The Weight of Rain (9 page)

I
PULL
the third load of laundry for the day—a heap of white shirts—from the washer and shove them into the dryer. My hands freeze. I think all of me has. A familiar scent is tickling all of my senses, causing my thoughts to race in a void of blankness. I reach for the same pile of shirts and bring them to my nose. The clean, crisp scent of the laundry detergent is prevalent, but there’s also the faint trace of men’s cologne, or body wash—something male. I take another deep breath before dropping them back into the dryer. Maybe it’s the same laundry detergent my mom uses? Or the cologne from someone I know? Or maybe it’s simply the act of doing laundry that’s making a piece of my mind think of home, but something has me feeling weak and dazed with nostalgia.

“Lo, you know you don’t have to keep cleaning, right?”

I turn to acknowledge Kash. I’ve started calling him the nickname that the others all use in the last week, though it sometimes still rolls off my tongue a little strangely. My cheeks heat as my nails run along my forehead. “Yeah, I know.” I don’t see much of him, and when I do, Summer and Parker are usually close behind. The way Summer watches him, tracking his movements and always being a step ahead of what he seems to ask or think of, makes me fairly confident she has feelings for him, but Kash is difficult to figure out. He is flirty and kind to her, but he is with me as well. I think it’s just his personality to be that way.

He smiles and takes a step back so I can exit the laundry room.

“How’s it going? Are things working out with your professor now that you’re attending your Wednesday class?” Kash tilts his head with a slight mock lighting his eyes. I finally had to approach him and discuss coming later on Wednesdays so I could attend my Comparative Art History class after being reminded by a friend that attendance alone is thirty-five percent of my grade.

“Yeah, thanks.” My professor is still intentionally calling on me more than any of the other students to prove his point, but thankfully, I’m catching up.

“How have things been going here?”

“Good. Mercedes is in her room finishing homework, so I thought I would put in a load really quick,” I say as we head back upstairs.

“Homework? I didn’t hear any complaining.”

“Yeah, I bribed her with ice cream.”

Kash laughs, following me into the kitchen where he leans both elbows on the granite counter covering the bar. “So, I saw on your paperwork that you’re from Montana.”

Appreciative of the change in topic, I nod. He can’t be oblivious to the fact that he’s a slob, and I sort of fear that my efforts are being seen as intrusive, but thus far, he hasn’t spoken to me about it until now. “Yeah. Have you been over there?”

“I went to Yellowstone once, as a kid.”

“That’s usually what people go for.”

Kash returns the smile I’m giving him to show my statement, though true, is intended to be lighthearted. “What do you think of Portland?”

“I love it. I love the people and the buzz around the city. I love the peaceful tranquility you find outside, and the food and music. I even love the rain.”

His head shakes as he quietly laughs. “Nobody loves the rain.”

“There’s something beautiful about it here. It’s intense. Almost cleansing.”

“Yeah, until you nearly drown in a puddle or get pulled down a river running down Highway 26.”

My cheeks lift so high my vision is slightly obscured as I nod my head in agreement. “I do sometimes feel like I need a raft. But there’s something special about this place. It just feels different.”

“Is it all of the weirdos?”

My cheeks are still stretched as I shake my head. “No. I have learned in my three years of being an unofficial Oregonian to recognize the transplants. There’s authentic weird, and then there’s trying to be weird.”

There’s a quiet rumble of laughter from Kashton as he leans farther against the counter. “You don’t seem to try to pose as weird. Are you sticking to your clean-air, backwoods Montana image?”

“Backwoods?” My eyebrows rise and my chin drops, making Kash’s laughter increase. “I am the definition of weird! I go to school for art.”

“I ride a bike for a living,” he counters.

“I know, but that’s cool. You do tricks, and jump, and…” my hands lift in the air to reflect movement, “…you do all that crazy stuff.”

“You have no idea what I do, do you?”

I shake my head and fight my lips from turning upward. “No, I really don’t.”

“I’ll show you. Next week I get to be in the editing process of some videos and images that are going with this Swiss campaign. You can come check it out. Give me your expert art advice.”

“I would love to, but I know nothing about film or photography. That’s a whole other world. Kind of like cooking.”

He laughs again and then resituates his baseball hat as I see a thought cross his features. “I want to see some of your artwork. Kenzie says you’re pretty good.”

I try to mask my surprise by shrugging.

“Oh, so you’re one of
those
people.”

“One of what people?”

Kash shakes his head, curving his lips into a smile. “I’m not sure,” he admits with a chuckle. “Your reaction didn’t give me much. I was hoping you would either admit that you’re really good or play it off and act like you suck.” His eyes narrow slightly and then his index finger taps his temple. “I’ll get you figured out soon enough. First, I need to see some of your work. Show me something.”

“I don’t have anything with me.” I don’t. My portfolio rarely travels with me.

“Bullshit. Open your bag and show me something.”

“You think I’m bluffing?”

“No. I think you’re ignoring the fact that I know what it’s like to have a hobby that you love. You live it. You breathe it. A piece of it goes everywhere with you.”

I nod a couple of times in silent understanding and then move to get my bag beside the kitchen table. Kash follows me, keeping a respectable gap between us, allowing me to choose what I want to reveal. I used to have a hard time showing people my work. There’s something very personal about it. I’m not showing you a scene or a person; I’m showing you how
I see
a scene or a person. In the last two years, that discomfort has ebbed as I’ve been trying to circulate my portfolio in an attempt to get my name out into some different circles. For some reason, showing Kash my work is comfortable, almost easy.

