensing their shared bond.

“I am. I’m really starting to enjoy working with Mercedes, and school is falling into a comfortable rhythm, finally. Things are going in a good direction.”

“Maybe you should ask Kashton out.” Allie’s words catch me so off guard it takes me a second to shake my head.

“No way. He’s my boss!”

“So what?”

“Allie’s right. You do seem to get along with him well,” Charleigh adds.

“We do because we’re friends. Besides, I’m pretty sure he and another woman he works with have a thing. That’s really beside the point though, because as much as I like Kash, I don’t have feelings like that for him.” I don’t. Sometimes I think I do, but each time I close my eyes and try picturing myself kissing him, nothing about it feels right.

“Because you’re still stuck on Mr. Stars.” My lips turn down in a frown as I look to Charleigh. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I know you say you’re over him, and I know it’s been months. I just still think it’s possible.”

“It’s not,” I say firmly.

“I heard there’s a party this weekend out by the Gorge. What do you think? We could go and see if he shows up?” Allie is reading the synopsis of a show, missing my scowl at her suggestion.

“You guys aren’t listening. I. Am. Over. Him. Nothing was even there to begin with!”

“Then why aren’t you dating anyone?” Allie turns her blue eyes on me with a leveling intensity.

“I don’t have the time to date!” My voice is exasperated, filled with annoyance for having to defend myself yet again about him.

“You don’t have to get worked up. It’s okay that you aren’t dating. But it’s also okay if you still have feelings for that guy, too. Look at Romeo and Juliet; they fell madly in love within a few days and then were ready to die just so they could be together.”

“That’s fiction!” I object. “The real world isn’t like that. You don’t fall in love with someone in just a couple of hours. That’s called infatuation, lust, a crush. I had a crush on a hot guy that I had a good time with. I did not fall in love with him.”

“My nan married my granddad after knowing him for only three days. It’s not all fiction,” Charleigh says, shaking her head.

The doorbell rings, and I have never been so appreciative of a distraction because as much as I don’t want to, I want to believe she’s right.

We settle in, Allie turning on Ever After like she had initially planned, while Charleigh carefully begins dissecting her food, ensuring there aren’t any chili peppers.

“By the way, I think I remember his name.”

“Whose name?” Allie asks as she impatiently hits the button to skip previews repeatedly.

“Mr. Stars?” Charleigh asks, her fork stopping and eyes widening with hope.

I nod slowly. “Yeah, I think it was Bentley, but I asked Kenzie, and she said she doesn’t know a Bentley, so I’m still not positive I’m right.”

“Bentley.” Charleigh repeats the name and then says it several more times. “I like Bentley. Bentley and Lauren, that’s cute.”

“Don’t make me regret telling you.”