The Weight of Rain (38 page)

I hate that he threw the word
only
into his sentence, but I release a deep breath that I try to shove the thought out with and wipe a hand across my forehead to push back the loose strands of hair the rain is plastering to my face. “I don’t want to be a convenience for you. I don’t want this to be something casual where when it fits into your schedule things are great, and when you’re too busy…” King is always busy, with crazy things that range from marketing, to taping for Spencer, to now preparing for his own biking career. “…I want…”

King takes two long strides and slides his palm across my cheek. “You deserve to be significant to someone. You shouldn’t feel bad or embarrassed to ask for that.” My gaze drops to see his feet glide closer so that our toes are touching. “Lo, if you want a title, we’ll use them. I’m not trying to be an insensitive dick.” My eyes drift up when he doesn’t continue, taking in the rain that’s making trails down King’s face, touching and feeling places I’ve been tracing with stencils and have been anxious to feel again with my own skin. “My mom’s been married six times.
Six
times,” he repeats, heavily emphasizing the number. “She loves to use titles. When she introduces Kash, she lists off every award and title that’s ever been used by the media.” I can tell by the way his eyes darken and then close that there’s something behind how she introduces him as well, but I’m not sure if he’s upset that it’s accompanied by titles or a lack thereof.

“I want you to be my boyfriend, King. I don’t want you to be my BMX-riding, brother-of-Kashton-Knight—” My eyes travel to the side because I was just about to say sex God, and really, that would have both been awkward and untrue. I
do
want him to hold that title. “I don’t care about those things.”

“I like the ring it has when you say, ‘My boyfriend.’”

“If you’re patronizing me…”

King’s hands fly up to his sides, drawing my attention to the water sliding down his widely stretched palms. “I’ll call Spencer tomorrow and re-clarify things.”

My head snaps to the side and then I turn and tromp the few remaining feet to the shop where the door is propped open and three bikes are out, sitting in mud puddles that are forming around them.

“What? I’m kidding. I’m just … bad at this … Clearly.”

“Clearly,” I agree.

“Titles aren’t something I’m a fan of.”

“So you’ve said,” I state, making his eyebrows rise with a silent challenge.

“You really aren’t the kind of girl that has angry sex, are you?”

I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips.

King’s eyebrows match mine, but a small grin appears on his face. I hate it because it makes him look more desirable matched with his wet hair and long-sleeved tee that is currently clinging to every line that I’ve tried to re-create and, I’m now realizing, have failed at. “Clearly
not
.” His tone is friendly, playful even, but I’m frustrated. I’ve just revealed things about my family that I hadn’t intended to and don’t think he understands the significance of either the fact that I’m trusting him with it, or how much it bothers me that my family has never truly accepted me. I turn and head toward the bike that is the farthest away.

It’s slick, and my feet keep getting stuck in the mud. There’s no way I’ll be able to wear these shoes again, even washed. I know after being submerged this many times in the dirt they’ll never come close to clean. As I pull out the bike, my left foot slides deeper into the muck. Thankfully my hands are on the brake pads, and I’m able to use the bike as an anchor, but when I pull my foot, my shoe is stuck, encompassed in the sludge.

I struggle for several seconds, muttering every curse word I know and damning this weather.

King’s hand disappears into the puddle up to his wrist, clutching my foot. He tugs my foot loose with a squishing sound as the muck loses suction with my shoe. “You love the rain. You can’t hate it just because it doesn’t always do what you want or expect. We all have ugly sides.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it right now.”

“No, you don’t.”

I turn with the bike and head to the shop, my left shoe filled with grit from the puddle that rakes painfully against my heel and the top of my foot.

King is behind me with the other two bikes. I’m not sure how he managed to get both of them when he had just freed my foot, and both were covered, but I don’t ask. I’m not into pointing out that I’ve acknowledged both his speed and strength. He flips on the lights and goes over to the lockers where he retrieves a stack of old rags. Without asking for help or giving direction, he starts toweling one of the bikes clean.

I watch him carefully for several seconds, noting how dark his hair looks when it’s wet and the width of his muscles around his shoulders as he moves. In modeling sessions I’ve been looking at many backs with the numerous strapless gowns and have realized that it may be one of the most beautiful parts of a human. However, most of the women modeling are thin, lacking much tone or definition, while King is corded with thickly defined muscles. Watching him makes my body heat and my pulse quicken.

His dark eyes flash up as though he knows what I’m thinking and I swallow, moving my attention to the pile of rags. I grab one and take a few steps back. It’s crazy the simplest thing on King seems to have such an effect on me. I know he caught me staring at him. I also know he reads me well enough to have known that I was admiring him, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither of us does. We simply dry the bikes and put them away before shutting off the lights, closing the door, and making the wet and muddy trek back to the house.

“What took you guys so long?” Mercedes cries as we step inside.

I don’t move. I remain huddled in a small corner of the extended doormat, feeling the warmth of the house slowly sink through my layers of mud and rain, causing shivers to run through me.

“You guys left three bikes out. You know the rules,” King says, stepping in behind me and kicking off his wet shoes.

“I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear,” Mercedes assures him, her eyes avoiding eye contact with him.

King shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. “Put your dishes in the sink, and go watch a movie or something.”