His lips curl into a knowing smile as I lift a sketchpad from my bag and hold it out to him. Without hesitation, he takes the book, holding it as though he understands and respects the countless hours that have been poured onto the pages.

“Holy shit.” His voice is barely audible as he stares at a sheet.

My curiosity is piqued. I move to look over his shoulder and see a drawing of Mercedes. Her hair is down, wrapped around her in curling vines, and her eyes are bright with a happiness that I’ve only recently been subjected to. Her mouth, however, is straight, reflecting little emotion as it does too often.

“You’re an artist.” His words are filled with admiration and a sincerity that makes me suddenly feel nervous. “This is insane!” He stares at several of the pages without a word, just silently inspecting each of them with a level of respect that makes me feel proud.

“These are really cool. Whose hands are these? Your boyfriends’?”

That damn flush returns to my cheeks and I shake my head. He can tell they’re intimate even though there is nothing sexual on the page. “No. Nothing like that.” I know what page he’s looking at by catching sight of a heavily shaded corner. I had drawn a series of pictures with hands from all different angles. Every perspective I can still picture them being from that night: balancing a bottle, resting on his thigh, holding my hand, running along my sides. I have worked to block the memory of him but still find myself mindlessly sketching parts of him.

“These are amazing, Lauren. Truly amazing.”

“Lo.”

Kash and I both turn toward the hallway where Mercedes is standing.

“What?” he asks.

“Her name’s Lo, Dad.”

He smiles and nods. “Did you know Lo is a flipping artist?”

“They look like pictures taken from a camera, don’t they?”

“Yes! It’s crazy!”

Kash’s form of artistry is a different realm altogether from my own, but his compliment feels nearly equal to hearing an accolade from Douglas McDougall or Anselm Kiefer.

“H
EY
, L
O
. Are you ready?”

I turn my head to look over my right shoulder and widen my eyes in question. “Ready for what?”

“The shop is finally ready!” There’s a giddiness in her eyes and voice that I haven’t heard before, and it makes my heart swell, but it’s the smile on her face that makes it feel like it may burst.

“Show me!” I don’t even consider what we’re going to do. I mindlessly follow her out into a light and steady late October drizzle. We pass the yard and continue on a well-worn dirt path to the large shop that can be seen from the house.

“Are you ready?”

“Want a drum roll?” Mercedes rolls her eyes with my dry tone, making me break into a smile. “Show me this world you love.”

A smile creeps back across her lips as she turns and pulls the door open. My nose wrinkles with the assault of fumes as we step inside, but I don’t focus on it. I can’t. My eyes are trying to ingest all of the gray tones of cement and the wide path running around the parameter. There are long rails along a set of stairs, a large pit of foam, and two wide ramps that curve up in giant cement C’s, all surrounded by bright white walls.

“This place is huge.” My voice is an echo, getting lost in the vastness.

“Isn’t it awesome?”

“Hey!” Mercedes and I turn and find Kash and Summer in the doorway. Kash is looking to Mercedes, obviously seeking approval. “What do you think? Pretty legit, right?”

“It’s blowing my mind.” Kash’s smile grows with Mercedes’ approval.

“Are you ready to break this baby in?” he asks, clasping his hands together.

“What about King?”

“He sent me a picture of the Alps yesterday. I think it’s a pretty even trade. Parker will be here in five.”

“Come on, Lo, let’s pick a bike for you.” Mercedes takes my hand, and I truly consider following her before I stop.

“Yeah, I think I’ll break in the bleacher seat,” I say, nodding to a long bench against the wall.

“What? No! You have to come ride with us,” she objects.

“I haven’t been on a bike in like ten years. I don’t think my outer layer of skin is going to look very pretty on these new floors.”

“Everyone can ride a bike.” Her head falls to the side, daring me to disagree.

“Not well,” I assure her.

“Come on, Mercedes. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t have to,” Summer objects. The fact that her eyes won’t settle on me makes me realize her sentiment is lacking something basic. Her outfit is simple and easy: a pair of skinny jeans and a graphic T-shirt. Somehow, the way she manages to wear them makes me feel uncomfortable and underdressed in comparison, though my mint green pants and floral blouse were even marveled by Allie yesterday when I set them out. I could likely wear one of the beautiful dresses that Allie and Charleigh create and still feel inadequate. Summer has a presence I can’t begin to compete with, let alone relate to.

“Yeah, remember? You never push someone’s comfort zone on a bike. It makes Uncle King pissy as all hell to do all the paperwork that goes with broken bones.” Kash looks from Mercedes to me and winks, leaving me to wonder if he’s serious. “We can help get her comfortable with riding again by showing her how fun it is.” His eyes are bright, and his smile has become wide and inviting. “I bet she’ll want to join us soon!” He grabs a bike leaning against the wall and swings his leg over the seat. It looks too small under him, like it’s made for a child. He grips the handlebars and pulls up, making the bike bounce on the back tire as he twists his body to turn it. The movement is clearly practiced. It’s smooth and looks so simple, my brain tricks myself into thinking I’ve done the same maneuver myself in the past. Like I can feel the jars from the pavement as the front tire hits the cement again. Then he twists the bike below him, and suddenly, my eyes can’t move fast enough.