The Weight of Rain (19 page)

His shoulders curl inward as though he’s relieved. “You have no idea how much I wanted you to find me.”

I want to ask why he acted so surprised and cold when we met again, but the fact that he did makes this questions seem more inappropriate than my last. “We have to go. My bus will be there in a few minutes.”

King’s chest rises with a deep breath and his shoulders square again. He doesn’t say anything more as we drive the distance to the bus stop. The rain is our music, loud and angry against the windshield and streets, amplified by the roof of the SUV. I hate that it reminds me of that night and lying beside King, getting lost in the rhythm of his heartbeat and the rain until I couldn’t decipher one from the other.

“I’d offer to come get you tomorrow, but I have a feeling you’d say no.”

“I would.” I unlatch my seatbelt and slide closer to the door, gripping my messenger bag and pulling it into my lap. “Thanks for the ride, King.”

“Lo.” King’s voice is loud and unsteady. “We don’t have to go back to that night. We can just be friends.”

I’m so relieved I didn’t turn around when he called my name, because I’m certain my face is contorted with confusion and anger. I slam the door shut and head the few paces to the undercover bench where a woman I see here nearly daily is waiting. We don’t make eye contact. We never do. I pull out my phone and sit beside her, ignoring King’s stare.

“W
HERE ARE
you going?”

“The restaurant.”

“But it’s nearly nine. Aren’t they closing soon?”

I shrug, my fingers fastening the final button on my coat. “I prefer to work when people aren’t there watching me and asking questions every other minute.”

“How are you going to get home?”

“The bus.”

“Does Kenzie have that guy over again?” Charleigh’s eyes drift upward as if seeking the answer herself.

“Yeah, apparently, they’re dating or something. She’s been bringing him around for the last couple of weeks.”

Charleigh’s chin snaps, nearly hitting her collarbone. “Kenzie’s in a relationship?”

“It certainly seems that way,” I say.

Charleigh takes three swift strides to the window and pulls the curtain with a rough tug. “Where are the flying pigs?”

Allie giggles and slides her eyes from the pattern she’s meticulously cutting out. “I’m happy for her, but I’m also kind of bummed. I liked hearing about her different conquests.”

“I wish she’d spend more time at his place,” I admit, slinging the strap of my messenger bag over my neck.

I take a step back as they both laugh at my misery. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Bye!” they call out in harmony. I shake my head with a small smirk as I pull the door closed behind me, their giggles echoing down the stairwell.

I
SLOWLY
descend the bus stairs, shoving my phone and headphones back into my messenger bag. The sky is even darker tonight, filled with invisible gray clouds that are sprinkling the city, making the streets and sidewalk glossy and fragrant the way only rain can. “Shit,” I mutter, gripping the railing as I step onto the sidewalk. The restaurant is visibly packed.

“Everything okay, miss?”

I turn to the bus driver and mumble my apologies as I release the rail and take a few steps forward, hearing the hiss of the bus’s engine as it pulls away.

“Lauren?” I twist my neck to see Estella heading my way, a cigarette balanced between her index and middle finger.

“Hey.”

“You forgot it was Tuesday.” Her voice is a quiet acknowledgment. I did. With so much going on, I feel like I’m losing track of days, sometimes losing time altogether. Like it’s passing without me.

“I can bring you home,” she offers.

I look back to her after glancing at the crowded tables. “That’s alright. I need to get some work done on the mural and I’m here.”

She smiles warmly as she wraps a hand around my waist, pulling me closer to her. We walk side by side, my steps shorter to keep pace with her as the smoke from her cigarette lingers in the air. My dad has smoked Marlboros his entire life, but Estella’s are clove, the scent slightly savory as it stretches and dances in the air before settling in my lungs.

“Did you come for tacos?” Mia calls, her lips stained the same bright red they always are.

“Maybe. I need to get some work done first.”

“I’ll hold some back for you. This crowd can
eat
!” Mia says with a bright smile.

I enter the dining area with my head down and my strides swift. It’s amazing how many people will stop you when they think you’re a member of the staff, even when it’s apparent you’re off duty. The crowd is alive with laughter and voices that have clearly been enjoying the drinks that are often accompanied by tiny umbrellas.

The underpainting makes me wish I were working in private. I loathe how it looks like a giant mistake rather than a piece of art. It’s the base coat that will allow me to paint the mural, and because this wall is red, I had to use a light beige paint to allow all of the colors to show, making my underpainting that much more pronounced.

