The Weight of Rain (26 page)

“It’s always been Kash’s dream to do this.”

“Why does that have to affect your dream?”

King shrugs, his eyes again diverting mine. “He’s had too much taken from him. He doesn’t need to not only lose my help but also have another person to compete against.”

“What if you did different events? Two of my good friends are going to school to be fashion designers, and while there are times I can sense one of them getting jealous of the other because of attention they’re receiving, or because they’ve excelled at doing something, the pride and excitement they share, is much greater than those times of being green with envy.”

King nods three times, his head only moving an inch in each direction before he looks back at me and smiles his beautiful crooked smile. “Is one of them the friend you’re doing the fashion show for?”

“How did you know I’m doing a fashion show?”

King shrugs that small roll of his shoulders that he does so often. “Mercedes tells me about her day every night while we watch the highlights on ESPN.”

I don’t question what they talk about, though I’m curious. Hearing that they share this time each night does nothing but place a cape across his shoulders in my eyes. A cape he doesn’t need when I’m already working to ignore him. “Yeah, apparently she really digs the fact that I’m taller than most guys.”

“You’re tall, but you aren’t
that
tall.”

My eyebrows go up, and my eyes widen with obvious disbelief.

“Okay, maybe with heels you are, but normally you’re not.”

I huff a nearly silent laugh and turn my attention to the ice packs holding my wrist in place. Like bandages, the Knight residence has no shortage of ice packs.

“I also have really big hands and, according to Summer, a big head.” The words leave me before I can edit them. I’ve just told King that I have a big head! If he hasn’t already noticed, I’m sure that’s what he’s going to be thinking about now when he looks at me. These painkillers are apparently a truth serum.

“I like that you’re tall.”

Looking back at King isn’t even a question—it’s a necessity.

His upper body shifts back and then slowly forward again. “I mean, it’s not like I look at you and think it’s cool that you’re tall. I just don’t even think about it. It’s just you. The way you carry yourself doesn’t make anyone think about how tall you are. It’s probably the last thing people notice.”

“My dad says I walk around like my head is in the clouds.”

“That’s because you’re looking at everything, and rather than thinking about what is really going on, you’re finding the beauty in it all.”

“I do like to watch people.”

King chuckles quietly, his chin drawing to his chest before he looks back to me with his lips still spread in a brief smile. “We should do this again.”

“Do what again? Try to break my ankle?”

His smile grows as he shakes his head. “Talk. When we aren’t trying to hate each other, we seem to get along pretty well.”

“You consciously work at hating me?”

“I consciously work to remember you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I never told you I hate you,” I object.

“Maybe not in those words.”

“I told you to stop being a jackass because you were acting like one. That’s not me telling you that I hate you.”

“Do you know how many girls have called me a jackass before?”

“Do you actually keep count?”

“It’s a pretty simple number when the only other one is my sister.”

“That’s because you’re usually nice to everyone else. Well, I have seen you act like an ass once in a while, but I can usually predict it.”

“You can predict when I’m going to be an asshole?” King’s smile tells me he’s amused.

“You get tense and avoid eye contact with people. You generally flip your hat around so the bill is backward, like you don’t want anything to distract you. When you’re in these moods, your smile is forced, making your jaw tighten. And you tend to pinch the bridge of your nose, like you’re trying to massage a pressure point.”

“You … I what? I pinch my nose?”

I lift my hand to my face, illustrating the same act I’ve seen him do on numerous occasions. “But you also do it when you’re deep in thought, so it really isn’t the telltale sign.”

“How do you know all of this?”

“Never trust an artist. We can read emotions better than those hack psychics at the fairs.”

“I’ll remember that.” His head dips slightly, but I can hear the smile in his tone. “So I saw your work at the restaurant last week. I thought you’d be there.”

“I don’t have a class in the morning anymore, so I’ve been going before they open.”

“You really don’t like having an audience.”

I shake my head, confirming his assessment.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Does it bother you when someone watches you learn something new? There’s a part of me that enjoys it. I like to see the wonder on their faces, but so often they see the beginning and lack seeing the potential.” His eyes are on the bed, making me shift with unease. “Am I boring you?”

His eyes snap to mine, and his head shakes while a grin grows. “You should get some rest.”

“You should find a more sincere way to end a conversation.”

“You should stop being so defensive.”

“And you should stop making me get so defensive,” I huff.

My brain scurries in a million directions preparing my next
you should
comment because he’s nearing the door, which makes this argument seem extremely unfair.

He turns when he reaches the doorway, one of his hands is in a loose fist in front of him while the other wraps around the door. His brown eyes find mine and a silent current of thoughts seems to pass between us. A tangle of sarcasm, secrets, and frustrations, along with something far more peaceful that I’m not able to identify because I’m still working to pick the right comeback line. “I’m glad you’ve been wearing your feather, Lo.” Then he’s gone.

My eyes drop to the duvet where my hands are laying, my left with an ice pack and my right encircled with the gold bangle.

