by Aria Ford
“He is,” she agreed softly. She lifted her drink and I looked at her pale, even fingers holding the glass. Her nails were polished a soft pink and her hands were daintily pale. I realized I was staring and cleared my throat.
“Um, what do you do for work?” I asked. I hadn’t really meant to just come out with it.
“I do design. Furniture and interior pieces.”
“Oh?” I said in delight. “That sounds really fun to do.”
She looked pleased. “It is. I enjoy it.”
“What do you do?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know what a designer does.” I felt stupid needing to ask, but I was fascinated.
She smiled. “Well, we design things.” When I frowned, she chuckled. “I mean, what we do is to conceptualize and plan the different items—let’s say a vase. If I were making vase for a range celebrating Oriental design, I would have to research the Eastern art forms as to line, materials, historical periods…” she shrugged. “…And then sit down and have all that in my head and feel what came through to me.”
“Wow,” I said. “You must have studied hard for that.” I was impressed, it was probably obvious.
She smiled. “Three years. Design media arts at UCLA.”
“Oh. Wow,” I added, with my attempt at an interested smile.
Inside, I felt dumb.
I didn’t have a college education. It was one thing that stressed me badly.
I had spent the last few years of high school either high, drunk or running away from home. That was after Mom left, when I was fifteen. When Dad finally managed to get me back, dried out and sane again, I was eighteen and it was too late to go back. I finished high school through tuition and adult classes, and from there went straight into the company. I climbed from starting at the bottom rung—a truck driver. Dad was harsh, but probably fair in what he did.
It didn’t make me feel smarter.
“You are in charge of coordinating things at the company?” she asked me. Her brown eyes were big and looked interested in my answer.
“More or less, yeah,” I said with what I thought of as an indifferent shrug.
“Wow,” she said, sounding impressed. “Big job, huh?”
“Maybe,” I said. I hoped I looked unimpressed. Like Dad said, be indifferent to everything.
She frowned. “Sorry, but I didn’t get your name?”
I frowned. “Kyle,” I said. “You’re Bethany, right?” I remembered the name. It suited her. Soft and yielding and pretty.
“That’s right,” she said easily.
What to say next? “So,” I said. “This degree—media arts, you said?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Design media arts.”
I dried up. What had I wanted to ask about it? I had no idea what it was about. How could I ask anything? I was hit with a blaze of inspiration. “Is it like fine art?”
She chuckled. “Oh! Well, that’s a hot topic. Hey, Rod?”
Her brother looked up from his drink with an easy frown. “What’s up?”
“Your friend—he asked me about fine arts.”
“Oh!” Rodney grinned. “Good luck, Kyle.”
I looked at her with a stupid frown. “What’s he warning me about?”
She grinned. “Well, fine arts are—for the most part, at least in my opinion—elitist.”
“Elitist.” I was already feeling out of my depth. She nodded, smiling.
“Yes. Like, who learned about them? Historically, I mean?”
I raised an eyebrow. How the heck would I know? Hell, the last time I learned about art we were making cutouts from potato halves in the kindergarten classes. “Um…men?” I guessed.
She giggled. “Well, that’s part of my argument, yeah. Men, usually upper-middle income group, European. Historically the people who have been from the upper social strata. That’s what I mean! You could choose to—and you don’t have to choose to see it this way, but I do—see Fine Art as being a very small microcosm; not one that reflects the truth of history.”
I resorted to taking a sip of my drink and said nothing. Even the words she used were busy going over my head. Microcosm. Elitist. Strata. Dammit! What could I say? I resorted to being quiet.
She frowned. “Kyle?”
“Mm?” I sipped my drink. Took a menu and looked at it idly.
I felt her shift in her seat. “So?”
“You mean…what do I think?” I asked uncomfortably.
“Well,” she sounded a bit terse. “I told you my view, and then you went all quiet. You either agree with it or you took offense from something I said. And I think it was the second choice. Yeah?”
I frowned. “Yeah.”
She bit her lip. “Okay,” she said. “So, tell me what you think about it. Why am I wrong?”
I looked over desperately at Rodney, but he was busy with his family and trying to choose his meal. I hadn’t even looked at the menu yet, and here I was embroiled with someone in an argument I hadn’t a hope of winning.
“I think,” I said slowly…what did I think? Think, Kyle! Dammit. “I think that art should be for everyone. I mean,” I said, suddenly warming to the theme, “that you don’t have to come from a rich background or even an educated one, to see beautiful things and like them for what they are. I mean, take street art. Some guy with a can of paint—and he makes something beautiful. Don’t tell me you need learning or money to make art. You don’t.”
I was thinking of Fletcher when I said that. He had been a street kid—one of the tough guys, the ones who we all avoided in the gang—but he was an artist. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do if you gave him a can of paint. We loved Fletcher. When the police finally took him down we’d all tried to get him back. I wondered where he was now.
I got lost in thought. When I looked up finally, Bethany was staring at me. To my surprise, she was smiling. Her eyes were warm.