I lay out the old sheet I’ve been using as a drop cloth and unload my acrylic paints and supplies. Charcoals have always been my preferred method of art. I’ve been using them for so long they feel like an extension of my hands. Blending, sketching, shading, it’s all done with the charcoal and a gum eraser, but with painting, I have to hold a palette that constantly gets in my way or begins to slant while I’m working, blending colors I never intended to mix. Plus, I have to constantly add more paint to my brush and always have to create more of a hue that I inevitably run out of. Therefore, I’ve always had to force myself to paint, and while these frustrations are faced each and every time I hold a brush, my love for the techniques, colors, and results sometimes inspire me to want to paint every surface I see.

When Estella and I first discussed me painting a mural, she wanted a beach scene, something that she could look at that would warm her through Portland’s rainy season. I offered to post a want ad for her at school because I don’t do landscapes; I never have. At least, not by choice. In school I’ve had to create them, like the ocean scene I was working on when I first met Mercedes, but I never like their results. Nature has many extraordinary secrets and gifts that it shares, and while I enjoy admiring them, it’s people who draw my attention. Gapped teeth, bridged noses, wide-set eyes, full lips, thin lips, freckles, dimples, scars, it doesn’t matter; everyone has beauty if people are willing to look and not get distracted by what they’re taught to find attractive. Estella wasn’t interested in having someone else. She insisted on having me do the work even if I couldn’t create what she wanted. It left me unsettled for weeks as I contemplated what I could paint that would still evoke the same warmth she was seeking. When I came to her with a list of ideas, she shook her head and walked away, leaving me wide-eyed with confusion. She found me later that same day and told me she wanted me to paint what I felt in my heart. That made the decision even more trying because I wasn’t painting a mural for me to look at every day; it was for her. It was less than a week later while we were closing up after a busy night like tonight that I knew what to paint.

I squeeze several shades of reds, browns, yellows, and oranges onto my palette and add large globs of black and white. Several paintbrushes go into my back pockets in order of their brush size, and an old shirt goes over my shoulder to be used as a rag. Terry cloth is impossible to use. You can’t get a clean line with it.

“Hey, Lo, I brought you some water for the wall and coffee for you.” I turn so I can smile my appreciation at Mia. “I wish I could see what’s in your mind! I can’t wait for it to be finished!” Her words translate to: whatever that is, it’s hideous! I hope you know what you’re doing!

I press my lips together. I’m trying to smile, whether to give her assurance or because I don’t know my alternative, I’m not sure. It’s not convincing her of much because she returns the tight-lipped smile before taking a couple of steps back and disappearing.

Her reaction makes the energy and passion I finally found recently dissipate. A long breath escapes me and my shoulders sag. I take a step back, turning my chin to look at the angles I’ve begun to outline, trying to see the still image as a fluid motion. My eyes close and the hum around me invigorates the emotion I’m working to capture. I pull a wide brush from my pocket and swirl reds with a touch of brown and orange. Then the noise fades along with my tension as new colors and lines are added to the wall.

“L
A
, L
A
, La, Lauren!”

I push a loose strand of hair back with the handle of my paintbrush and turn to see Kash, a wide grin covering his face.

“You were in the zone!” he cries.

I raise my eyebrows in question, and he laughs so hard he has to lean a shoulder against the wall for support.

“I was saying your name for like five minutes before you heard me!”

My smile is due to his amusement more than the fact that I find humor in the situation. It’s a part of any sort of passion. We all zone out when we care about something enough. I’m confident he knows exactly what it’s like to lose the world around you and find yourself in one where nothing exists but your craft. “Yeah, sorry.”

“This is crazy! What are you doing here?”

“I used to work here.”

Kash raises his eyebrows and juts out his chin. “You worked here?”

“For three years.”

“No shit. What a small world.” His last word is spoken softly, distracted by the mess of color I’ve applied to the wall tonight. “What are you painting?” he asks, still following lines to blotches of color that will be used as my outline.

“She won’t tell us.” Mia’s response is delivered with her red-painted lips spread wide and a smile that I recognize from going out with her after work a couple of times—she’s interested in him.

“Can we guess?” Kash asks.

“She only smiles when you do.” Mia places a fresh container of water and cup of coffee on the table beside me. “It’s a mischievous smile, like she wants us to keep guessing.”

My lips climb because I do. “Mia, this is Kashton, my boss.”

“I’m pretty sure Mercedes thinks she’s your boss,” he says, making me laugh out loud and causing my palette to drop down just far enough that one of my yellows mixes with a red.