The Weight of Rain (22 page)

“W
HAT HAPPENED
to your hand?”

“Why are you wearing plaid again?”

King’s eyes move to his shirt, and he shakes his head with annoyance before looking back at me. “What happened?”

“I cut it.”

“Obviously. With what? A machete?”

“A knife that was in our sink. I didn’t see it because I was trying to make the burning stop.”

“The burning?” His eyebrows shoot up under his baseball hat, his eyes reflecting lighter shades of brown with the yellow and black plaid shirt I’d like to stain with bleach in an attempt to get it out of his short rotation.

A smirk curves my lips as I curl my fingers into a fist and lift my bandaged middle finger. He doesn’t react like I had been expecting, making the act far less satisfying. Instead, he takes my hand in his and makes quick work of peeling the bandage off while I list off several objections. There’s a large blister along the pad of my middle finger that still feels like the epicenter of hell.

“You need to put something on it that isn’t going to stick. This stuff will make it hurt worse.”

“I know, but it’s all we had and I don’t want it to pop. With my luck it will become infected and I won’t be able to work for a month.”

He keeps hold of my hand, rotating it from side to side to look closely at the swollen area that seems darker than appropriate against my pasty skin tone. “This is going to take a couple of weeks.” I don’t voice that I already know this. There’s a scar across my shin that is a lasting memory of just how long burns take to heal. “We’ve got some dressing that will be better than this shit.” King crumples my old bandage in his palm and lifts his chin to gesture toward the hallway.

He follows me down the hall while a hundred different ways to tell him I can take care of this on my own cross my mind. I should, but a sadistic part of me wants to see what he’s going to do. Being around King is like having a tooth cavity; you keep biting down on the area to see if it still hurts even though you already know it will. I’m fairly certain they consider this behavior a symptom of insanity.

King pulls open the medicine cabinet and rifles around for several seconds before pulling out a few items. He washes his hands methodically and then draws out a clean towel from under the vanity. I watch as he prepares the bandage by covering it with an ointment, and then he instructs me to thoroughly wash the area. After drying my hand, I carefully extend it palm up, spreading my fingers wide so as to create enough space to wrap the tape.

“I thought you remembered how much you liked saying ‘fuck me’ that you were going to do it again.”

“I was just showing you my burn like you asked.”

He’s still holding the bandage a few inches from my hand, but he looks up at me instead of my wound. His eyes are shadowed by the bill of his hat, but it’s still apparent they’re wide with sarcasm. “I remember you saying it plenty of times when we—”

I clear my throat loudly, drowning his words, and reach for the bandage that he pulls back as if anticipating my move. “I can take care of this, thanks.”

“I’m pretty sure you enjoyed me taking care you that night.”

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” My tone and eyes are lowered with a fierce anger that has me ready to quit my job so I never have to see him again, and tempted to bite down to see if it will still hurt. “I am not some cheap whore that finds your disgusting jokes humorous. Everyone else might think that because of who you are, you’re entitled to say crap like that, but you aren’t. That night meant nothing. I’ve been over it and you for a long time. Now you need to get over yourself.” I reach forward and rip the bandage from his stilled hand and stalk out of the room, my heart beating so fast and powerfully I can feel it in my throat.

My hands feel unsteady as I wrap the dressing around my finger while my words run on replay through my head. I’m not afraid of him firing me, I’m not afraid of hurting his feelings, but for some ridiculous and inexplicable reason, I feel guilty for lying.

He really must be driving me to insanity.

“W
HY ARE
you fidgeting again?” Allie’s scolding is in the form of a whisper but still reaches my ears as a yell because I know by the sharp look in her eye that she’s ready to stab me with a pin if I don’t stop.

“Sorry,” I whisper. I work to ignore an itch on the back of my neck and another on my shoulder. As I think about how much I hate standing still and why I didn’t see King at all today though he always works in the home office on Fridays, I feel several more tickles across my skin that arise because I know I can’t move.

My eyes scan over the large space that we’re filling. There are at least two hundred other students in here, each with a model who, like me, is standing atop a crate, making a select few of us even more uncomfortably tall. Several people look perfectly relaxed as they stand completely still, their shoulders back and chins raised as though they’re already on stage. My eyes trace over each of them, noticing their poise, boldness, and beauty.

“She’s really pretty.”

Allie’s looks up at me with minimal interest. “Who?”

“The girl over there with the dark blond hair.” I nod in the direction of where she’s standing.

“You’re an artist, Lo. She’s definitely pretty, but her confidence is what makes her stand out so much.”

Allie’s comment makes me stare longer at the girl, noticing her eyes are a little too close together, and her forehead too short to be what is believed to be the definition of attractive. It brings me to hate those ignorant facts even more because she is beautiful, and I’m grateful she seems to believe so without meeting the dictated standards.

“Lo,” Allie hisses in warning, making my hand drop from where it’s rubbing across my mostly bare thigh.

