The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  The underpainting makes me wish I were working in private. I loathe how it looks like a giant mistake rather than a piece of art. It’s the base coat that will allow me to paint the mural, and because this wall is red, I had to use a light beige paint to allow all of the colors to show, making my underpainting that much more pronounced.

  I lay out the old sheet I’ve been using as a drop cloth and unload my acrylic paints and supplies. Charcoals have always been my preferred method of art. I’ve been using them for so long they feel like an extension of my hands. Blending, sketching, shading, it’s all done with the charcoal and a gum eraser, but with painting, I have to hold a palette that constantly gets in my way or begins to slant while I’m working, blending colors I never intended to mix. Plus, I have to constantly add more paint to my brush and always have to create more of a hue that I inevitably run out of. Therefore, I’ve always had to force myself to paint, and while these frustrations are faced each and every time I hold a brush, my love for the techniques, colors, and results sometimes inspire me to want to paint every surface I see.

  When Estella and I first discussed me painting a mural, she wanted a beach scene, something that she could look at that would warm her through Portland’s rainy season. I offered to post a want ad for her at school because I don’t do landscapes; I never have. At least, not by choice. In school I’ve had to create them, like the ocean scene I was working on when I first met Mercedes, but I never like their results. Nature has many extraordinary secrets and gifts that it shares, and while I enjoy admiring them, it’s people who draw my attention. Gapped teeth, bridged noses, wide-set eyes, full lips, thin lips, freckles, dimples, scars, it doesn’t matter; everyone has beauty if people are willing to look and not get distracted by what they’re taught to find attractive. Estella wasn’t interested in having someone else. She insisted on having me do the work even if I couldn’t create what she wanted. It left me unsettled for weeks as I contemplated what I could paint that would still evoke the same warmth she was seeking. When I came to her with a list of ideas, she shook her head and walked away, leaving me wide-eyed with confusion. She found me later that same day and told me she wanted me to paint what I felt in my heart. That made the decision even more trying because I wasn’t painting a mural for me to look at every day; it was for her. It was less than a week later while we were closing up after a busy night like tonight that I knew what to paint.

  I squeeze several shades of reds, browns, yellows, and oranges onto my palette and add large globs of black and white. Several paintbrushes go into my back pockets in order of their brush size, and an old shirt goes over my shoulder to be used as a rag. Terry cloth is impossible to use. You can’t get a clean line with it.

  “Hey, Lo, I brought you some water for the wall and coffee for you.” I turn so I can smile my appreciation at Mia. “I wish I could see what’s in your mind! I can’t wait for it to be finished!” Her words translate to: whatever that is, it’s hideous! I hope you know what you’re doing!

  I press my lips together. I’m trying to smile, whether to give her assurance or because I don’t know my alternative, I’m not sure. It’s not convincing her of much because she returns the tight-lipped smile before taking a couple of steps back and disappearing.

  Her reaction makes the energy and passion I finally found recently dissipate. A long breath escapes me and my shoulders sag. I take a step back, turning my chin to look at the angles I’ve begun to outline, trying to see the still image as a fluid motion. My eyes close and the hum around me invigorates the emotion I’m working to capture. I pull a wide brush from my pocket and swirl reds with a touch of brown and orange. Then the noise fades along with my tension as new colors and lines are added to the wall.

  “LA, LA, La, Lauren!”

  I push a loose strand of hair back with the handle of my paintbrush and turn to see Kash, a wide grin covering his face.

  “You were in the zone!” he cries.

  I raise my eyebrows in question, and he laughs so hard he has to lean a shoulder against the wall for support.

  “I was saying your name for like five minutes before you heard me!”

  My smile is due to his amusement more than the fact that I find humor in the situation. It’s a part of any sort of passion. We all zone out when we care about something enough. I’m confident he knows exactly what it’s like to lose the world around you and find yourself in one where nothing exists but your craft. “Yeah, sorry.”

