Bring the Rain (7 page)

“You’re a good artist,” he says when he finishes looking at my pencil marks.

“Naw, I’m not a real artist. This is more of a hobby. I appreciate art, try to figure it out and such.”

Colt hands me the sketchbook. “Well, hobby or not, you’re good. You could sell this stuff.” He doesn’t look away; his eyes reach in and touch on my secret dream of having a studio, studying graphic design, and making something unique. I know it’s foolish though, I’ve seen enough New Yorkers suffer from that exact dream. They slave at fifty-hour internships without pay, waiting tables at night, or becoming an escort to make ends meet. No. I’ll be smart, go to business school like Mom, and work on the marketing side of things.

Colt’s eyes furrow. “You're talented enough to become an artist if you want to.” My heart trips. Only Gina can read me that well. I blush, feeling raw and too open. He relaxes back into the leather with a grin, hands behind his head, and muscles popping out of his t-shirt. I glance away, focusing on the news anchors. I’m not used to having a hot guy at my side with a parent so near. When I liked a guy back home, we’d hang out away from Mom. I sneak a peek at Colt, surprised the air doesn't wobble with the energy passing between us.

Dad’s diligent
about the sandwich, slathering the bread with enough mayo to fatten me up. Is this his game? To make me too big to fit in the airplane seat? Or, maybe, this is him simply being a father.

When I was alone with Colt in the kitchen, my parent issues didn’t bother me. Everything felt bright, like stepping into spring sunshine after a dreary winter. Now it’s all dull again, knowing those documents are hanging inside the laptop. It’s like the air’s become heavy.

Colt taps the back of my hand. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

“I’m just tired.”

He frowns, moving his finger to trace circles on the back of my hand. The weight of Dad’s mistake lifts a bit.

“Thanks,” I say.

His hand rests over mine, the warmth intoxicating to my skin. The firm pressure is like sunshine on the darkest day. I glance over, and those ice blue eyes barrel deep into my soul. “Your welcome,” he says with a confident tone, stealing my breath away.

Thank goodness the couch is so big. If Dad knew… Well, maybe he already does? The kitchen is silent now. They must’ve figured it out. Well, at least now I know holding hands doesn’t spur Dad into a protective fit.

Two news reports and one sandwich later, and my head still spins. The TV goes black. “Ready for a driving lesson?” Dad asks with the remote in hand.

Colt nearly spits out his drink but I kick him in the calf. “Not funny,” I say under my breath.

Dad continues. “Autumn, I’d appreciate you learning how so you can help more on the ranch. Remember, farm kids can drive without a license if it’s on their own property.” He looks out the window, the stress from the ranch creasing his brow.

I guess driving will at least give me something to do, and I’m pretty sure my new truck has air conditioning, which would be a huge bonus in the sweltering Oklahoma heat. Plus, I feel guilty that it’s still sitting out there, completely unused. “Sure. Why not? But let’s not start where we left off, all right?”

“Absolutely. No need for you to steer on my lap.” He smiles lightly, still walking on egg shells but thankful that I can joke. I nod, sort of surprised I can joke too.

“I can help teach her…” Colt says, which receives a quick bop on the back of his head from Dad.

“Not happening.” Grace bends down and gives Colt a quick kiss. “In fact,” she says as she walks around the couch, “How about I teach her?”

“No, Grace.”

“You do want her to learn to drive, don’t you Chris?” Grace asks.

“Exactly, which is why I should teach her.”

“Oh, come off it. You know I’m a great driver and I have something you don’t.” Her voice is gentle. “Patience.”

Colt whistles, “That’s true, Chris.”

“You,” Dad eyes narrow, “need to be careful, son.” He nods down to my hand. Colt’s hand is no longer near it but the message is clear. There’s a whole new level to being his cattle-hand now. Colt wisely doesn’t speak, but I have a good laugh. Somehow, laughing is easy with him next to me.

“Okay, let’s do this, Grace,” I say and Dad looks a little disappointed. Truth be told, I remember Dad’s red face when he taught me to ride a bike. I’d rather learn to drive with a stranger. Grace smiles softly, holding out her hand for the keys.

