The Weight of Rain (7 page)

“I sound like a fucking crazy person. I’m sorry. That’s what happens eventually, I guess.” Kashton raises a hand and runs it over his short hair, then clasps the back of his neck for a moment before straightening. “I’m not crazy or dangerous, and neither are those guys. We’re BMX racers.”

“Like BMX bikes?”

Kashton nods, looking slightly sheepish. “Yeah. You’ll see other racers around too, and the team. They’re all harmless, but we take our privacy seriously, and here at the house, we’re not on. We don’t worry about the shit we say or what we’re doing. We just like to work hard and have a good time.”

“That’s cool.” I swallow, trying to understand what that means exactly when I know absolutely nothing about BMX racing or what that world entails. “And you don’t have to worry, I won’t say anything.”

He smiles, and while it doesn’t look like he’s reassured yet, it still helps me relax. “Okay, so now that I have one awkward thing out of the way, let’s move on to the next.” Rubbing his palms together, he settles his gaze on the counter behind me. “Everyone who’s ever watched Mercedes has been from an agency. You’re the first person that I’ve ever hired from a reference. Yesterday I realized I don’t know much about you. I don’t need to run a background check on you, I guess, but I just feel like I should know more. I mean I’m leaving you with my daughter.”

It relieves me to hear that Kashton is realizing how informal and fast our relationship has progressed, but it spotlights how out of character this seems for a parent, which makes me wonder if Mercedes is feeling like he doesn’t care enough about her.

“My brother, King, usually takes care of all of the business stuff. He’s my manager and does all the paperwork and arrangements, but he’s over in Switzerland right now for an ad campaign, so I went with Kenzie on this. Don’t get me wrong…” his hands span in front of him “…I’m really glad she referred you. You’ve been great! I’m just not used to this stuff.”

“I understand.” My words are a lie, but for some ridiculous reason, I suddenly want to protect and comfort Kashton as much as I do Mercedes.

“King will be back soon, and that will help, but yeah … If you don’t mind, just share some things with me. I don’t know,” he says, running a hand across the back of his neck again and wincing just slightly with the movement. “What do they normally ask on a job application?”

My eyes widen, trying to recall the last one I filled out. “Do you want my address?”

“No, I already know where you live.”

My eyebrows knit together and Kashton shakes his head. “I mean, since you live with Kenzie, I know.”

I nod a couple of times though that still seems odd since I’ve never seen him come over. “Do you have my number?”

“Yeah, do you have mine?”

I nod once more. I’ve never used it, but it’s one of the few things Kenzie provided me with.

“What else?” he asks.

“I can give you a list of references, previous jobs, my dad’s address.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Let me grab some paper really fast.”

I lean against the counter as he jogs to the door adjacent from the kitchen, one that I haven’t ventured to open after Mercedes announced it as the office. While he’s gone, I look around the kitchen that has become messier as the weeks have gone by. It was so clean when I got here, leading me to initially believing it wasn’t used, but now, I realize it must have been used by previous nannies.

“Okay, um, I found this old application, and here’s just some paper.” Kashton passes me several sheets that I set on the edge of the counter. “Sorry, I forgot a pen, hang on.”

“That’s okay, I have one.” I dig through my bag, grabbing a handful of long cylinders to see what I’ve managed to catch, and sift through several pieces of charcoal and a couple of pencils. I drop them back in my bag and fish again, grabbing a new handful that has several colored pencils, another piece of charcoal, and a pen. I hold on to the pen, drop the other items inside, and look up to see Kashton watching me.

“Kenzie said you go to PSU for art.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool. Do you practice art? Or are you learning about it?”

“Both.” I shift my weight so I can lean against the counter. “I’m studying art history as well as taking several classes with the creation of art and restoration.”

“No shit. Maybe I can see some of your work sometime? I keep wanting to have a mural done out in the shop.”

I smile because I can tell he’s saying this out of obligation, and turn my attention to the papers.

“You don’t have to fill them out now. Just get them back to me when you have the chance.”

“Alright, I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, I would appreciate it. Sorry to start your shift with this…”

“Don’t sweat it. I completely understand.”

He smiles and then rubs a hand over the back of his neck once more before he turns to head out the front door.

“W
HAT ARE
you doing?”

Turning to Charleigh as she comes through the door of my studio apartment, I look over her outfit that is overdressed even for her. “Homework. What are you doing?”

“I thought we were going to that dollar cinema tonight for the three showings?”

I bring a hand to my face with a near silent groan. “Oh, Charleigh, I completely forgot! I’m sorry. Let me change really fast and we can go.”

“No problem. If we miss the first movie, I won’t mind. It’s not really something I care about,” she says, coming around to sit on the couch that butts against the end of my bed and extends just into our small kitchen.

“You’re drawing him again.” Charleigh’s words are quiet, as though she only intended to think the words.