  “This is crazy! What are you doing here?”

  “I used to work here.”

  Kash raises his eyebrows and juts out his chin. “You worked here?”

  “For three years.”

  “No shit. What a small world.” His last word is spoken softly, distracted by the mess of color I’ve applied to the wall tonight. “What are you painting?” he asks, still following lines to blotches of color that will be used as my outline.

  “She won’t tell us.” Mia’s response is delivered with her red-painted lips spread wide and a smile that I recognize from going out with her after work a couple of times—she’s interested in him.

  “Can we guess?” Kash asks.

  “She only smiles when you do.” Mia places a fresh container of water and cup of coffee on the table beside me. “It’s a mischievous smile, like she wants us to keep guessing.”

  My lips climb because I do. “Mia, this is Kashton, my boss.”

  “I’m pretty sure Mercedes thinks she’s your boss,” he says, making me laugh out loud and causing my palette to drop down just far enough that one of my yellows mixes with a red.

  “That’s cool. She says really great things about you guys,” Mia says.

  “That’s because we’re pretty great.” I have to turn away from where I’m adding some paint to an area I don’t want to dry before finishing, to see if Kash is truly flirting or if his tone is just getting mixed in the chaos of the ensuing noise. His back is straight, his chin angled and eyes bright. I feel the urge to say something. Anything. I can’t understand why he’s flirting with Mia when Summer is so perfect for him.

  “Do you know who’s closing tonight?” My words are too fast and too loud to be subtle. Both of them turn to me, but my focus is on Mia, my eyes rounded in warning. Her eyebrows rise, telling me she’s misreading my warning to avoid him as a staked claim, before she takes a step back and smiles guiltily at me.

  “I’ll find out. Do you need anything else? Some food?”

  “No, I don’t want to stop and eat right now.”

  She nods a couple of times and then turns, giving a brief smile to Kash before disappearing.

  “King! Get over here! You were right!” Mia’s departure doesn’t seem to faze Kash as he yells through the restaurant, making me frown slightly. I’ve never appreciated when people disregard everyone else, and yelling in a restaurant doesn’t seem courteous in the least. Then his words repeat in my head and each of my muscles grows tense. King’s here? He recognized me? “King! It’s Lo!”

  Half the restaurant is now looking at me, and for the first time tonight, I’m looking at them. “Do you know everyone here?”

  “Yeah.” His gaze follows mine to the first couple of tables before he looks back at me and shrugs dismissively. “Just some friends.” I’m pretty sure this is twice as many people as I actually know.

  My thoughts stop as King appears with an arm slung loosely around Summer’s shoulders.

  “You didn’t tell me you were painting when we were here.” Summer’s tone holds a slight trace of offensiveness, but her eyes are distracted with following my blocks of colors. “Your colors are beautiful.” Her eyes find mine, and there’s an authenticity behind them that makes me feel slightly sheepish.

  “She won’t tell anyone what it is yet,” Kash explains.

  “That’s awesome,” Summer says, her lips spreading into a smile that makes her nose crinkle slightly. It’s an approving smile, and for the first time, I feel as though Summer is being genuinely
accepting of me. Maybe she wants to be my friend after all.

  “How often do you work on it?” Kash asks, his eyes once again following my paint.

  I shrug and run my brush through a color on my palette I had created so a shell doesn’t build over it from remaining stagnant. “When I get extra time. I’ve never done anything this big, so I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “You’re doing this in the shop!” Kash cries.

  My heart is beating so fast I feel nearly dizzy with the thought. Painting on a wall is different from a canvas because of its permanence. Sure, someone may paint over it at some point, but for a period at least, my work will be present on Kashton Knight’s wall for him and all of his riding buddies to see. The fact is intimidating. The shop is open and so bright and minimal that even if I were to use a gray palette, it would be impossible to miss.

