The Weight of Rain (33 page)

“Parker was just trying to root around and see if what he’s heard is true. No way he hasn’t already heard the news. I told you, Lo, I don’t play bullshit games.” He turns to regard me as we travel down the driveway. “Are you bothered by others knowing?”

“No!” The word bursts from my mouth as I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just … I work for your brother.”

“You’re acting like you’re the help and that somehow puts you below us.”

“Not below you, just an HR liability. My dad never hired women because he said it would be a distraction to everyone else, and I always hated that.”

“Welcome to Oregon, babe. Here, if someone treats you different because you’re a woman, you get to sue the fuck out of them.” King’s voice is a jumble of frustration and contrition.

“I wouldn’t sue you guys…” My eyes close for a moment with the ugly place this conversation has gone.

“They’re excited.” King shifts uneasily in his seat before looking over to me. “Everyone likes you, Lo. They know you aren’t in this for status, or to get with Kash, or anything else.”

“Get with Kash?” King’s eyes round on me and his brows are raised. I never even considered that people would attempt to use him to get to Kash when in my eyes, King
is
the main prize. I hope Summer kicked their asses.

“So how do we interact at the house?” This question seems far more important than King’s casual shrug and quiet laugh warrants.

“You can’t jump me in the kitchen or in the living room, but maybe the shop, depending on what everyone else is doing. The office is a pretty safe bet too.”

“King!”

His laugh grows louder while his grip on the steering wheel relaxes. “You can greet me however you’re comfortable. Just know that my returned greeting is going to involve kissing you, and possibly an ass grab.”

My cheeks lift into a smirk, appreciating he wants to kiss me when I’ve been wanting to kiss him every day that I’ve been working at the Knight residence and have seen him. Yet I know already that my ten-year-old counterpart and near sister is going to heckle the shit out of me.

“Why didn’t you send me your schedule?” King’s question doesn’t fit with my line of thoughts that are considering Mercedes’ reactions, causing my eyebrows to draw down with confusion. “You were going to text your schedule to me so I could come get you.”

“I don’t want a chauffeur.”

“Think of all the time you would save.” Low blow. Time is a constant shortage. “See, you would be able to spend more time on your portfolio and whatever else you want.”

“This is going to sound kind of crazy, but I sort of like the bus.” King sends me a silent look that says bullshit. “I like to see all the people. I need that inspiration when I start hitting lulls.”

“At least a third of the people that ride that bus talk to themselves.”

“It’s better than them trying to talk to me.”

He sends me another look of disbelief that’s colored with the slight hue of acceptance, or possibly defeat. It’s tough to tell which it is because he’s focused on parking.

King flips five pennies throughout the mostly empty parking lot and then speeds up to keep pace with me. His fingers lace with mine as we approach the doors. It feels good to hold someone’s hand. Growing up, I held hands with all of my friends. It was an acceptable show of love and friendship, like we were so giddy and happy to be together, we needed to be fused by our fingers. With age, holding hands somehow changes in definition. It’s no longer something you do with any friend. The acceptable list shrinks, which translates the action to hold a deeper sentiment. You hold hands only with people you’re sexually attracted to, like it’s a claim or a promise. I wish it were acceptable to hold hands with friends again, because while I feel a thousand tiny transmitters of emotion and lust being lit by holding King’s hand, it also brings me back to running through fields and pastures, giggling until I can’t breathe, sticky popsicles melting down my fingers. I’m mentally noting that I’m going to hold Mercedes’ hand tomorrow, knowing how likely it is that she never holds hands with anyone, when we step inside.

“What is this place?” I ask, looking up at the extensive sign as we enter the large space with the air conditioning running on high, regardless of the cool temperatures outside.

“Somewhere you can overcome your fear of being airborne,” King replies as my eyes dance over the large room filled with trampolines. “Come on, we need to get some socks.”

“Welcome to Fly High. Have you guys been here before?” A man who’s several inches shorter than me greets us.

“We’re virgins … at least for doing it
here
we are.”

Rolling my eyes to him, I drop my chin with annoyance. It only serves to make him laugh.

“Alright, well, you’ll both need to fill out these liability forms, then.” He gestures toward two monitors.

“Oh good, signing my death waiver is helping already.” My tone is dry, filled with a half-truth.

King chuckles and shakes his head as I sign my safety away. “You’re going to love this place.”

We climb the stairs and discover a vast area covered with trampoline panels, bridged by padded sections that extend to walls stretched with even more of the buoyant material. There are large foam pits to the side, a basketball court, a climbing wall, and more areas that I can’t see from where we’re standing.

“Ready?”

I look over to King with wide eyes. I can’t remember the last time I jumped on a trampoline, and feel the adrenaline rush of an eight-year-old me that was stirred awake in the parking lot, become fully awake. His lips pull up into that uneven smile that inspires me late at night, and he nods forward before stepping onto one of the rectangular trampolines. He bounces slowly without his feet ever leaving the surface. The energy in me rises as I step onto the one beside his and bend my knees, rolling my weight to my toes. My feet push off and I gain several inches of air beneath me. I land and push off a bit harder, feeling my heart race. I push further until I’m weightless, fearless, utterly lost in joy. I bounce to another rectangle of the mesh and bounce in a pattern only my feet seem to recognize. It leads me to a large mat that makes my body shift as I land on the solid surface, similar to the feeling one gets after riding a horse for several hours.

