The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  “Lo, what size do you need?” Parker asks, lifting a pink sweatshirt and digging for the tag.

  “I’m good. Thanks though. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you guys later.”

  Parker’s hands stop, and he turns to look at me. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be here.” I grab my coat and look around for several minutes before recalling I left my bag out in the shop. My breath releases in a silent huff as I make my way to Mercedes’ room, ready to leave. I knock twice, opening the door as I do, and find both of them sprawled out across the floor with a mess of magazines between them.

  “Bye, ladies! Have fun tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Each delivers a half-hearted wave that reinstates they’re having fun and that Paige is a good kid. This small assurance lightens the weight on my shoulders as I head back to the front door.

  “Night, Lo!” Kash yells down the hall.

  “Bye, Kash,” I call in reply, gripping the front door handle. “See you tomorrow.”

  It’s cold out, the air heavy, saturated with a dampness that has created a low fog that is both eerie and beautiful. The gravel crunches beneath my feet for several steps as I ignore the sound of movement coming from the garage until King appears beside me, pushing a bike.

  “I thought you were going home.”

  I am not going to look at him. I am not going to look at him. I am not going to look at him.

  “Stalking me again?”

  My head whips around and my narrowed eyes fix on King. He laughs loudly, freely, his head thrown back like the act is medicinal. It makes memories filter into my thoughts of that night and how we both laughed like this. Together.

  I hate that he has such a great laugh.

  I hate that he enjoys laughing so much.

  I hate that he’s laughing at me.

  “I was just kidding. I knew you were ignoring me.” He extends an arm and wraps it around my shoulder, gently jostling me. “Loosen up.”

  “I resent that you’re implying that I’m uptight because you have a terrible sense of humor.”

  “My humor isn’t that bad.”

  “It’s not that good, either.”

  His lips curl into a small smile, barely showcasing the unevenness of his lips before I realize I’m breaking my vow and looking at him. I don’t return the friendly expression. I look forward again, slightly surprised that the fog has become thicker.

  “That guy the other night that hit Summer’s car, his screaming like that, the anger, why weren’t you bothered by it? You should have been afraid or angry, but you were neither.”

  “If I had, he would have dictated my emotions. I didn’t give him that satisfaction.”

  The skin between his eyebrows draws together. “You’ve dealt with anger before.” His words repeat in my head, working to verify if it’s a question or statement. There was a slight inflection with the last word, but his eyes aren’t asking, they’re verifying.

  “Don’t we all feel angry sometimes?”

  “I didn’t say your own.” My jaw sets. “You hang out with Mercedes all afternoon, and while you have definitely connected with her, she isn’t the easiest personality to be around, especially when she’s not getting her way. It never gets very far under your skin though. You know how to calm her down. I didn’t really realize it until I saw you face off with that guy.”

  “Realize what?”

  “You’ve dealt with some pretty difficult tempers, haven’t you?” The concern in his tone turns knowing.

  “I didn’t have angry and abusive parents if that’s what you’re thinking.” It is. “My dad is sort of a gruff guy, but he would never hit me. Make me muck stalls for a month straight, no doubt, but hit me, never.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “What about her?”

  “You said your dad wouldn’t hit you, but you didn’t say anything about her.”

  “She wasn’t around long enough to know if I’d annoy her that much. Neither one of them were, really.”

  “What do you mean? Like they worked a lot?”

  The gravel crunches under our feet as I look over at King and find what I was expecting: attentiveness. I could feel it. King’s emotions are like drops of rain, and whether I want to or not, I feel all of them. First they tickle my skin, then coat me, refusing to be ignored. Finally, it seems they soak into me, reaching parts of me I don’t think anyone has ever touched. I’m not certain how he’s capable of doing so—I’m not sure he even realizes it. Sometimes it terrifies me that it’s apparent with my reactions; other times, I really hope it is.

  “My mom left when I was a baby.” King’s eyes tighten, as he listens to me divulge a fact about myself that I have rarely discussed. Growing up everyone just seemed to know I only had my dad and brother. No one ever asked me where she had gone, and it wasn’t something I ever enjoyed discussing. “I see her from time to time.” The times when I have told others about my mom, their faces relaxed when I explained this fact, but King’s does the opposite.

  “And your dad works a lot?”

  I nod, turning my attention to the path briefly before looking back to him. For some reason, I want to see his reactions. “Yeah. I mean I know he loves me. He’s just busy, and he doesn’t like the whole art scene. If it was up to him, I wouldn’t have gone to college. I would have stayed and worked with him.”

  “Doesn’t he want more for you?”

  My eyebrows furrow slightly. “What he has isn’t less than what I want—it’s just different.”

  “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean that what he does isn’t something to be proud of. I just meant that if art is what you love, doesn’t he want that for you? Isn’t that something we want for everyone we care about?”

  “Sometimes people get distracted by thinking they know what’s right for someone.”

  He nods once and then looks forward, a smile raising his lips. “How old are you again? Sixty?”