B
EING PUT
on bed rest always sounds appealing when you’re really busy and obligations keep piling up without warning or preparation to make you go from feeling overwhelmed to not sleeping, living off caffeine, and riding the dangerous line of emotional imbalance. More than once over the past couple of months while I’ve been working to finish the mural at the restaurant, being a part-time nanny, going to school full time, and becoming the next forgotten model, I have wished to have a weekend in peace when I could do nothing but binge on Netflix and gummy bears and forget about doing any- and everything, including showering and getting dressed.

Now that I’ve been living the “fantasy” for three days, I’m restless, twitchy, and I stink. I took a shower my first night here and was able to replace my clothes with my art clothes that I had worn to school, but didn’t wash my hair because when you have unruly hair that you work to straighten to try and create a façade of normalcy, you don’t wash it every day. Instead, you wash it every other day, and in two hours, I am going to be on day four of having it gone unwashed, and it feels gross.

I’ve watched the entire first season of a show that I fell in love with and was disappointed to learn the second season wouldn’t be on for several months, and haven’t been able to find another that will hold my attention. I need to shower. I need someone to talk to. I need to draw.

My ankle objects as soon as I’m vertical. I can feel the blood pooling, increasing the throb that has been an unwelcome visitor. I grab my crutches that are leaning against the wall and clumsily fumble with each to get them securely in place. I’ve been sentenced to crutches a few times before, once when I was kicked by my horse, another when I fell off said horse, and a third for trying to do a cartwheel at my friend’s and landing on a rock. It’s the one story I rarely share and prefer to pretend never happened because really, how uncoordinated does that make me sound?

The rubber and metal make clicks as I navigate my way to the bathroom where the mirror confirms how badly in need of a shower I really am. I strip out of my clothes and have to sit on the edge, and then lift myself inside. I’ve felt like an intruder staying here, and felt worse when they’ve asked if I needed or wanted anything. I’m their employee, and they’re now having to replace my ice packs, get me food and drinks, check and make sure I’m taking my required doses of ibuprofen, and sometimes just say hi. Mercedes spent most of her afternoons with me. I hadn’t used crayons in so long that the coloring books ended up being my favorite distraction of the different gimmicks she brought in. It was fun to see what I could create with them, and only slightly frustrating when I was reminded how impossible they are to blend. Kash has been surprisingly doting, reminding me once again that although he sometimes forgets some fairly important parenting details, he won’t ever fail at the task. He couldn’t even if he wanted to because his heart is far too big. I’ve only seen King once, and that was when he walked by the open door. He looked inside, but that was as close to conversation as we’ve gotten.

Toweling off proves to be more difficult than I remembered, and I ultimately lay my towel over the toilet seat lid and sit down to finish and get dressed again, shoving my underwear to the very bottom of the trashcan because I refuse to put them back on.

After finger-combing my hair, I head out to the kitchen, the clicking of my crutches growing louder as I enter the living room. I’ve only been here on a few occasions when it’s dark, but tonight, it looks different. I’m not sure if that’s because it’s past 1:00 a.m., or because I’ve spent the past three days being a houseguest rather than employee, or because I took my pain medicine less than an hour, ago and they’re starting to make everything seem a little different, even myself.

I take a seat at the head of the kitchen table, my left foot elevated with another chair. I left only the barest of lights on so I wouldn’t catch too many reflections on the long windows that line the room. My sketch pad is opened to the first blank page, my charcoal posed, ready to be given direction. The predictable fight to draw something else doesn’t occur, not tonight. I simply give in to the energy flowing through me, allowing it to dictate what my mind sees—King—even when I’m looking at everything else. I don’t consider what he means to me or why. The questions about what, if anything, that night meant to him don’t enter my mind. I also don’t work to decipher his recent comments about Charleigh, I just draw.

“Why do you pretend that I don’t mean anything to you when clearly I do?”

My charcoal presses hard against the paper as my neck snaps up to see King. He’s fully dressed, his usual baseball hat still on, flipped backward, and wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Flannel is growing on me, but I won’t tell him that. His face shows no signs of humor or teasing. If anything, he looks almost pained.

“Did you just get home?”

“Why did you pretend you wanted to know me? Why not just call it what it was?” His eyes narrow as his chin drops.

“Have you been drinking?” I know the answer before I ask the question. I can smell it.

“I liked you, Lo.”

My heart races with too many possibilities and hopes, and not enough validation.

“You spend so much time trying to convince yourself that what happened that night wasn’t real.”

“I was drunk.”

“You weren’t drunk. I wouldn’t have slept with you if you were drunk! I don’t do shit like that. It’s disgusting!”

“I don’t remember large parts of that night.”

“You remember more of that night than you’re willing to admit.” His eyes land on my drawing where he studies the image for several long seconds. I should have covered it as soon as I realized he was here, but it was too late from the beginning. It’s of him—of course it’s of him. And to make matters worse, he’s shirtless. The scars he mentioned me knowing about are there, as well as the few tattoos most of the world is deprived of seeing. “Obviously you remember.”

His words make my cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’s right, but hearing that he’s aware of this fact is both strangely relieving and move-to-Australia-tomorrow worthy. “You left an impression,” I admit before moving my attention so I don’t have to see his reaction.