Breaking the Rules

by Katie McGarry

  I rub the back of my neck. This is one of the things I hated about sleeping around. Occasionally, a girl had the stones to call me out on my shit and they’d be right.

  Two minutes of conversation. I can give it to this girl if it’ll wipe the slate clean. “Yeah, but it’s more like she found me.”

  She nods like I said more than I did. “So how redeemed has she made you? College route now?”

  The hairs on my body rise like I’ve got a sniper trained to me. “Yeah.”

  “When was the last time you hung out with anyone not her and partied? You know, be eighteen and not ninety?”

  Before the two of us got serious. “What’s it matter?”

  She toes a piece of green broken glass. “Matters more than you think. You’ll need to bring your girl in to let me meet the competition.”

  “There’s no competition,” I say.

  “Oh, Noah.” She pushes off the wall and walks backward for the opposite street. “Life is only about competition.”

  I watch what I used to be leave. This is going to be a great conversation with Echo: You know how I decided to stay here for a week, ruining your chances to meet with other galleries before we head home? Great news: I fucked one of the waitresses, and she wants to meet you.

  My cell vibrates, and I pull it out of my pocket, hoping to see a text from Echo. My eyebrows draw together when I spot Isaiah’s name: Where you at?

  Me: Vail

  Isaiah: Staying?

  Me: Fir Tree Inn Room 132

  Isaiah: See you by morning.

  “Damn.” I forgot to tell Echo about Isaiah and Beth.

  Echo

  Nestled at the bottom of a mountain, Vail is possibly the most beautiful town I’ve ever visited. The cobblestone streets with tidy buildings transport me into a cute little Swiss mountain village. Each store I pass screams expensive and boasts if you break it, you buy it. Well, the ice cream shop doesn’t boast that, but it would be cool if it did.

  Staying in the hotel with Mom’s messages on my phone became torture, and walking alone isn’t the needed distraction.

  A couple exits a store, and they laugh and hold hands. They’re beautiful together—wearing the same type of clothes and smile. They look like they’ve materialized out of a J. Crew catalog and chat over their shared love of some vase.

  Noah and I would never have that conversation.

  Feeling suddenly insecure and underdressed in my cut-offs and blue T-shirt, I tuck my free-flowing curls behind my ears and cross my sweater-covered arms over my chest as I wander past a line of galleries. I’ve visited lots of galleries over the summer, and judging by the quality of art in the windows, none of them have been this high-end. In any of these places, my work wouldn’t be fit to display in the bathroom. If what the curator in Denver said was true, my paintings are probably inhabiting a Dumpster.

  Noah wouldn’t say it, but he harbors guilt for changing our plans. He won’t after I gush over the number of galleries in Vail. This side trip could be life-altering. Maybe I do have one last shot at proving myself before going home.

  My pack dangles from my shoulder. I brought a sketchbook and chalk in case inspiration hits. Lots of inspiring views around me, but the art...wow. Talk about feeling less.

  A beautiful painting of the night sky hangs in the window of a gallery and catches my attention. It’s not the lines or the choice of coloring that draws me to it. It’s the constellation, and I become completely lost.

  “What do you think?”

  “Excuse me?” I glance to my right, and a guy with a mop of sandy-brown hair sporting a pair of jeans and T-shirt stands next to me. He’s older than me. Easily thirtysomething, I guess. To be honest, people sort of blend in between twenty-five and forty.

  He raises a bag in his hand. “I’ve walked by a couple of times, and you’ve been here staring. So I’m thinking you must like it.”

  I blink, not realizing I had been entranced for so long. “It’s good,” I answer, because it is. “I like the shading here.” Then motion to where the blacks and blues merge. “It gives it a nice Impressionist feel.”

  With the bag on his wrist, he shoves his hands into his pockets and appraises me as if I should have more to say, which I don’t.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “You don’t like the painting.”

  I hike a brow. “I like the painting.”

  “No.” The reusable grocery bag crackles. “You don’t. There’s a look people have when they like something, and you don’t have that light.”

  Not caring for the interrogation, I break the news. “It’s wrong.”

  His head jerks back. “What?”

  “It’s wrong,” I repeat and gesture to the middle of the constellation. “It’s missing a star.”

  “It’s art. There’s only what the artist intended.”

  “True, but I don’t think that’s the case here.”

  “Why?”

  I motion with my finger where the star should be. “Because if I meant to leave the star out, I would have made this area a shade darker. Just enough that you could only see it if you were searching. I also would have left a small indication that something so important, something so critical to your soul has disappeared. The sole reason a constellation exists is because it’s a sum of its parts. To lose one of those parts...it’s painful and irreversible.”

  He’s silent for a moment as he focuses on the area I pointed out. “Maybe you’re wrong on the constellation.”

  “My brother’s name was Aires. I couldn’t forget that constellation if I tried.” A heavy weight slams into my chest. I’ve gone too long without remembering my brother. I used to think about him several times a day, and now I haven’t thought of him since last night. I miss him, and what does it mean that he’s not haunting my every thought? Am I forgetting him?

