The Weight of Rain (2 page)

“Can I be a cranky arse and tell you to just drop it? It happened, it’s over, we’re moving on.”

“But you liked him, Lauren! You really liked him!”

“Charleigh, I don’t even remember the entire night. Beer goggles make everyone seem amazing.”

“Well, let’s see Mr. Stars without the beer goggles, then.”

“Let’s focus on you staying on the right side of the road. The more you talk, the more you forget that we drive on the right side of the road over here.”

“Don’t be a twat.”

“I’m going to give you a pass and pretend I don’t know what that means. Meanwhile, I’m going to nap.”

“You’re going to make me stay awake and drive while you rest?”

“It’s better for both our nerves.”

“You’re a nightmare.”

“Dressed like a daydream.”

“Don’t you dare!”

I lean my seat back and start humming the popular song, eliciting a growl from Charleigh that makes me laugh before she reaches forward and drowns me out with the sound of a new song. Smiling, I close my eyes and imagine the warm brown eyes I saw that night, and the chestnut hair with a natural wave that somehow managed to fall perfectly in place, unlike mine when I leave it in its naturally wavy state. There are dozens of partial memories I have from that night, but sleeping with him is as clear as crystal. Every breath, sound, stare, and touch is flawlessly etched into my memory, and I’m struggling to decide if I am grateful or rueful for it.

I
STIR
as the car engine stops, grateful that I missed Charleigh’s parallel parking job. “Since you’re working a half shift, I’ll just take the bus home,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“What time are you off?”

My hand grips the cloth strap of my messenger bag, pulling it into my lap so I can securely fasten the flap. Rain is coming down in sheets. It distorts the images of people and storefronts, bringing a slight itch to my brain that has been absent. It’s the desire to create.

“Lauren.” Charleigh extends my name like it’s several syllables, and I shake my head and turn to face her.

“Sorry. I’m off at ten.”

“I was going to head over to the library. I’ve got some homework I need to work on, and I can’t go home and do it. It’s English, and I can’t focus on reading and books when I’m surrounded by fabrics and designs.”

“The library closes before ten.”

“Then I’ll just come by and have some nachos.”

“Charleigh, I’ll be fine.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting all mother hen on me?”

“Because you get distracted when she rings.”

“When who calls me?” I ask absently.

“Did she talk about coming to visit again?”

I shake my head and watch the blurred shape of a person jog across NE Martin Luther King Boulevard. “No. She said she wants to try again in November. She’s been busy.”

“But you’re her daughter.”

My nails rake across my forehead, likely leaving a red pattern across my fair skin. “I know. She’ll come eventually. Summer’s a busy time for her work.” I straighten in my seat and reach for the door handle. “I’m serious though—don’t hang around downtown for four hours. Go home. I’ll catch the bus.”

“I can come back. It’s a short drive.”

My chin drops and my eyes blink and then slowly open. “I’ll. Be.
Fine
.”

“Call me, then. I want to know when you leave and when you get home.”

“You know, I was doing this a long time before I met you.”

“Too long.” My eyes dance across her lips that are turned down at the corners. Her gaze won’t meet mine. “Alright, at least text me. I get anxious.”

“Alright, I will text you when I leave, and again when I get home. Seriously, you’re worse than the possessive boyfriend type.”

“Damn right. I got a key to your flat after knowing you for only a week. I move fast.”

“Did I mention you’re a stalker?”

“You can’t stalk the willing.”

“Only willing with you.”

Charleigh leans forward and kisses each of my cheeks and reclines back and opens her door. “Later, love. Don’t forget to text me!”

“Don’t forget to stalk Allie.”

“I already know she’s at her friend Katie’s, working on an empire waist dress that is going to look fab on you. Now get to work. You’re going to be cutting it close.” She slams her door closed as I stand on the sidewalk.

The rain quickly finds every fraction of exposed skin, including my wrists and the back of my neck, sending a tingle down my spine. I give Charleigh a parting wave before putting my head down and making a run for Sonar, the small Mexican restaurant I work at.

“Hey, Lo!” I smile at Mia as I make my way through the back entrance that leads directly into the kitchen. “Guess what? Julio and Kendra are making mole and sopapillas tonight! Do you smell it?”

I stop and take a deep breath through my nose, taking in the tingling sensation from the spices and the sweetness lingering with the heat. “I was hoping for tamales, but mole is a good second.”

“The best.” Mia’s lips, which are painted a bright orangey-red, lift into a wide smile. Then she turns, heading over to the prep counter where she expertly begins dicing lettuce. She’s been working here since she was eighteen, and her thirtieth birthday is next week. She knows this place better than everyone aside from Estella, the owner, and helps with all functions.

“Hey!” I call, heading farther into the kitchen, passing several waiters, bussers, and cooks.

“Hey, Lo!” a chorus echoes in response.

