The Weight of Rain (24 page)

“Ready to learn how to make an alfredo sauce?”

“I think my days of cooking are over,” I mutter, closing my notepad without dropping the particles of dust left behind by the charcoal into the trash. I know it will smear the picture, but I don’t care. I want to rip it out and shred it into teeny, tiny strips and then burn them. Simply distorting it means I’m being civil, an adult, though his eyes are laced with humor and accusing me of being anything but.

“Your problem is you stick to things you’re good at so you never know what it feels like to be uncomfortable.”

My spine feels like a rubber band being snapped. I glare at him, wishing to explode and tell him how uncomfortable I feel stepping through the door every single weekday and some weekends, knowing he might be on the opposite side. Or how uncomfortably I have slept all week because Kenzie continues to bring over her special “friends,” depriving me of not only my bed, but my easel, clothes, food, and solitude. Instead, I lift my hand and show the bright pink line that is a roadmap to my failed cooking attempts.

“You can’t stop just because you had one bad experience.”

I drop my chin, pursing my lips. The small smirk on his face tells me he knows I’m not referring to just this single incident.

“Think of cooking like art. The spices are your colors.”

I shake my head, baffled by his comparison. “They’re nothing alike.”

“Sure they are.”

“No. For me, art is … I don’t know, it just makes sense. I know without having to think about it how things go together.”

King’s lips turn up into an uneven grin that makes my eyes narrow into a glare. He laughs and moves to pull a pot and a couple of pans out. “You see the same things that everyone else sees, yet you see what makes them beautiful. Art’s instinctual to you, it comes easily. You’re going to have to learn how to cook.” My mind’s still stumbling over his last words about how I see things and what that means, if anything, as he continues. “So you’re really going to do the logo, huh?”

My head shakes as I wander farther into the kitchen, stopping when King smiles with triumph, making me briefly consider going back to the dining room table before I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the furthest counter from where he stands. “I’m painting a picture on one of the walls in the shop, but as I’ve told Kash, I don’t expect him to choose it as his logo.”

“Do you know what you’re going to draw yet?”

“Not a clue.”

His grin is benevolent, friendly even, as he moves to the fridge and pulls several ingredients out. “You should come to the match next week, watch it all happen and see if that inspires you. You said you can’t draw what you don’t know.” King shrugs as he drops a stick of butter beside the stove. “Time to get acquainted.”

The fact that he’s right makes my nose scrunch. Even when it’s an obvious situation like this, I’ve never been great at accepting dictation.

“Come over here and grab the middle knife on the far right of the block.”

An immature desire to remain rooted and voice my protest crosses my mind before I quietly sigh and move to do as he’s instructed.

The knife feels heavy and awkward in my hand as I wait for further direction and watch as he fills a large pot with water.

“Grab that red cutting board and the package of chicken,” King says, nodding to the counter beside the fridge. I feel him watch my movements, making each of them feel painfully pronounced and awkward.

“You’re going to cut the chicken into small pieces, and then we’ll put some spices on them and sauté them.”

“How big is small?” I ask, unwrapping the paper from around the chicken and drawing out three breasts. I hate the feel of raw meat; it alone could easily convert me to a vegetarian.

“Bite-sized.”

“For a horse or a toddler?”

“Since we don’t have either of those, I think you’ve found your answer.”

“Asshole-sized, perfect.”

“Don’t start a war you won’t be able to finish,” King warns, his movements stalling, ensuring me his sole focus is on me. The action isn’t a taunt, it’s a threat, and it burns a sudden level of frustration through me that only King can evoke.

I raise my chin as I turn my head to face him. Slowly, I release my grip on the knife so that it rests against the cutting board, removing my temptation to throw it at the back wall. “Go ahead.” My shoulders roll, my knees bend, and my hip leans against the counter. My entire body is showing how little I care about what he has to say next. It’s a lie, of course, but one that is crucial to maintain.

“What? Is Charlie going to kick my ass?”

Charleigh? How is Charleigh a part of this?

“I know all about Charlie. I don’t know why you didn’t just tell me you were dating someone. It’s not like I was going to hold what happened over your head or something. It’s not a big deal.”

This is one of those moments where I so wish I had the capability to read minds. Clearly King thinks Charleigh is a guy, but that’s all I’m certain of. Why he’s bringing up the possibility that I have a boyfriend and the idea that I would pose a boyfriend as a warning against him makes me question if he’s threatened. Jealous? Merely curious? I need an extra hour to sit down and sketch the expression on his face so that I can fully decipher what all he isn’t telling me.

“Is that why he never comes over? Because he knows … about me?” If hope isn’t tainting his words, I am completely insane, because I swear I hear traces of it. But his expression turns cold and stoic in an instant, shoving my thoughts of clarifying who Charleigh is to the deepest depths of my vocabulary.

“Why would I tell anyone? It’s not a big deal, right?” I ask. King’s words hadn’t stung upon first impact, but playing them back in my head once more, they feel like more than just a rejection; I feel used. They shouldn’t be causing this reaction. I’ve used these same words against him numerous times in the past; however, this time they leave a sour taste in my mouth that worsens now that I’ve repeated them back.