  With a sigh that actually causes me pain, the man stalks into the gallery, lifts the painting off the easel and carries it into the back. If I was Noah, I’d drop the f-bomb right now, but I’m not, so a simple crap will suffice. I broke a cardinal rule: keep your mouth shut until you know who the gallery owner and the artist are because they can be hiding in the Trojan horse of a tourist with reusable shopping bags.

  So much for the idea of making connections in Vail.

  I stand there, staring at the empty slot, wondering if there’s any way to salvage this, like: “I didn’t mean it” or “I smoked crack before I traipsed over here” or “I’ve been kidnapped and a bomb’s been strapped to my chest, and if I don’t trash other people’s paintings, a bus on the highway will explode.”

  Yeah, I don’t think he’ll buy it.

  I turn and begin the long walk of shame back to the hotel. My cell vibrates. I pull it out of my pocket and frown the moment I spot the name of my therapist, Mrs. Collins. It’s like the woman is hardwired to me.

  Her: What are your thoughts on moving our Skype visit to tomorrow?

  I stop dead in the middle of the cobblestone street, and I rush out an apology when a couple has to separate their hands to move around me. Me: My father told you, didn’t he?

  Her: Told me what? :)

  Me: That my mom called! And the drill sergeant control freak finally returns. My father lasted two months longer than I thought he would before interfering with my therapy. Me: I thought he was giving me space!

  Time. Too much time. Maybe she’s moved on with her life instead of stalking mine. Right as I slip my phone into my pocket, it vibrates again. Her: He wasn’t the one to tell me.

  My chin drops to my throat. Noah is a dead man.

  * * *

  Sitting on the floor of the hotel room, I stare at a blank pad of drawing paper and rub my temples. Oh, God, what have I done? It seemed like a great idea at the
time. In fact, it seemed like the most brilliant idea in the course of human history, but I was mad. So mad and Noah is going to freak.

  Freak.

  Noah’s never been truly angry at me. Aggravated? Yes. Ticked at me? Yep. Strongly annoyed? Heck, yeah. Infuriated? No.

  The handle on the door rattles, and a half second later there’s a click when Noah’s key card unlocks the door. I press my hand to my stomach, hoping it will prevent the contents of lunch from making a reappearance.

  He steps in and smiles the moment he spots me. It’s a horrible, horrible, sweet smile. The type that says he loves me beyond belief. His hair partly covers his dark eyes, and when his face widens with the grin, I can spot the sexy, rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks.

  Oh, hot Hades in a snowstorm, he’s happy. I wish I could crawl under the bed and die.

  “You okay?” he asks as he heads to his suitcase on the extra double bed. He’s a foot from me, and he’s going to want fifty football fields between us when he opens that bag.

  When I don’t answer, he continues, “We’re going to splurge tonight and eat at a restaurant. I meant to take you out in Denver after the showing, but...”

  But Denver was the fifth level of hell.

  He begins to unzip his suitcase, and I blow out air to stop a dry heave. “Noah,” I say to try to interrupt him, but he doesn’t hear my quiet declaration because he realized he had opened the wrong part.

  “A nice restaurant. I know my shirt from last night needs to be washed, but I’ve got another nice shirt in here somewhere. Your choice of where to eat and don’t worry about the money. You deserve something nice.”

  “No, I don’t.” I really, really don’t.

  His hands pause on the zipper as he glances at me, and my heart thrashes once against my rib cage. He is going to go nuclear with a hundred percent chance of radiation fallout.

  “I want to do this,” he says. “Besides, we need to talk.”

  The crackling of the zipper starts again. I jump to my feet and charge Noah like a linebacker in the Super Bowl, only I weigh a hundred and twenty and barely cause Noah’s hair to blow in the breeze. “Stop!”

  I wrench his hands off his suitcase, and Noah grabs on to my fingers. “What are you doing?”

  “I am so sorry.” My foot taps against the floor, and I shiver because this is so freaking bad. “I’m sorry. But you texted Mrs. Collins, and you told her that my mom called and then she texted me and I was so angry because that’s something my dad would have done, and I don’t want to be dating my dad. I mean, he’s a control freak and you’re not, so why would you contact her? And I was so angry that I did this and now I wish I didn’t do this, and I’m sorry.”

  His dark eyes dart around my face. “Mrs. Collins told you that I texted her?”

  “She told me that you told her.” A flash of anger and hurt strikes me like a lightning bolt, and I yank my hands away, remembering why I’ve done this. “How could you? It’s my decision if I want to talk to Mrs. Collins about my mom. Not yours.”

  “I didn’t tell her,” he says.

  “But if you didn’t...” Blood rushes out of my head, leaving me light-headed. I suck in a breath of air, but it stays in my mouth. “...and my dad didn’t...”

  “Baby, you need to sit down.”

  Little lights appear in my vision, and for a second, I think they’re pretty. A high-pitched ringing drowns out all other sounds...all other sounds but one.

  “Fuck!”

  Noah

  With my knuckles, I rub the back of my head and when I inhale, the air contains a full dose of chlorine. I chuckle because what the fuck else is there to do?