“Kyle, you are the first person I’ve ever spoken to who gets it. Thank you.”
I blinked in surprise. “I do?”
She laughed. “Yes!” She was smiling, her brown eyes shining. “I have never spoken to anyone else who understood so well, or said it so clearly.”
She reached over and her hand touched mine where it rested by my place. I flinched. She looked at me with eyes that widened and then narrowed as if she was offended. She took away her hand.
“So,” Rodney called cheerfully. “Ready to order?” he looked at Bethany and then at me, a little frown moving down his forehead.
“Um…” I looked quickly at the menu. “The tuna steak.”
Bethany looked at me and then at the page in front of me. “Um…the gnocchi in sage butter, please.”
When our orders had been recorded, I resumed staring at her. She looked back at me, her brown eyes shining but a bit hurt. I recalled how I’d reacted when she’d touched my hand.
Hell, Kyle—she was being friendly. You didn’t need to act like she was doing something bad.
I felt stupid. Somehow, I had managed to say something that impressed her and I should have felt good about that. But oddly enough I didn’t. I just felt like somehow I’d cheated. Now I felt dumb and like an idiot. Great.
“You said something about vases,” I said stolidly. “Is that what you’re working on now?”
“No, that was just me illustrating a point,” she said thinly. She looked away, focused on some imaginary spot on the wall opposite.
I sighed. Now what had I done?
“Oh,” I said, simply because I just had no idea what else to say.
“Yes.”
We sat uncomfortably. I had no idea what to say and she seemed to be doing her best to pretend that I didn’t exist.
“So,” the man who had been introduced as her uncle said to me, “you’re a boss where Rodney works.”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“He’s not Rodney’s boss,” his sister said quickly. That made me frown. Why was she so eager to let everyone know that I wasn’t Rodney’s b
oss?
Rodney laughed. “He’s lucky he’s not. My real boss has white hair now. He was dark two years ago when I started working with FastLane.”
We all laughed.
“That’s actually true,” I said. “But I’m sure Rodney has nothing to do with it.”
Rodney chuckled. “You’re sure. I’m not, really.”
“Rodney Hayworth, stop being modest,” Bethany said.
He grimaced. “Bee, you know it’s not modesty. I mean it.”
“Rodney, don’t sell yourself short. You’re a great guy.”
I bit my lip. I wished I had a big sister who would tell me things like that. For that matter, I wished I had a family. Dad had always been distant and cold, and Mom…well, I had some happy memories of her, but things had fallen apart when I was about eight. The fights, the bickering, the stale silences between slammed doors.
When I was twelve, I ran away from home for the first time. And then when I was fifteen, Mom had left altogether. I always wondered if it wasn’t because of me. It’s your fault. Before you were born, we didn’t fight like that. Why can’t you just be a normal kid?
I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling tears come to my eyes as my dad’s voice hissed those words at me across the gap of years. I reached unconsciously for my drink. Wash it away. Shut it up. Close it down. I drank. When I had taken a big mouthful, I turned to see Bethany staring at me.
“What?” I said harshly. I instantly regretted the tone of my words, but what could I do?
She looked away, twisting so that the back of her head faced me. I could see the very elegant way she’d styled it, and the soft glowing tresses. It was beautiful. It was dumb, but it really hurt to have someone so beautiful ignore me.
Great. Now she hates me too. I never get anything right, do I?
“You ordered something? I…oh!” Rod smiled as his dinner appeared before him, the waiter carefully setting down three plates—Rod, his uncle and aunt—and then going away.
“Yes, I did,” his sister agreed. “I’m sure it’s coming soon.”
It did, but then when it arrived I had no real appetite. I soon got my appetite back again and actually enjoyed my meal—as much as I could when I kept on thinking about Bethany and what I had done to upset her.
Well, Kyle, I told myself harshly, what did you expect? Your own mom didn’t want you. So why would you think anyone else would do different? That was my life. No one actually really wanted me. Maybe for my money, but not for me. I might as well get used to it.
Chapter 3: Bethany
I woke up the next morning with a weird restless feeling inside of me. I couldn’t have said exactly why, but I felt distracted and kind of scratchy, like everything was sandpaper on my skin.
“Bee!” Rodney greeted me in the kitchen. He was seated at the table, a cup of coffee steaming before him. “Slept well?”
“Kind of,” I said listlessly. I went to the coffee maker. I needed a good cup of coffee. Once I’d woken up a bit, this distracted feeling would go away. “Is Mom up?” I asked as I waited for the coffee to come through.
“She is. I think she’s washing her hair or something.”
“Mm.” I could hear a hair dryer and smell that hot-air smell mingling with the scent of daisies in a vase. Daisies!
I meant to do some work today, I recalled suddenly. I sipped my coffee, focused and realized nothing was coming to mind. All I could see, weirdly, was Kyle’s face.
I hadn’t realized how much he had threw me off.
“That guy from last night,” I said slowly.