He squares his shoulders, the distaste obviously affecting him as well. To make certain my point is made, I shrug and raise my eyebrows before turning back to the chicken and carefully beginning to chop it. I never mention how much the feel of it bothers me, nor do I seek assurance that I’m doing it right. I simply do as he instructed, and once I finish, I place my knife in the sink carefully so as to not make a loud noise. If I dropped it, it would reveal I’m frustrated and still stewing over his words. I refuse to let that happen. After washing my hands three times, I dry off and head outside because I can’t be around him a second longer without demanding answers to questions I’m still trying to make sense of.

I
SUGGEST
to Mercedes that we hit the mall up the next day and then go to OMSI, the science museum, to prevent any chance of encountering King, with the promise this is the last time I’m going to avoid him. I’ll let him continue working at it, but I’m done expending the energy on him.

“I’
M
so proud of you! That was insane, Lo! I need to take a picture so you can draw yourself doing this!”

I risk looking over to Mercedes as my tire rounds over the lip of the smallest of the ramps. They rarely use this piece of equipment, seemingly making it a waste of space, which seems fairly bizarre since so little of the shop goes without purpose and extensive use.

“Are you ready to graduate to the next ramp?” Parker’s beside me, his eyes bright with excitement from finally convincing me to go on the ramp again.

“I think I need to master the small one first.”

“Master? You were like the Jedi out there! The kid is right, you looked awesome! I can’t believe you haven’t been on a bike in over ten years!”

“Believe it.” My muscles feel nearly buoyant as they accept Parker’s praise, feeding off his enthusiasm and confidence. Mercedes and I have been riding a few times a week since the shop opened in October, but I’ve still shied away from doing much of anything, generally blaming my always inappropriate shoes for doing much else. Still, I’ve pushed so far outside of my comfort zone.

“You don’t have to do it, Lo. We’d all understand if you’re afraid.” Summer’s voice sounds sincere, yet I still feel as though I have something to prove to her, sealing my fate.

“Okay, let’s try it.” My brain is going into overdrive, working to make sense of this suicide attempt while trying to effectively order my feet to stop pushing me forward. My pride is louder than my sense though, and I keep going.

“
Woo hoo
!” Mercedes calls from the side. I know I’ve heard Parker echo the same call at least three times since I agreed to go, but hers is the first that really penetrates the haze of fear and excitement I’m surrounded by.

“I won’t flip over the edge, right?”

“No, it’s just like the small one; the momentum will glide you right over the lip. Just remember: you don’t want to use your hand brakes. You’ll be fine. You want to ride it out, just like a rollercoaster, baby.” Parker’s hand settles on my shoulder, feeling much like a lead weight, causing my shoulder to sag.

The loud pounding of my heart distracts me as I push to the edge of the ramp. The only thing I notice is the heat and weight of Parker’s hand sliding away. With my first and last trip down the ramp, I just went. I didn’t take the time to consider what I was doing. This time, I look down and across the space, more amazed by the distance of the smallest ramp now that I’ve crossed it and can see it from this angle. I take a deep breath, feeling the pressure of my heart in each of my fingers as I rest them gingerly on the brake so they’re ready for when I get over the lip. My toes push off and the bike slides forward. The wheels spin so quickly I nearly lose my footing on the pedals. The speed builds fast. Too fast. My breathing is loud, but not as loud as my heart, and all of my muscles contract with fear, making my fingers squeeze reflexively. There’s a startling stop from the front tire, and then an instant lurch as the bike falls forward and sideways all at once. My right arm is tangled in the bike, but my left extends to stop me from leaving a stamp of my face on the bottom of the ramp. It hits with an alarming explosion of impact, and then my helmet cracks against the cement. The bike falls on top of me with a crushing blow. I don’t know how to move. I don’t know if I
can
move.

Voices register, followed by the slap of shoes on the cement.

“Lo, are you okay?” I recognize Mercedes’ cry over the others and slowly move in an attempt to straighten myself.

“Don’t move,” Parker instructs in a yell. “Your shoe is caught in the spindles.” A hand holds my foot, and the warmth of it soaks through my ballet flat. The comfort seems vast in contrast to the cold, hard cement, and the pain that is starting to radiate through my body.

The bike moves next, and my entire body seems to sigh with relief. “What hurts?” Summer is beside me, brushing hair out of my face. “How’s your arm?”

I slowly roll to my side, and the helmet clonks against the cement, straining my neck as I lie on my back. Parker reaches forward and makes quick work of releasing the clasp and gently settles my head back down.

“Shit!” Summer’s word comes out in a breath as she drops to her knees beside Parker. “Can you move it?”

Her attention is on my leg. I don’t want to try. It’s throbbing and aching so badly I want to curl on my side and cry until the branding-iron-like heat dissipates. But the embarrassment and weakness that would reveal would haunt me worse than the face dive I just did.