The Weight of Rain (28 page)

G
ETTING READY
with crutches reminds me of how blessed I am to have been healthy for most of my life, regardless of being too tall and lanky.

Charleigh and Allie knock on my door thirty minutes early with matching faces of concern about me going down the stairs with my crutches. I assure them a half dozen times that I’ll be fine before they stop encouraging me to go down on my hands and butt like a toddler. I’m on the last landing when the Suburban pulls up and King jumps out of the back with a similar expression.

“Lo, let King help you!” Parker yells from the driver’s window.

“I’ve got it!” I yell back, my focus remaining on the stairs with determination.

King stops a few steps short from me, his chin twists, and the look of indecision mars his brows before he takes a step back, closer to the railing. He keeps pace with me, his hands precariously close to reaching out to me, though he never does.

I don’t object when he opens the door, though my pride wants to, regardless of how inconsequential it seems. Before I get in, I turn to ensure Allie and Charleigh are still with us and go through a brief introduction before lifting myself into the car and watching King take my crutches around back to the trunk.

The girls are both restless, their smiles wide. I can tell they’re excited to be riding with Parker and King, and while I hadn’t been able to see their expressions when they arrived, I continuously notice them both looking from him and me and then to each other. It’s worse than high school.

“This is crazy!” Allie says with a happy sigh. Her eyes are dancing over every exposed chest and bicep painted in tattoos. “I’m in heaven.”

Parker laughs loudly only a few inches from her shoulder, sending her hand to her chest in surprise, leading his eyes to crinkle with an even deeper, heartier laugh. He leads us through crowds and teams that are gathered, discussing strategies and triple-checking everything with the bikes. I’m thankful we’re inside because I can’t imagine navigating through the Oregon mud, but even indoors is proving to be difficult with the large number of people.

I’m trying to focus on watching the event. Parts of my mind are even mystified, making my jaw drop and my eyes grow wide, though most of my thoughts are preoccupied with trying to understand King, and working to recall every minute detail of last night. Did I imagine the way lust danced in his eyes when he told me he was tempted to do something that would make me want to slap him? He did say that … right? Between my painkillers and his obvious drinking, maybe neither one of us can clearly recall what transpired last night. I thought we did when he arrived and was so valiantly ready to assist me with getting into the car, but now he’s several seats and people away from me, and his attention hasn’t veered from the stadium once. I know, because I’ve been staring at him so hard everyone between us has looked over at me at least a few times.

A throat clears from behind me, getting louder as they lean in close. “Take it easy. This is his passion. King belongs out there. He isn’t ignoring you; he’s just lost in his other world right now.” I look back at Summer and she gives me a small smile, her lips pressed together with both apology and comfort, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t all for King ignoring me.

I try to hide the vast relief her words impart on me, but her growing grin confirms it’s apparent. This crush that I’ve had on King since a night that was laden with flirting, revelations of each other, and eventually a shared intimacy that I haven’t been able to shake—or willing to move past—has torn off every cover I’ve tried to bury it under, revealing my feelings have been much larger than a mere crush for months, maybe since that very night if that’s possible.

Her assurance grants me the ability to see the athletes more closely. I watch and listen as tricks and maneuvers are completed that stun me into silence. I am lost as I watch the joy and love for their craft pass over each of their faces, and absorb each expression as they finish. Though each is different, some filled with regret, others with pride, and a few with disappointment, I recognize the same fuel of energy and passion. Some have performed several times now in different events, allowing me to recognize their faces and expressions to where I know I’ll be drawing them for days to come.

“Want some paper?” Charleigh reaches forward as she asks, gripping my bag before I can reply. She hands me a pad and a handful of charcoal pieces that I select two from before depositing the remaining pieces back to the bottom. She gives me a smile and then turns, gifting me with the attention to move forth and draw.

I sketch expressions of hopefulness, failure, excitement, anger, blissfulness, and camaraderie before I delve into the bikes and pedals, the irregular angles of their bodies, and gravity-defying stunts. Eventually, I stop drawing faces and simply draw figures, shades, and movements that equal each of the expressions I started with.

Summer’s foot knocks against my chair, breaking me from my trance, and I hear the rustling of seats and greetings and turn to see Mercedes, accompanied by an older man who I recognize from his acknowledgments and waves that are directed my way a few times a week now: the man from the green house.

“Hey, Lo!” Mercedes’ greeting doesn’t divert my attention from staring at the man, wondering who he is, and how he fits into this picture.

His face warms with a smile that doesn’t hide his amusement. “Nice to see you here, Lo,” he says with a nod.

I blink several times, biting my tongue to tell him how strange it is to see him here of all places, since he obviously knows everyone, making a statement like that borderline rude. My eyes widen several times as different questions and things to respond with cross my mind.

“Lo, you know Robert?” I’m thankful to turn my attention away from the man and look to Summer.

“Sort of.” I sound less sure of my words than the time I got caught sneaking out of my room in the middle of the night by Alan, Nell’s husband and my father’s right-hand man. That time I had been dressed, makeup done, shoes carefully gripped in my fingers so I could make as little noise as possible, and still I smiled at him without a trace of guilt or fear. At least initially I had.