“Sorry, Bee,” Rodney said instantly. “I…that was stupid of me. I shouldn’t have brought him along. I…”
He trailed off as I gently interrupted him. “It’s not that, Rodney. I just wanted to ask you about him. There’s something about him that unsettled me.”
“Oh?” Rodney frowned at me. “What, Bee?”
I felt frustrated. “I don’t know.” I couldn’t put my finger on it, which was unlike me. “He just…disturbed me.”
Rodney frowned. “He was rude to you?”
His brow had lowered and he looked angry. I felt touched. Trust my brother to go wanting to fight battles for me.
“No, Rodney—he wasn’t…well, actually, he was. But not on purpose—not really.” I blinked in surprise. If I thought about it, he had been rude. I realized what had hurt me most was his coldness. Just as we were getting around to having a decent conversation—something I enjoyed—he had closed up. And looked so shocked when I just gave him a friendly touch on the hand!
Rodney sighed. “I’m sorry, Bee. It was a mistake to bring him.”
I shook my head, feeling irritated. “No, it wasn’t. Why do you always think you screwed up? That isn’t my point!”
He looked hurt. “Hell, Bee. No need to shout.”
I regretted it instantly. “Sorry, Rodney…Really. I’m sorry. I’m just moody today. Probably didn’t sleep enough.”
“You’re tired. I get it. You did just fly for hours and hours.”
I had to smile. “Yeah, I did.”
He grinned, a small embarrassed grin. “And then I dragged you out into a party. I know. I know.”
“Never a dull moment, eh?” I said fondly. He laughed.
“I guess. Mom! Hey!”
My mom appeared, her reddish hair fluffed out around her face. She was smiling.
“Guys! Hey!” She bounced over to the coffee machine and took out a big mug from the cabinet. “Great party!” She said to Rodney with a grin.
“I’m glad you had a good time,” Rodney said, smiling into his coffee. I felt silly. I should lighten up more. Why couldn’t I just go out and have a good time and then forget about errors or awkwardness?
It’s not my nature to be like that.
I just think more about details. Maybe that’s what makes me good at what I do? Who knows.
I took some muesli and another cup of coffee over to the table where Mom and Rodney were engaged in a discussion about baseball.
“Come on, Mom,” Rodney was saying. “The Dodgers are going to come up this season. I know it.”
Mom laughed. “Rodney…you and the Dodgers. You know the Yanks are going to smash them. Just you wait.”
While I listened to them talk, I tried to think about work—just because I was taking a week’s holiday here didn’t mean that I was going to take time off my job. It was, in fact, an ideal opportunity to open my mind and be creative.
Except that nothing was coming up.
Nothing except that handsome, distracting face. I closed my eyes a moment, thinking about what it was that disturbed me about it. It was, I thought, the contradictions.
When he talked about street art, he was so passionate. It felt as if the cause really mattered to him. But when he let me in that far, he suddenly withdrew. He was cold and distant instantly again. I saw real warmth in his eyes when we shook hands, and then he suddenly got all cold and snobby. What was his agenda?
I shook my head and reached for my coffee. I was being silly. Why would he have an agenda? So he didn’t like you, Bee. Get over it. Just because you liked him doesn’t mean that he has to like you.
I put my coffee down with some surprise. I liked him? Really?
“What, Bee?” Rodney looked at me with a little frown between his brows.
“What?” I asked defensively. “Did I do something weird?”
“You just look so worried,” Mom said, concerned. “What’s up? If we’re bothering you, we’ll go to the living room—we’ve finished our breakfast. I know you want to work.”
I sighed. “It’s not that.” I’d work if I could! I just can’t focus. It’s not your fault: it’s him.
When Mom looked hurt I felt the restlessness that had been lurking in me take sudden flight. I pushed back my chair and stood. I had to get out of here and give myself some time to think.
“Sorry, guys,” I said ruefully. “It’s not you. I just feel weird this morning. I’m goi
ng for a walk. See you later?”
Mom and Rodney exchanged glances that said they were worried about me. Then Mom nodded to me.
“Sure, sweetie. We’re planning to go out to lunch. Meet you at Green Café later?” She sounded concerned and caring.
I nodded. “At twelve thirty?”
“Perfect.”
I rinsed the dishes, loaded them into the dishwasher and headed out. In the street, the sun was shining warmly. I felt it sink into my bones and my mood improved. Out here in the fresh air with no disturbance and a chance to think, I could at least assess what was bothering me.
I liked him.
Okay, I should put that more honestly. When I first saw Kyle Beckham, I thought I had woken up in a dream. The guy was amazingly attractive. With that long, lean face, cool gray eyes and that dark hair, he looked like a cross between Prince Charming and The Terminator. He was stunning.
I couldn’t help that he was also confusing.
“Did he like me, or actually loathe me?” Saying it aloud made me realize that was what was bothering me.
I wasn’t used to people stiffening up and getting all cold on me the way he had. I was used to people being open and friendly and, well, a bit warmer. I caught sight of myself in the reflection of café window. I wasn’t so bad looking! I felt almost relieved. He made me feel like I had two heads or something.