  “I’m serious,” Kash says. “I didn’t realize you were already contracting work out when we discussed you doing this. I want you to paint my shop. I want a Lo Crosby original.” He turns to his brother. “King, draw up a contract tomorrow. I want this shit done before the Swiss team gets out here. I want everyone to see it, and have it be a part of the marketing plan.”

  My vision goes fuzzy with the onslaught of terror and pressure Kash just passed me. “I don’t know how to do a logo. I can paint something for you, sure, but …” My words fade because the only ones I have left are screaming I can’t.

  “Sketch some designs out. Create a portfolio of ideas, colors—the works. I want to see what you can come up with, and we’ll all sit down and discuss it.” Kash is in business mode, his thoughts precise and deliberate. I wish I saw him act more like this with Mercedes. “Can you get something ready in two weeks?”

  The muscles in my shoulders and neck feel strained as I stare at him, my brush still. Thoughts of what possible doors this could uncover, and how badly I could possibly mess this up, make my jaw feel rigid.

  “Two weeks.” Kash nods, setting the date.

  “Two weeks,” I repeat in some form of confirmation.

  “Now, come have a beer with us! King, did they bring more pitchers out?”

  “That’s okay,” I begin. “I need to get some more work done on this before I leave, and my paints are starting to dry.”

  “We’ll be back next Tuesday, see your progress.” Kash says the words like an assurance, but they’re anything but. I don’t want the added pressure of having someone continually checking in to see the development of my work. It makes the tiny creative receptors in my brain shrink as my panic levels grow.

  “You look nervous,” King says as Summer follows after Kash.

  I turn my attention to him and think of every previous tip I’ve used to relax. “I don’t create logos.”

  King lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug that makes them look even wider. “You said you don’t paint murals either, yet here you are.”

  “Yeah, but this will sit on one wall. Not on stickers and bikes, websites, and everywhere else.”

  “It will still become a part of this restaurant.”

  I shake my head. He’s being ridiculous trying to compare these situations. As a part of Kash’s business team, he of all people should be on my side.

  “Eventually you’re going to have to make the decision. There’s a shit ton of artists out there. Are you going to be able to cut it?”

  The fine hairs on my arms bristle though my cheeks heat. Only King can make me feel chilled with fear and heated with anger all at once. “I’ll be sure to sign your copy.”

  “WHAT ARE you doing, Lo?”

  I feel each of my muscles contract from the concern of Kash seeing me looking like this, causing the load I’m bearing to briefly lighten as my imagination works to picture the mess I resemble. Turning my head to face them, I feel a muscle in my shoulder protest. Kash is standing in the hallway holding a large box. The sight of King standing directly behind him makes me feel slightly mortified.

  “I’m just trying to make this fit in here.” My voice sounds far away from the strain of having my arms above my head for too long.

  “You’re going to break your back trying to carry that by yourself,” Kash objects. He sets his own box down and strides toward me, already raising his arms to the box though I’m several feet ahead.

  I give a final shove before he can reach me, and watch the box slide into place. A loud sigh breaks the silence and my arms fall to my sides, tingling so badly it’s hard for me to grip the top of the ladder.

  “Lo, don’t worry about this stuff. King and I will get it.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re crazy.” Kash shakes his head once. “Where’s muchkin?”

  “Her friend Paige is here. I hope that’s okay. She said she’s allowed over whenever. I think they both got tired of me hovering, so I thought I’d move some of these old files.”

  “Paige is cool and always welcome. Thanks for watching out for her, Lo.” I see the edges of Kash’s lips curl before he turns his back and grabs the box he carried in. His heavy footfalls echo in the direction of the living room as I slowly climb down the ladder, my muscles loose and fatigued.

  “Hurting yourself because you’re too stubborn to ask for help is stupid. Swallow your pride next time. Or is that something else you don’t like to swallow?”

  My eyes fix on King with a glare.

  “Oh, does that look say you’re starting to remember more?”

  “Sorry, I don’t obsess over something minor that happened months ago! Especially when it was nothing noteworthy.”