“It’s crazy out there tonight,” a new waitress says, stopping in front of me. Her brown eyes scan her notepad as she shifts her weight to the other foot. “My feet are killing me.” She’s still trying to wear cute shoes with heels rather than practical ones for all the moving we do.

“I’ll have some mole ready for you as soon as you’re on your break, baby,” Mia assures her.

“Mole and a foot rub?”

“Mole and a shot of tequila,” Mia counters.

“Deal.”

My laughter joins Mia’s, a woman who has become one of my closest friends since moving out here three years ago, and head over to clock in. With the few minutes left before my shift, I fix my hair, pulling the loose brown strands back up into a messy knot on my head, and tie a black apron around my waist.

“Lo, you’re on one through eight tonight. I may need you to take nine and ten too. The new guy isn’t working out so well. The more tables he gets, the more mistakes he makes.” My manager, Estella, appears from the front of the restaurant, her long black hair parted and braided around her head and her lips a dark maroon. I used to sketch her on my breaks because she has one of the most parallel faces I’ve ever seen, but lately, all I sketch are hands—the same hands I managed to memorize the most minute and subtle details of.

“I’m on it,” I assure her.

“And Lo.” I turn, my eyebrows high with surprise that there’s more instruction when we generally communicate with so few. “Find your smile for me tonight. I miss it.”

My lips lift obligingly, and I shake my head before I head out to table four. My hands fish through my apron to ensure I haven’t notoriously grabbed the one apron with no pens again, and work begins.

“Y
OU’VE
got to move out, Lauren.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumble, dropping my pillow and sleeping bag to the small bedroom floor.

“Lie up here with me.” Charleigh extends the same offer each time I come in, and each time I reject it.

“I’m fine.”

She’s learned to stop arguing.

“Was it the same guy? The crier?”

“No. This guy kept making her call him daddy. If I didn’t already have daddy issues, this would have done it for me.”

“That’s sick,” Allie murmurs.

“Sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to wake you guys up.”

She releases a long yawn before I hear her roll over. “No worries. I sadly use your bad luck and stories about Kenzie to feed my boring life.” Another loud yawn fills the quiet space. “But do you ever worry about your bed … and if they use it.”

“I hadn’t … until now.”

Allie’s giggles are muffled as she pushes her face into her pillow, making my lips instinctively curl, but the idea of some strange man sleeping in my bed—very possibly naked—makes me feel the need to burn my sheets first thing tomorrow. At least I always bring my pillow with me.

“Daddy huh? Like,
Spank me, daddy
?”

“Charleigh, you need to get laid,” Allie says. I release a quiet chuckle as I roll to my back, feeling the hard floor bite into some of the tension in my shoulders from having been hunched over my easel all afternoon.

“No, I’m not turned on by it. I just want to know in what context he wanted to be called daddy,” Charleigh says, her thick British accent heavier with sleep.

“I don’t know. I was sleeping and woke up to heavy breathing and ‘Call me daddy.’” I’ve woken up to my roommate having sex in our closet of an apartment more nights than I haven’t since we moved in together a few weeks ago. The first time it happened, I froze. I had no idea what to do. Our beds face each other, but thankfully I was rolled toward the wall when the noises woke me up, so I dipped below the covers and tried to discreetly move so I was covering my ears and started trying to remember the lyrics to every Backstreet Boys song I used to dance around to in my room.

We hardly knew one another other than the awkward pauses and extended invites we each doled out, our schedules only burdened with work and social engagements with it being summer. The guy thankfully left after he found what he came for, and Kenzie fell asleep soon after the door shut. I stayed awake all night, trying to determine what had happened. I expected her to be mortified about what had transpired the next morning, or suffering an extreme hangover, because really, who would do that sober? I was shocked to find her glowing, happier and even more chipper than she normally was.

It was two days later that I was awoken by similar sounds. There was no way I was going to remain in there and pretend I didn’t hear what was going on.

I rolled over with the initial intent of telling them to go somewhere else, but they had turned on the desk lamp, and when I turned, I got a view of my roommate fully exposed on her hands and knees, with a guy I didn’t know behind her. He heard my sharp intake of breath and for a split second, I saw a look of panic cross his face. His expression quickly turned lazy and then for several long, awkward seconds, he moved into her while staring at me. I had never felt so inferior in my twenty-two years. It took thirty seconds for me to grab a sweatshirt, my pillow, and book bag, and get the hell out of there.

It was still late June, and although there was a slight breeze, the night air was still warm as I made my way down the stairs of the apartment building. My eyes scanned over the parking lot in an attempt to go unseen, because I was wearing a pair of blue fleece pajama pants covered in moose and polar bears on skis that I’d received from my grandma at least five years prior. They were hideous and too short, but they were also soft and comfortable, and I was suffering a slight case of homesickness.

As I made it to the ground level, a car pulled into the space in front of me. The dome light lit up the interior as female voices filled the silence.