“Fine, you can teach her Grace. But, please, stay near.”

I bounce off the couch. This could mean independence. If I can pass the test and land a license, this summer won’t be useless. There’s something nice about having a real ID. I’d love one for France—something saying the United States is my home, other than my passport. I don’t like carrying that thing around. The white truck still smells new as I climb into the truck with Grace, while Dad and Colt watch from the back deck. Dad hands him a broom. Ha. It looks like he’s literally going to have to work to hang out around me.

Grace waves out the window, shooing them away. “No observation needed.”

I study the console and pedals while Grace straps herself in. There’s an extra pedal for my left foot. “It’s a manual transmission,” she says. She explains the console and the gearshift, cautioning me to stay away from the accelerator, and showing me where the brake is and how the clutch works. Finally, I’m allowed to let the engine purr to life. And then she lets me play.

Clutch to first. We jerk and stop. She laughs it off, encouraging me to try again. I do, and again we stall. Again and again. It takes forever for to find the flow. It takes seven tries before we’re finally moving.

“There you have it. Now shift to second.” I do. “Very good.” Graces says as she settles back in her seat. “So, tell me about New York.”

I concentrate on winding down our gravel drive. “Umm.” We jerk again. “It’s great. Lots of buzz, you know?”

“Nope, I’ve never been.” She nods to my signal as I take a left turn toward the barn. “But that’s okay, I like the air here.”

“Even with the smell?” I sniff and it’s not as strong as it was yesterday.

“I don’t even notice it. I’m sure I’d smell some pretty funky things in your city too if it was my first time there.”

“Yeah, the subways in the summer.” I feign a gag, “So gross. I try to taxi rather than cope with the smell of hot urine.” Grace scrunches up her face. Oops, a little too much detail. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She taps lightly on the armrest as I drive around the barn to go back the way we came. “Now shift to third. So, do you have a boyfriend back in New York City?”

My foot misses the clutch. The truck stalls and we jerk forward, our seat belts tossing us back against our seat.

And there’s the reason she wanted to teach me.

“No.” I’m thrilled I don’t have to lie. There were guys I’d occasionally date or meet up with at the clubs, but not a boyfriend. I had a few drunk friends with benefits situation, but that’s it. I only had one serious relationship, but that was last summer and, looking back, more of a joke.

“Good. Now, ease back into first.”

I clutch and shift smoothly, trying to keep composure after her brief interrogation.

“Now second.”

I transition the gears effortlessly.

“How about you pull onto the main road, take a right, and then shift into third?”

I’m a little less graceful when I try to turn, but once I’m straight and steady in third gear I feel like I’m actually driving. My head throbs though. “Are automatics this cumbersome?”

“No, but they aren’t as fun. Clutch to fourth. You’ll get used to it though.”

I do and we fly.

“Whoo-eee!” she yells out the window, her personality as warm as Colt’s. She reaches over and taps my shoulder. “Doing great, honey.”

I smile back, an ear to ear idiot grin, but I don’t care. She’s right. This feels amazing.

We work on turns, shifts, signaling, and using our mirrors until the sun touches the earth, only returning so she can pick up Colt’s younger brother, Chase, from soccer practice. Grace is really solid—easy going and, other than that direct boyfriend question, not intimidating. Perhaps she’s too nice to be the mother of the guy I want to mess around with. It seems too perfect… almost wrong.

When we return, Dad’s waiting on the front porch. “How’d she do?”

“She’s a natural. Give us a few more lessons and she’ll be safe to drive the watering truck.”

“Excellent,” he says while I eye the yard, hoping to see Colt. Dad chuckles as I walk up the steps. “I sent him home.”

Great, that’s totally fine, no problem. It’s not like I have a real reason to want to say goodnight. I don’t even have his number. I force out a smile as my heart plummets. “Oh, that’s fine.”

“I’ll make us dinner, come on in.” He holds the door open for me.

“Sure,” I say as I step inside. I take an abnormal amount of time to slip off my shoes. I don’t know if I’m ready to sit and eat with Dad alone. With Colt and Grace around, it’s like yesterday almost never happened, but now as he smiles at me I can only hear his sobs and see the word Infidelity.