It leads me to the massive pit of foam where I stand, fixated. The thought is instant. I go from wondering to doing and within seconds, I’m crashing into a mess of soft foam that sinks below me. I’m laughing, pumped with energy and the desire to do it again as I lie weightless for a few long seconds.

King hits the foam less than a foot from me. His smile radiates to his eyes, and before either of us seems to question or realize what I am doing, I’m clumsily moving, shifting and climbing through the short separation and kissing King.

We spend the entire afternoon and most of the evening jumping, climbing walls, daring to cross bands extended mid-air that promise a cushioned fall of foam, and allowing our competitive spirits to spark through the relay race section. I think I surprised both of us when I beat him the first round. He didn’t make the mistake of taking it easy on me again. I may like fashion and sit with nearly weightless tools for my favorite pastime, but growing up like I did, I can still manage to be a force to be reckoned with.

My muscles are tired, and soreness teases my calves and hamstrings, but I can’t stop smiling. I want to come back and do this again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. Immersing myself into a world where there is no portfolio competition or modeling practice, I don’t have to fret over my roommate’s sexual activities, or what I’m going to do in a few months when I graduate.

I look over to King as we make our way out to the parking lot; Mercedes and Summer are ahead of us. Sensing my glance, he turns and bestows that radiant smile I have drawn so many times that I now know every single curve and crinkle, and with it comes the feeling that perhaps I don’t need to be bouncing on trampolines for hours to feel this euphoria. Maybe I just need this: King, Mercedes, Kash, and even Summer.

A
RT HAS
always been my main point of both stress relief and stress enhancer. I love sitting down in my private bubble and getting so far lost in my work that the world seems to pass by without even a whisper or trace. However, showing my work to someone and now creating this portfolio to mail off to be viewed and judged to see if I possess the necessary talents to do this internship is keeping me awake at night, requiring additional hours of drawing that I’m starting to feel more prominently in my wrists and hands, and I’m pretty sure the beginnings of an ulcer. Still, it pales in comparison to my long walk down the Knight driveway as I prepare myself to meet King and Kash’s parents and sister. King sprung it on me last night, trying to act nonchalant as he mentioned he was going to be cooking prime rib and to bring my appetite. I smiled, the thoughts of a stay-at-home date brewing in my imagination, and then abruptly blown away with, “they’ll probably arrive before you, but if you want me to come get you”—insert pointed look—“you’d be here first.” I was nervous, expecting him to announce one of the people from Switzerland, or the infamous Spencer, I’ve yet to meet, prompting me to ask who.

“My parents and sister.” He said it so casually, as if this was just a single step forward rather than leaps and bounds. Sure, in Montana I knew the parents of my previous boyfriends, often times their siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and entire life story. But that’s because I lived in a really small town and grew up with most of them.

My shock must have been evident on my face because King quickly explained they were coming for a birthday dinner for Kash—another fact I was surprised to learn.

It’s cold today, the wind whipping rather than blowing through my hair and the surrounding trees, making the walk seem even longer.

I’m halfway down the driveway when I try to call Charleigh and reach her voicemail. I don’t leave a message because I’m seeking a hit of confidence, one that a later returned call will not be able to soothe. I call Allie and sigh with relief when she answers on the third ring, her greeting sounding almost confused.

“I need your help.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m going to meet King’s family. His
entire
family.”

“Don’t you already know them all? I mean, you work for his brother.”

Frowning, I lower my head and keep walking against turbulent weather. Clearly she doesn’t understand. “Yeah, but tonight I’m meeting the elusive sister and parental units.”

“You need a drink. Did you stop and take a shot?”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. The gravel crunches beneath my steps, and the wind howls even louder. I might have to take King up on a ride back to the bus station today. My carefully selected outfit that’s intended to show I’m mature and sophisticated, and not a gold-digger, but ready to play because that’s my role, consists of dark denim skinny jeans that feel far too thin to be real denim, and a lightweight purple sweater with an open stitch that requires the use of a jacket.

“No, I didn’t think smelling like alcohol would help my case,” I say with a laugh.

Allie laughs, and I hear the slight rustling that had been present in the background stop. “You’re going to do fine, Lo. Just be you.”

“I’m an artist,” I cry. “They’re going to look at me the same way my parents did when I announced I was going to art school.”

“Lo, Kash is an artist too! Deep breaths!”

“Yes, but Kash is a
successful
artist.” That word makes all the difference. Anyone can say they’re an artist, but until you’re either published or have works in multiple museums, people say the word artist in a demeaning tone, often accompanied by an eye roll.

“I know. Stop going down that path though. It’s not going to help. Hold your head high, and know you’re just as good as anyone else, artist or otherwise. Our titles and jobs don’t define us.”

I heave a deep sigh. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. And just remember, King chose you, Lo. It doesn’t matter what the rest of his family thinks. It matters what he thinks. Plus, you’ve already got Kash and Mercedes on your side. This will be a cakewalk.”

“I’m glad I called you. This helps.”

“I’m glad you called too.”