  “Then why do you still draw me?”

  I drop my head back and move my attention to the ceiling to stop seeing the cocky grin that’s covering King’s face. “I don’t draw you. I draw your stupid hands. Get over yourself.” I should have denied, denied, denied. No one knows I still draw him. For some reason, the knowledge that I do so often completely overshadowed any chance of deflection.

  “My hands?”

  Before I can stop my head from turning, I’m watching him look down at his hands, his baseball hat sitting low on his brow so I can’t see his expression, only hear his confusion in his tone. “Yup, your hands, stud.”

  My words are meant to be as condescending as they sound, yet he looks up at me with his smile stretched impossibly wide. “You did say my hands were amazing. You told me you loved how wide my fingers—”

  “Dude, is the new gear here?” The rustling of coats has King and me both turning toward the front door where Summer and Parker are shedding their outer layers.

  King’s stare meets mine again. He tilts his chin and purses his lips like he’s annoyed they’ve interrupted yet another one of our hate exchanges. “You told me to never stop.”

  “Never stop what?” Parker asks, pulling the box from King’s grasp and lowering it to the ground. His focus remains on it as he pulls a switchblade from his pocket and flips the blade free. In one quick motion, he slides it across the box with a soft pop from the tape, and then he looks to King, holding both flaps of the box. His gaze quickly turns to me and then returns to King with his eyebrows arched.

  “Never stop riding. His personality doesn’t allow for much else,” I say quickly.

  Parker howls with laughter and Summer quietly snickers, but I can read the vengeance in King’s narrowed eyes. “I thought you were the one that never wanted to stop riding?” King’s lips press into a firm line.

  “Dude, you aren’t riding again without us, are you?” Parker asks, sounding genuinely shocked as he looks to me.

  “I’ve just been messing around while Mercedes works with Summer. It’s nothing big.”

  “You have to get your ass back out to the shop with us! I want to see you do the ramp. You’ve got ice in your veins! You’re going to rock it.”

  “Yeah, ice in her veins and bricks in her head. Don’t give her any more dumb ideas to try,” King mutters.

  My fingers tighten around the ladder that
I’m still gripping for support. I wish it were smaller and lighter so I could throw it at him.

  “Don’t be a dick, dude. She won’t go off the ramp again or any of the jumps until she feels ready.” As much as I appreciate Parker defending me, I’d rather he shut up too so the conversation can be redirected.

  “Besides, we might take off the training wheels, but I’ll catch her if she falls.” Parker’s eyes dance and his lips spread wide with a smile that once again eludes to his intentions.

  “Maybe we’ll try the ramp tomorrow.”

  “Her long arms would probably knock you out.” King’s reply stings before I’ve been able to consider Parker’s innuendo. The guys laugh with a mutual agreement that has my cheeks warming with embarrassment and my hands falling to my sides in an attempt to not appear so large.

  “These are awesome!” The attention shifts to Summer as she pulls out a wad of fabric covered in plastic. She quickly pulls it open and shakes out a sweatshirt as I condense the ladder and disappear into the garage to put it away.

  “Lauren, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  My muscles pull back as a reflex from being startled. My thoughts were so distracted I didn’t hear him follow me out. The ladder misses the hooks. It falls with a crash and painful sear to my shoulder and hand as I desperately move to catch it so it doesn’t hit Kash’s car.

  “Are you okay?” King’s voice is raised with concern and only inches from me. He pulls the ladder away and leans it haphazardly against the wall, his attention fixed on me.

  “Dandy,” I reply, shrugging the pain off.

  King closes his eyes and moves a hand to his face where he presses a thumb and forefinger to either side of his nose. I trace over him without thought. The scars across his knuckles, the veins and tendons that are stretched even with little movement, and the grease stains along his index finger—I see it all. I turn before I can move on to his face and stalk back into the house where Parker and Summer are surrounding themselves with shirts and plastic wrappings.