He’s a cheater.

“You coming?” He calls from the kitchen.

“Yup.” I finish rearranging the boots on the closet mat, praying for a meal that won’t make me want to break things or hate him forever.

***

Every look he gives me is sandpaper on my heart. Dad messed up. I peek over the edge of my laptop while he flips the eggs. My stomach turns. I don’t know what’s worse, thinking he never cared enough to fight for time with me or knowing he destroyed forever the happiness of our family with a one-night stand.

A feeble smile crosses his face as he slides the plate of over-medium eggs, diced avocado, on rice with salsa across the counter. The corners of my mouth flick up in thanks as I’m flipping through the email Mom sent with photos of our new apartment and the nearest park. My favorite is the one of her sitting on the bench. France has encouraged her to lose her formal up-do and embrace her long beach-like locks. A light blue decorative scarf hugs her neck loosely.

My heart tangles itself in a knot as it identifies the photo for what it is, my weapon.

I flip the computer around to show Dad the photos of our apartment with its golden curtain rods dressed in lace.

He nods, “That’s great, Autumn. Your mom got a wonderful spot.” I wait a beat before I click over to the photo of Mom.

I slide the knife in. “And here’s mom, loving life.”

His eyes flinch a bit, which he pairs with a slight cough. He quickly pulls away from the monitor, retreating back toward the sink. “How’s her business going?”

“Great. She’s the new shiny thing for fashion marketing and they are crazy for her. Fighting over her for contracts and stuff.” I exaggerate a bit, slicing in a bit deeper. “She says she’s having a wonderful time. Her life long dream come true, you know?”

And with that, I twist the knife thoroughly, making him bleed for what he’s done.

“Good.” He washes his hands, focusing on his fingernails. I definitely got to him. “She deserves it.”

I study his face as he towels off his hands but he doesn’t give away anything more. There’s no hint of jealousy but also no hint of remorse. My stomach turns, calling myself out on my ability to manipulate.

e huHJ
He hurt me though. Hurt us all. How the hell am I supposed to handle this? I can’t simply nod, say I understand, and sweep the problem away.
He hurtme though.
I dive back into the photos, studying the one she sent of my Paris bedroom. I like what Mom’s done with the place. She found a white iron bed-frame and bought a light blue striped comforter with a lacy edge. She must have studied my French Design board on Pinterest. The bedding is perfect. It’s got be at least eight hundred thread count. My legs itch in anticipation. My ancient My Little Pony sheets pale in comparison.

Dad keeps his distance the rest of the evening. The photo of Mom was the key to keeping him away. I browse the Louvre’s website, studying the art that I’d soon be visiting weekly. Da Vinci’s quaint Mona Lisa, dazzling crowns of Kings and Queens, Michelangelo’s statues, and Napoleon’s portraits. I can’t wait to write my final ten thousand word essay for European History. After seeing Les Miserable, I’m sold on writing about the French Revolution. I could use the art of the French revolution as a lens for the essay! It’ll be a dream, listening tour guides while writing feverishly in my moleskin notebook in the Louvre. I can’t wait to study the portraits, landscapes, and artwork depicting the battles. Afterwards, I’ll hit up a cute café around the corner and spend my afternoons drafting my essay while cute French guys drop in to chat.

French guys have got to be great kissers, right? Suddenly, my gut drops like I’ve gone over the edge on a rollercoaster. But would it matter? That fraction of a kiss Colt gave me at the party isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced before. French guys would have nothing compared to Colt.

I must be pretty obvious when I’m daydreaming about guys because Dad asks about me going riding tomorrow with Colt. My heartbeat triples and goose bumps run down my side.

“Yeah, at least it’s something to do.” I shrug and finally nibble at the cold eggs in front of me. Dad raises his eyebrows but I ignore him. Colt isn’t a big deal. He’s a summer fling, max. I study the screen, zooming in on Mona Lisa’s nostrils. It’s not a good sign that my heart does back flips at the mere mention of Colt though. I don’t like it. It makes me feel too out of control. I wouldn’t mind some fun entertainment this summer, but I don’t want anything more… anything too real.