“You should really consider asking Kenzie.”

“I would have if I had known you have ADHD. What’s with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s because you can’t draw, huh?” My attention drops to Allie as she places another pin along the hemline.

“That’s definitely not helping.”

“When do you think you’ll be able to hold a pencil again? Are your professors freaking out?”

“I don’t know. I’m hoping by the end of this week so I can draw while I’m home for Christmas.”

“Are you excited?”

Her gaze remains fixed on the dress as I raise my eyebrows, her question sinking into my thoughts. “I guess. I don’t know.”

“You don’t talk about your family much.” Allie’s eyes dart to mine for just a fraction of a second, but I’m sure it’s long enough to notice mine working to evade contact.

“There’s not a whole lot to say.”

“What happened to your mom this week?” I feel her briefly glance up again before moving her hands to a new spot where she begins measuring the fabric for the next pin.

“Something came up. I’m sure I’ll see her after the holidays. You know how this time of year is.”

She places a white chalk pencil between her teeth and nods slowly as if debating that it’s the correct response. She frees it again, intently focusing on the fabric, and places a careful mark. “You aren’t mad?”

I shrug, earning a glare from her that I return with a frown. Her lips fall open into a laugh. “You just need to focus on someone and mentally draw them; otherwise, you’re never going to make it out of here tonight, at least not without a thousand pinholes.”

My neck twists as I look around the room again. There are so many people in here. So much beauty, anticipation, desire, and passion: things I seek for my own inspiration, yet when I close my eyes and start sketching lines across my imagination, they don’t make up anyone that’s in here. I think I’d be surprised at this point if they ever do again. There are times like yesterday when I genuinely wish I hated him. Hell, he’s been a jackass to me enough that I could justifiably say I do, and anyone would be able to understand where I’m coming from. Then again, that would also require having someone to discuss my feelings for and interactions with King.

I wish I hadn’t been exposed to the kinder sides of him.

I wish I didn’t see how he acts around Mercedes to witness his unconditional love for her.

I wish my memories of that night were fading rather than becoming clearer.

I wish I wasn’t falling for this asshole.

I wish he’d fall for me.

“L
O
!” M
ERCEDES
’ smile is stretched wider than I think I’ve ever seen it, and knowing this reaction is because she’s happy to see me makes that maternal instinct inside of me burn like a flame. That light is such a welcoming feeling; to be missed and cared for is something I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced to this extent, and while it’s coming from a ten-year-old girl I nanny for, rather than a friend or boyfriend or even a family member, it makes me feel a slew of emotions that has my lips lifting into a smile and my eyes filling with tears that I wipe away as she hugs me.

“How was your Christmas?”

She pulls back from me, her eyes still bright. “It was so fun! We had four of them!”

Mercedes notices my gape and laughs. Braiding her arm with mine, she leads us into the living room where the tree is still standing. I was slightly concerned when I left ten days ago that they wouldn’t remember to get one, or would bypass the tradition. Two bachelors living in a house, I could definitely see that happening, especially when I had witnessed their living conditions BM: Before Me. If mounds of dirty laundry and unrecognizable objects weren’t of concern, I figured a tree wouldn’t either. I didn’t know how to broach the subject without sounding like I was meddling, so I attempted my discreet intervention by using Summer as my liaison. Since our conversation took place via text, I couldn’t see or hear her reaction, but she sent me a smiley face after assuring me one would be up and thanking me for pulling out the boxes of ornaments I had stored in the laundry room after realizing I was the only one who knew where they were. Sure, I told both King and Kash where I had moved everything, but neither one seemed overly interested, more just shocked at the transformation of their house.

The tree is tall and has wide gaps between branches, some spaced over a foot apart. The lights are multi-colored, and the ornaments, which don’t match, primarily consist of homemade ornaments that I can tell were done at the hands of Mercedes over the years.

She wraps her small hand around mine, turning my attention from one of the first sights I’ve wanted to draw that isn’t a person. “We did one here with Summer, and another one with my grandma, and one with my grandpa, and then one with Dad’s work.”

“That’s like
Groundhog Day
.”

“Like what?” She faces me with sincere curiosity.

“I just mean that’s a lot of Christmas!”

“It was. But it was amazing! And now you get to open your gifts because you weren’t here!”

“My gifts?”

Mercedes raises her eyebrows with a silent
duh!
and she heads to the tree, retrieving a single wrapped package from below the boughs. She sets the box on my lap, where I carefully inspect it with appreciation. The wrapping is covered with snowmen and is perfectly folded and taped—clearly Summer assisted. Mercedes slides it closer, her patience once again waning.

Inside is a pillow of tissue paper that Mercedes eagerly helps me remove. Below are several different pens, rubber erasers, charcoals, acrylic paints, oils, and brushes. They’re an expensive artist’s quality, too, not the cheaper student grade. I’m still eyeing the brushes when Mercedes pulls a smaller box free from the bottom and pushes it closer to me.