I stand from my stool and clear my throat before flipping the cover of my large sketch book closed. “No, these are old, actually. I was just working on some shading techniques with colors. You know, since I usually stick to black and white.” My answer is only a partial truth. I truly found the unfinished sketch when I was looking for something to motivate me. You often hear about writer’s block in the art world. What you don’t hear about very often is that artists who sculpt, paint, draw, and create, also face these same empty stretches where nothing holds our attention, or seems adequate nor inspiring. I’ve been facing this stretch of black for several weeks—since I met
him
at that party in July. Today I saw an old sketch of his eyes, the shadow of his brow, and the slight bridge in his nose, and all I could see was him as I put my charcoal to the paper. It was his hands that I was working on when Charleigh arrived. I am amazed at the details I can remember about him when I can’t remember something as important as his name. Nonetheless, some of these details seem more significant. I can recall the line of his jaw, the way his hands were stained from working outdoors, his lips that curved into an uneven smile, and the scar that carved a long path up his forearm. Yet even those details pale in comparison to what I can remember about how he made me feel. I have stored to memory his warm breaths against my cheeks and the solidity of his muscles as he flexed while inside of me, and the exquisite way he seemed to know exactly what I wanted and needed without me ever giving direction.

A heat that has been less familiar as of late with me trying to forget about him makes my body tingle and my face flush as I face my closet and pull out a clean shirt to exchange the old sweatshirt I threw on when I got home. Artists have two wardrobes: the one we wear to work in, and the rest of our clothes. It doesn’t matter how careful I am while I work; charcoal dust always gets on me, and paint is worse. I hate having to worry about it. That’s why I always change while I’m working and bring extra clothes to change into before I leave school to watch Mercedes.

“We could bring it up to Kenzie again? Maybe she’ll think of someone new to ask.”

“I’m not asking her again. We’ve been down that road several times. Do you know how embarrassing it is to ask for the name of the guy I slept with at a party? Not only that, but now I sound like I am completely hung up on him because it’s been over three months! There’s no way, Charleigh. I’m over it. I was just sketching. It’s no big deal.”

“Maybe—”

“Charleigh, no. Don’t make me sing. You know I will.”

“You’re going to do that anyway.”

“And you love it.”

“No I don’t, because you don’t actually sing the words. You just say them. And I now have this awful habit of turning other people’s words into songs. It’s terrible!”

A small laugh has Charleigh standing with her arm raised, ready to strike at me. “It’s not funny! Stop laughing!”

“I’m teaching you American music.”

“We have American music in England.”

“American culture, then.”

“That isn’t American culture, it’s Lauren culture,” Charleigh objects as she follows me to the door.

“Same difference.”

“No, you’re crazy.”

I open my mouth to say words that will turn her words into another song.

“Lauren!” Charleigh groans, following me down the stairs. “Stop, or I will ask Kenzie.”

I stop and turn to flash her a smile before I start humming the tune.

“C
OME ON
.”

“What?” Mercedes asks, looking up from the pile of toys she’s been making a valiant effort to shrink.

I stand up from where I’ve been sorting small bolts and screws from across the living room into buckets that I found out in the garage, and look at Mercedes. Over the past week we’ve barely spoken, but she’s slowly become less and less despondent about the idea of cleaning and has started to join in my efforts. By Halloween we might be able to see the floor. “I think we need a break today.”

“What does that mean?”

“Let’s go somewhere. Get some fresh air before it’s too cold to go outside.”

“It’s raining.”

“You won’t melt.”

Mercedes doesn’t bother with a retaliation; she simply rolls her eyes upward and stares at me through her lashes. “Fine, but we’re staying inside.”

“Come on, I’ll take you to the donut shop my friend works at. You’ll fall in love.”

“Donuts?” I notice the glint in her eye and the softening of her jaw as she repeats the word.

“Grab your coat.”

“I don’t understand how you don’t have a car.” Mercedes’ tone is back to being annoyed as we trudge down the long drive.

“I live in the city. There’s not much use for one.”

“But what do you do when you go grocery shopping?”

I glance over at her and watch her dodge a large puddle that has become a constant on the road. “I bring a few bags with me.”

Her eyes meet mine as we continue. “Are you poor?”

A small smile rounds my lips. “I’m twenty-two. Of course I’m poor.”

“So you can’t afford a car?”

“I probably
could
afford a car, but with the additional costs that come with it and parking it downtown, I’d rather spend my money on things I need and enjoy.”

“How poor are you?” I meet her eyes once again and see worry cross her small features. “It’s okay that I ask, right? I mean … I’m not saying anything bad, am I?”

I shake my head and shove my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt as I smile at her with assurance. “I don’t mind, but some people probably wouldn’t appreciate the question.” I kick a small rock with the toe of my shoe and watch as it sails a few feet in front of us and rolls to the side of the road. “My dad owns a cattle ranch, so money has always been kind of tight. Farming has changed a lot over the years.”