The Weight of Rain (41 page)

His comment makes me think of the conversation King and I shared weeks ago now, and I attempt to smile though the thought makes me want to cry. “That attempt at a smile is a little pitiful. What’s bothering you?”

“It’s complicated,” I say with a sigh.

He shrugs noncommittally, and I’m suddenly curious about how often he and King speak and how detailed their discussions are. “Likely, you’re making it confusing.” He scratches his cheek that still looks too young to be capable of holding the title of grandpa to a ten-year-old. “You didn’t get accepted to Italy?”

I raise my eyebrows and stretch my hands out, feeling the tightness in my muscles and tendons stretch with a painful reluctance. “No, that’s the problem. I was.”

His eyebrows go up, clearly caught off guard. “You’re afraid to leave.”

“I finally feel like I’m in a really good place. I care about them. I can’t ask King to give up on his dreams and come with me.”

“No,” Robert says, slowly shaking his head. “You can’t. Just like he can’t ask you to stay. If either of you did, that wouldn’t be love.”

I press my lips together, feeling the burning threat of tears.

“My dad used to say that people generally start something out of love, but then it becomes a rat race. We lose our focus, our passion, our drive to complete our initial mission because we get so caught up in the competition, the bright lights, the distractions. You need to think about what your mission is and focus on it. You’re young, Lo. Don’t throw away your dreams because you’re afraid you’ll lose someone. All that will do is lead to later resenting him, and that won’t be good for either of you.”

“You guys need to talk about bikes, or … whatever it is you guys used to talk about before I stopped to ask for directions.”

His eyes reveal more humor than his faint smile. “He cares very deeply for you. Don’t doubt that.”

My lips roll against my teeth as I nod. “I know.”

“Do you? Because you look like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

I blink several times, unsure of how to respond. Instead, I numbly nod in response and fish out my phone to see what time it is as a casual way of finding an excuse to leave. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you.”

“When you’re sad, everything seems worse. Stop looking at things through jaded glasses and look for some rose ones.”

I lift my chin once in acknowledgement and then turn, taking two steps before he clears his throat. “The world needs smiles like yours, Lo. Don’t deprive people.”

Sometimes like now, I’m fairly certain he’s crazy. I’ve always lacked the enthusiasm that perpetually optimistic people seem to maintain regardless of what the world delivers. I much prefer to sit back and watch everyone, memorizing eyes and how they often reveal answers that lips rarely do, arms and how they can be so defensive and possessive with simple and slight differences, postures and how when you’re too far to see someone’s face clearly, you can generally read the excitement in someone’s bounce, or sadness with the roll of their shoulders.

I stop at the bus stop and search the cloudy skies that are a dark enough shade that I’m amazed it’s still dry.

I change buses and head south, getting off at Sonar, the restaurant that has been a constant during my time here in Portland. The air is warm and spicy with the hint of freshly baked tortillas that makes my stomach rumble.

Without taking the time to greet the others, I set up my supplies and fill the container I’ve designated for water in the restroom so as to get straight to work. There’s white noise behind me, but I easily block it out without even an ounce of thought being applied to it. I’m lost in a haze of familiarity with colors, textures, lines, and shading that blocks even the thought or concern of time.

I make a final sweep with my brush, smoothing a line, and take a step back.

It’s done.

I’ve been working on this for months, and now it’s complete. The swell of emotions that has my eyes blurring and my lips breaking into a wide smile surprise me as much as they overwhelm me.

Several moments later, I step closer to the painting, selecting a fine brush that I use to make minor corrections that most would likely never notice. This deserves to be as perfect as I can make it. I want Estella to feel as warm and loving toward it as I do about her.

Sighing, I drop my brush on the tray I converted into a painting tray and step back to look over it again.

“You were made for this.” King’s soft words don’t surprise me. Not in the least. I think I subconsciously felt him here the last few hours.

“I can’t believe it’s done.”

“It’s amazing, babe.”

“King.”

His eyes sweep over me, hearing the emotion in my voice. They’re focused and tender, yet determined.

“Let’s go back to your house.”

“Is it hard to leave it?” he asks, running a hand over my shoulders.

I nod. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully explain how I’m feeling. I imagine it’s much like a mother sending a child off to college. This is my first and largest wall mural, and while I completed Kash’s first, there is something so significant about this painting. I’ve spent hours upon hours creating this wall that is now covered with a large group of people dancing to a song I could physically feel and hear as I painted. There is a beach in the distance, an expanse of sand that’s been stamped with people coming and going. Love and happiness are carefully etched across each of the people in the picture, reflective in every last detail. The emotion I feel about leaving it scares me about the prospect of how many works I’ll be leaving an ocean away next fall.

Time freezes, but my heart accelerates. Have I already decided I’m going?

“Let’s go,” I say, plunging my brush into the water and quickly swirling it clean before grabbing my other brushes and dropping them in their case.

“Estella’s still here. I think she’s waiting for you.”

“Art is meant to be looked at alone. No expectations.”

“You don’t want to see her excitement?”

“Not this time.” I don’t. I can’t. Another emotion isn’t able to fit in my head right now.

King wraps an arm around my shoulder again, his warmth causing my head to naturally recline back.

We step out into the cool spring air, and King digs in his pocket. I watch him flip two pennies on the sidewalk before we reach his truck.

“Are you excited for your event Saturday?” I ask, reaching forward to turn down his music that is always loud from when he rides alone.

King looks over to me, his lips drawing up into that perfectly imperfect smile I love. “It’s insane. I can’t wrap my head around it all.”