I follow Mercedes down the hall, relieved to have an excuse not to talk to him while I’m feeling so off kilter.

“You can borrow some of my pajamas,” Mercedes offers, opening her closet.

“I think I’ll stick to my jeans, thanks.”

“You can’t sleep in those. You’re all wet.” Her face twists in disgust.

“I’ll dry.” While she changes, I retrieve a couple of towels from the bathroom and return to where she has flipped on every light, including her closet, desk lamp, bedside lamps, and floor lamp that has five single shades spaced out, shining in each direction.

“There’s this great old movie you probably haven’t seen, but they sing during a rainstorm like this.”

“No,” Mercedes says without thought.

“Want to dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you serious?”

“Come on.” I pull her from the bed and pick up her phone from the nightstand, flipping through it until I find a music app. I turn it up so loud I can’t hear her objections, and then I begin to dance.

I’m a terrible dancer. It’s an activity that I vehemently avoided while growing up because I was never able to find enough confidence or comfort in my own body to move freely, especially not in front of others. Each time my friends somehow managed to convince me to go to another school dance, I’d mingle, finding people I hadn’t talked to in semesters, sometimes years, that were getting a drink or taking a break. I took the opportunity to chat with them—act like it was a great coincidence that we had run into one another—and would catch up until the music would pull them back to the floor. Then I’d go in seek of my next long-lost friend. I even avoided turning in circles with slow songs, discovering the entire process of finding a dance partner to move in mercilessly slow circles with extremely painful. I shut these thoughts down and proceed to let the music carry me. My moves are exaggerated, my voice nearly as loud as the speaker, and my eyes are closed, not caring that I’m showing Mercedes a side of myself that I’m slowly becoming more comfortable and familiar with.

It feels silly. It feels freeing. It feels great.

I open my eyes and see her standing on her bed, a hairbrush in one hand as she belts out the lyrics with me. I’m smiling so wide I can hardly see her, and then I’m moving again, my heart pumping in rhythm with my feet and hips. I’m sure I look ridiculous, but I don’t care, and neither does Mercedes.

“You need to go to bed,” I say, still fighting to convince my lungs to expand enough that my breaths don’t come out in short bursts. We danced for an hour with only short breaks to laugh, or change songs when Mercedes vetoed them.

“I can’t go to bed, Lo. I need to wait until my dad gets home.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

“I need him to be home
now
.”

“He’s coming home,” I insist.

“What happens if he doesn’t though, Lo? What if something happens?” Her words waver and then she gasps and buries her head in my shoulder.

The warmth of her forehead makes my arms, which are still damp, prickle with goose bumps.

“He’s going to die.”

I squeeze her as my heart races with confusion and shock from hearing her words. “He’s not. He’s not going to die, Mercedes.”

“I can’t lose him, Lo.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

Mercedes pulls away from me, her hands extended to reveal she doesn’t want me to come closer. “My mom died because she lost control of her car during a storm.” Tears run down her cheeks that have turned even redder than they were moments ago from our dancing. I had no idea. It makes me feel guilty that I didn’t know how she had passed. I just never knew if it was okay to bring her up when Mercedes never does. “She hydroplaned right into a tree.”
Trees rarely lose to a car
is a line my dad used repeatedly when either my brother or I ever left to go somewhere on a weekend or evening.

“Mercedes.” My voice is so quiet I feel as though I should try again, but still, she looks at me, her eyes round and glossy with tears. “I’m so sorry.” Her head moves jerkily with a nod, her walls rebuilding rapidly as her posture becomes more rigid. Before she can completely erect it, I wrap her in a hug, ignoring her arms still stiff as I attempt to take every single one of her desires to become distant and defensive with me. When her arms don’t wrap around me, I squeeze tighter, pressing my cheek to the top of her head. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I want a mom. I want my mom, but I want someone that actually understands me, someone to get pedicures with, and do girly stuff that I can’t do with my dad and King. What’s going to happen to me when I start my period? What about bra shopping? What happens when I get my first boyfriend? Or worse, when I get dumped?”

I hold her even tighter.

“I don’t even remember her, Lo. I don’t remember what her voice sounded like, or how she smelled, or what kind of music she liked. Everything I know about her is stuff people have told me.” I’m amazed by how strong her voice is, only cracking twice as she admits this to me as though it’s her greatest fear, or possibly regret. “In some ways I’m really glad—I think it would hurt so much more if I could remember her—but other times, I think it makes it worse. I want to have something of her that is just mine. Something I can remember.”

My eyes fill with tears. I understand this predicament so thoroughly and still don’t know which is the better option, or if there is one.

My fingers constrict to the point they ache.

“I can’t lose him too.”

“You won’t, I swear.”

Her sobs are so quiet, and her body so still, it’s nearly impossible for me to tell that she’s crying until she gasps, trying to catch her breath.

I wish there was something for me to say. Some significant words that could grant some relief or at least impart some wisdom. I have nothing. The BlueCross Babysitting classes that I attended years ago never taught me how to even make a meal for the kids I would take care of, let alone discussed distraught pre-teens who lost their mother and don’t know how to discuss their feelings. I take a deep breath, smelling the sweetness of her shampoo mixed with the scent of the shop and dirt that I’m pretty certain is coming from me, and press my hand to the side of her head so she’s completely against me, and I cry with her. I cry for her.