  “I am so sorry.” Echo stands beside me with her arms wrapped tight around her waist and stares at me with the most pathetic puppy dog eyes. After she realized that her mother, not me, had contacted Mrs. Collins, Echo hyperventilated. Scared the shit out of me, but after I sat her down and gave her some water, she returned to breathing normally.

  Can’t exactly be mad at someone when you’re happy they’re okay, plus this...well...Echo’s got balls. “My boxer shorts are in the filter.”

  She slams her eyes shut, and I extend an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer to me. “It’s all good, baby. No harm, no foul...assuming management hasn’t figured it out, otherwise we’ll be staying in the tent tonight.”

  Every article of clothing I own is floating at the top of or has sunk to the bottom of a small indoor rectangular pool. Our voices carry in the closed-in room, and because one thing today is going right, it’s completely empty except for us.

  She groans and drops her forehead into my chest. “I threw your clothes in the pool and hot tub. You have got to be angry.”

  Hot tub. Hadn’t caught that one yet. Sure enough, my button-down shirt drifts at the top. “Damn.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she mumbles again into the fabric of my lone dry shirt. “Are you mad?”

  Am I mad? I step back from Echo and pop my neck to the right. I’m not happy, but am I mad? The filter ejects a pair of my socks. Son of a bitch.

  I bend my knees, and in a swift motion sweep Echo off her feet and toss her into the pool. Water splashes up and soaks part of my shirt and jeans, but at this point, I don’t care.

  I crouch by the edge and watch as Echo kicks up from the bottom. Her red hair wildly fans out in the water, and as she breaks through to the surface, it slicks back against her head. She coughs, then drags in her first gulp of air. Damn if my siren doesn’t look sexy all wet and disheveled.

  “Feel better?” she half chokes out.

  “I’m not mad,” I respond.

  “You forgot to add anymore.”

  “My bad. Anymore.”

  Echo laughs, and I smile along with her before releasing a long breath. The past couple of days have been like dragging Echo through glass in the middle of a firefight. If I’d known throwing her in a pool would erase the tension, I would have done it earlier. Guess there’s something to be said for baptism.

  With some effort, Echo slides off her shoes and throws them onto the concrete. Then she peels off the sweater, also lobbing that to the side. I make a mental note to steal it when she’s not looking.

  “I really am sorry.” She treads water in the middle of the pool, and I hate the shadow that crosses her face. “I didn’t stop to think that my mom would contact Mrs. Collins. I’m so used to Mom being gone, you know? It’s just...I don’t know.” She slaps the water with her hand. “Crap, Noah. I don’t know about any of this.”

  “I get it.”

  “Do you?” It’s there in her expression, the same desperation that mirrors the craziness clawing at my insides.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. There’s a white silence in the closed-in room, and it makes her apology seem solemn. “For this. For all of it.”

  “Me, too.” The water ripples around Echo as she stays afloat, and it eventually reaches the wall next to me. “Time to start bobbing for jeans.”

  Her mouth squishes to the side and the contents of my stomach bottom out. “What?”

  “I can’t open my eyes under water.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Tiny voice. “No.”

  Fuck me. I straighten, pull the shirt over my head and kick off my shoes and socks.

  “What about your jeans?” Echo asks. “It’s just us and I’m cool with you swimming around in your boxers. You need at least one dry outfit.”

  I glance at my jeans and they hang right at my hips. “It wasn’t a boxer type of day.”

  Echo sinks and when she resurfaces, it’s only with her eyes then slowly up to her chin. “One of these days you are going to get us into a ton of trouble.”

  “Bab
y, so far the trouble’s been on you. Breaking into guidance counselors’ offices—”

  “That was you!”

  “—tossing clothes into the pool.”

  She splashes me as she kicks back.

  I shake my head to get the water out of my hair. “You’re paying for that one, princess.”

  “You have to catch me first,” she taunts as she grabs at a floating blob. My favorite black T-shirt smacks onto the concrete with a wet flop.

  “Little full of yourself tonight, aren’t you?”

  I love the light in her eyes. “I was the three-year-straight swimming champ.”

  That I didn’t know. “So was I. Mine in the Y from third to fifth grade. What’s your story?”

  Echo’s grin widens. “Backyard baby pool against Lila. Reigning preschool champ.”

  “You’ve got me quaking in my boots.”

  She goes under for the balled socks in the three foot section, and I eye the deep end. A pile of blue jeans covers the drain. Wonder how many quarters it will take to dry all of this. Doesn’t matter. The answer doesn’t get my clothes onto land. Like my dad taught me, I raise my hands over my head and dive in.

  Echo

  Dripping from head to toe and shivering so much that my brain rattles, Noah and I scurry down the hallway, each of us carrying a hundred-pound load of completely soaked clothes. Okay, only I scurry. Noah more or less struts, and I tote fifty pounds while Noah shoulders the rest.

  My hands shake so badly that I miss the slot for the key card twice and breathe a sigh of relief when the door clicks open. The air conditioner I had turned down earlier in the day has officially become my worst enemy as goose bumps creep up my arm to my neck.

  “Damn, Echo. Freezing meat?”

  “I was hot.”

  Noah dumps his clothes into a lump on the floor and readjusts the thermostat from arctic winter to what will eventually be tropical heat.