“She walks by the house on her way to the bus stop,” Robert explains. “The first day she passed by my house a dozen times before I finally asked the poor thing where she was headed and what do you know, she was lookin’ for the Knight residence.” His eyes are bright and smiling as though he’s sharing a joke. “I knew as soon as I saw her that my granddaughter would like her. She’s got spunk.”

Granddaughter? She’s Mercedes’ grandfather? King and Kash’s dad?

“I had no idea you were…”

“Of course you didn’t. How would you?” I can’t tell if Robert is teasing me or eluding to the fact that if I had taken the time to ask a few questions, I would have. “That’s what made me like you even more. You’re a smart girl.”

“Wait until you see her draw. How are you, Robert?” I take a step back, angling my body so I can see both King and Robert. “It’s been a few weeks. Every time I try to track you down, you’re out. Up to some new
shenanigans
?” King draws out the word.

Robert’s head falls back as he laughs. The gesture is familiar; he’s done this a few times when I’ve spoken to him. It makes me wonder if this is his genuine laugh, or if it’s a façade for both of us. “I just keep ignoring you, waiting until I see your bike turn up.”

King’s eyes tighten. I’m not the only one who notices, because Robert’s eyebrows rise and he nods, confirming something that the two seem aware of while the rest of the group remains oblivious.

An introduction for Kash has us all sitting back in our seats, our attention shifting to the center of the concrete stadium. I have no idea who Kash is talking to as I catch sight of him before walking his bike forward. I’m curious to know why King, Parker, and Summer aren’t down there but fear my question is rudimentary and ignore it. The movement of Kash shaking out his left hand catches my eye. I’ve seen him do this before but don’t realize it until now. He wraps it around his handlebars and then does the same with his right hand before he glides onto his bike and kicks off. Many of the contestants seem to have a pattern, one which involves searching the crowds until they find their support group, as if reliant upon their encouragement. Kash never does.

My heart is in my throat as I watch his routine, transfixed by each of his movements. The more I continue to watch this sport, the more beauty I find in it. The connection, respect, and love between a rider and their bike nearly make me forget that it’s an inanimate object.

We’re all screaming and clapping as he rounds the edge of the jump with a finish. It’s then that his eyes find us, and his smile goes from bliss—to elation.

“Y
OU HOLD
a brush a lot different from your pencils.”

People have been in and out of the shop all day, each stopping to chat with me and take in my work. I loathe people looking at the initial sketch. It’s a shell, an idea that I can’t fully translate until I’m able to add color and design, something I can’t do on this large of a scale with a pencil. I just started adding color, and there isn’t enough for attention to be welcomed. This is, however, the first time in two weeks since I’ve seen King. I accepted Kash’s offer to take last week off after he said he would appreciate having a reason to stay away from work and hang out with Mercedes, and the last three days of this week, King has been absent. I’ve been working to convince myself it isn’t suspicious. I was tempted to text him, debating on a joke or sarcastic remark that I knew would make him laugh, but all of them seemed like I was checking in, which is exactly what any of them would have been.

I look back at him as I dip my brush back into the black paint. I want to play this cool. I want to show him that if he has decided to regret his previous drunken admission, I am willing to let it pass as well. At least, I will try really hard to pretend that I have.

“I hold charcoals with all of my fingers because it allows more movement. I can use my shoulder and elbow, not just my wrist. I can do the same with paints on certain surfaces, but not on a wall like this. The texture makes it difficult. You have to be a lot more forgiving and try not to focus on adding too many details.”

“Who taught you to do this?”

“I’ve always loved art. I’ve been told I used to paint with my food.” I smile, and my shoulder lifts. “But I think every kid does that.” King’s lips turn up into an unexpected smile, and his eyes are steady as they gaze at me as though he’s not looking for a reason to leave. “When I was eight, my dad hired a farmhand that liked to sketch. He’d sit out in the fields and draw different scenery. I swear, by the time he left five years later, he’d drawn nearly every single angle of the farm. He didn’t talk a lot. He was older, and I think he had a lot of secrets he shared with his art, drawing darker shadows than what were present and clouds when the skies were clear.” Explaining this brings me back to sitting beside him, the scent of hay as potent as the Oregon rain is today as I braved approaching for the first time while he was in the middle of creating the field of mares. “One day I couldn’t stop myself. I knew he was out there drawing, and I sat right next to him and just watched. It was so different than what I had been doing. It was the first time I saw anyone use charcoal, and I fell in love instantly. “We rarely ever spoke. I just enjoyed watching him, learning techniques and his methods.”

“I think if others took the time to listen and watch rather than speak, we’d all be a lot smarter.”

“I think if people took the time to discuss things, there would be far less confusion.”

King tilts his head. “But the problem is, the same people that always want to talk are rarely ready to listen.”

“Are you insinuating something?” I’ve never been great at keeping my thoughts to myself, but with King I feel like my gloves are completely off, my base paint exposed. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one that’s been gone all week.”

“Missed me?”

“If you didn’t already learn from the last time you tried to tease and taunt your way into making me discuss things with you, it’s not a great approach.”

His hand reaches forward, encircling the feather bangle I have worn every day since receiving.

“Nor is claiming.” I pull out of his touch and shoot a glare to send my point home.

“Dude, you ready?” A guy I barely recognize directs his question at King.

“No, he’s not ready.” The guys’ eyes rotate to me, his head still facing King and his lips parting with unease.