“You’re going to be great. I need Summer to take a ton of pictures. I’m going to make your logo so sick, you will freak out.”

King’s eyebrows draw up faintly, his lips still raised. “You’re going to design my logo?”

I feel slightly embarrassed, uncomfortable by my presumptions.

“Swear. Swear to me you’ll do it,” he says, grabbing my hand.

My eyes are on his, which are wide with an intensity that makes me wish he had bench seats. I want to be as close to him as I can.

“I swear.”

“I didn’t want to ask you because I knew you’d feel obligated, but seriously…”

“No, I’d really like to do yours.”

“I’m going to give you the orgasm of your life tonight.”

“You already did that on Saturday, remember?”

“You’re going to see stars tonight for sure,” he says with a grin, making me regret telling him what Charleigh used to call him.

“Can I ask you something?”

King looks over at me, his eyebrows high with surprise. “Am I really always that great in bed? Yes. With you, definitely yes.”

I roll my eyes, feeling my cheeks heat with how to phrase my question so it doesn’t come out as an accusation. “How does Isabelle know how you like your coffee?”

King’s eyes flash to mine and then the street that is unusually busy for how late it is. “What do you mean?”

“She corrected me Saturday when I was putting sugar in your coffee.”

King lifts his shoulders and reaches across the small space to hold my hand. “She’s like a sister, Lo. I get how you could take that to mean something, but I can guarantee you it doesn’t. She was around a lot when I was growing up. She’s gone on vacations and camping with us.”

“She gets along with everyone so well, and she’s beautiful, and smart…”

“Are you trying to convince me to date her?”

My eyes narrow in annoyance, although he’s right—I do sound like I’m trying to up-sell her. “I just don’t understand.”

“Isabelle is a great person. Some guy is going to be very lucky one day to be with her, but that guy will never be me because I don’t feel anything when I’m around her except for friendship. I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone I care platonically for. I want someone that is going to make me think and will constantly push me to improve. Someone that distracts me while I’m in boring-ass business meetings without even being present because I can’t stop thinking about the way her hips move and the many things I want to do to hear those sounds again.”

“What sounds?”

King shifts in his seat, his eyes returning to mine for another fleeting second. “Tonight you’re going to have to stop watching so much and listen.”

M
Y BACK
is pressed firmly against King’s chest, our legs intertwined down to our ankles. I definitely saw stars tonight, an entire sea of them. After we had both been exhausted and sated, I curled up in the large chair in King’s room wearing a pair of his sweatpants and an old T-shirt as I sketched the outlines of five different expressions of King that I wanted to ensure I would never forget. I don’t know why I did it. I know without a doubt I won’t forget them. Even if I tried, I don’t think I could. He’s become a part of me.

“I thought you were exhausted?” he asks, brushing his fingers over my arm.

“How’d you know I was awake?”

“You’re a loud thinker.”

I shift to my back so I can see him, but it’s too dark to make out more than the faintest of outlines of him.

“Want me to close the window? Is the storm too loud?”

I shake my head, nestling closer to him. “I love the rain.”

King kisses the tip of each of my fingers, pulling them back slowly, deliberately so that they drag across his bottom lip.

“You’re like the rain,” I whisper, turning so that I’m completely facing him. “No matter what kind of barriers I tried to put up, you slipped through all of them. You’ve coated every last part of my skin and have worked your way into every depth of me, parts I didn’t even know existed.”

“Everyone else hates the rain.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Are we speaking metaphorically?” I ask, suddenly confused and slightly flippant since I was trying to be sweet, and I’m pretty certain he’s trying to be a pain in my ass.

“I thought we were talking about the rain.”

“You’re so freaking annoying.” I shove King and roll to the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath my feet, making me even more angry with him because I was warm and comfortable mere seconds ago.

“Where are you going?”

“We fight. Like all the time. That’s not healthy. How can we be in a relationship when you constantly see the left side of the map while I see the right? That’s setting ourselves up for a collision.”

“We barely fight anymore. I, for one, kind of miss it.”

I lower my chin and glare at him even though I know it’s too dark for him to see. The light beside his bed flips on and I squint, completely ruining the effect.

“People only fight with those they either really hate or really care about. Everyone else no one gives two shits about. We started fighting because you wanted to hate me. Now we fight because you don’t want to love me.”

My eyebrows rise and my eyes stretch wide with disbelief.
Love?
“You’re crazy.”

“When it comes to you, I’m in need of an institution. You get so damn stubborn, and you do things that aren’t safe, or even smart—”

“You do tricks on a bike for a living! I’m not the one living a life of danger.”

“You’re so difficult, and as much as it drives me crazy, I love it.” A heavy breath blows through his open lips. His brown eyes close for the briefest of seconds and then settle on my own. “I love your passion. Your passion to be right. Your passion to be independent. Your passion to help others. Your passion for art.” He smiles widely, erasing that slight variance of his lips. “In case you haven’t caught on, you’re really passionate about everything.”

“Except cooking,” I add, lifting a shoulder.

King raises a fist and puts it in front of his mouth as he laughs hard enough his eyes close. It causes that warmth in my chest he’s brought to life to swell and a smile to spread across my own lips. He nods once and lowers his hand. “Except for cooking,” he agrees. “I don’t care if you ever learn to cook. Or if you don’t get accepted to Florence. I just want you to keep painting the beauty in this world that so many forget to notice. You can paint it on canvases, or walls, or with spray paint on abandoned buildings, or chalk downtown, I don’t care. You can paint every square inch of the shop and this room.