  “Well, I grew up working with a lot of people older than my dad. That likely aged me an additional twenty years, so that makes me forty-two.”

  King laughs in response as we walk through a well-lit pocket. The light from the garage dances across his chestnut hair, highlighting and shading different strands.

  “How old are you?” It’s a question I’ve pondered several times but for some reason seems so trivial. So often people obsess about age differences, yet I could hear that King is thirty-five and I don’t think it would change my feelings for him even if others think it should.

  His eyes meet mine, and the humor is gone. “Twenty-seven.” I keep his stare, not even blinking for several seconds while he waits for a reaction that I don’t give.

  “That means you’re only fifteen years younger than me.” Slowly, his lips climb into my favorite smile.

  “YOU’RE HOME early.” Allie’s words interrupt my mental checklist, startling me.

  “Yeah, I didn’t work today because my mom’s coming for dinner.”

  “I didn’t know she was coming. How long will she be in town?”

  “I’m not really sure. Hopefully through the weekend. I’d like to show her around.”

  Allie smiles thoughtfully, building my anticipation. “Think she wants to attend a modeling practice Friday morning?”

  “I thought you were going to ask Kenzie?”

  “No, you suggested I ask Kenzie, but I told you no. You’re my muse, babe!”

  “Muse?” My tone is doubtful, filled with humor while I secretly pray that she’s joking. I can’t say no to her if she really wants me there. As an artist I know how difficult it can be to connect and harness your creativity.

  Her blue eyes widen, silently pleading with me. It’s like a direct shot to my gut. I feel awful for making a joke when I had even the slightest doubt about her sincerity. “My mom would love model practice. Hell, she’ll probably have some good tips. She modeled when she was our age. I’d tell you about it, but she’ll likely repeat the stories five times over, so
I’ll save you the pain.”

  There’s a lingering hint of embarrassment in her smile, but it fades after I reach forward and hug her. “Friday,” I confirm. She nods, her confidence returning before I head up to my apartment so that I can start preparing dinner.

  KING’S NAME leaves my mouth as a curse while I pull open the window. My eyes burn so badly from the onion I’ve just chopped, I can’t even see straight. “Who in the hell thought eating these was a good idea after their eyes felt like this?” I cry, fumbling to reach for the sink so I can turn on the water. I blindly wash my hands and then splash cool water on my face, desperate for a reprieve.

  My eyes are still tight, tears blurring my vision when I smell smoke. I turn around and find the pan that the onions are supposed to be sautéing in releasing billows of smoke into the small kitchen.

  “No no no! What is going on?” I remove the pan from the burner, fanning the air with my free hand before grabbing my spatula and turning the onions. “I forgot the oil,” I groan. The onions are dark but don’t appear burnt, so I pour some oil into the hot pan and listen to the sizzles and pops fade before returning it to the heat. I release the handle as I scroll over the recipe again, making sure I’m not forgetting another step, and nearly drop it when a pain sears through my middle finger. I pull it back from the stove where it brushed against the burner and thrust my entire hand into the sink that’s filled with lukewarm water and packed with several days’ worth of dirty dishes.

  A new pain hits my palm. It’s a sharp, instant pain that fades quickly. I pull my hand from the water, confused and slightly fearful. A long white line leads from my ring finger to the pad of my thumb. I stare at it, dumbfounded, grateful that I must have pulled back fast enough or not hit the blade hard enough to inflict damage. Then the white disappears, replaced with maroon blood that makes my stomach curl. I grab the roll of paper towels and rip several off before clutching them in my fist.

  The onions are popping, the oil splattering. I work to carefully reach around it so as to not get burned again, and shove the pan to the back burner with fresh tears in my eyes—these from defeat.

  I head to the bathroom to find the brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and cringe when I remove the stained paper towels. It hurts more to see the cut then to actually experience it. I douse my palm, ignoring the stinging sensation as I grab a clean washcloth to hold against it.

  The kitchen is a mess. My dessert—a no-bake cheesecake—looks lumpy but still edible, and slightly appealing, even. After all, it’s in a graham cracker pie crust. I release a deep sigh, focusing to hold on to this silver lining as I resolve to order a pizza. Wine, pizza, and cheesecake—we can make this work out to be something really great.

  The pizza restaurant explains their specials to me, answering several questions that I knowingly ask on my mother’s behalf before choosing one that I know she’ll enjoy.

  I’m almost grateful my palm is hurt, preventing me from working. If it weren’t, I would be sitting at my easel feeling obligated and compelled to work on my portfolio with nothing but frustration and anger swirling for how badly things have gone and how uninspired I feel to draw anything other than him.

  I flip on the TV and distract myself with two sitcoms before the doorbell rings and a smile covers my face.

  “WHY DOES it smell like pizza?”

  I reluctantly open my eyes and discover a headache settling deep in my temples, making the temptation to close them again unbearably tempting. Kenzie is the last person I want to see most days, but especially tonight.

  “Did you make a cheesecake?”

  “Just throw it away,” I grumble.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “Good question.”

  “WHAT HAPPENED to your hand?”

  “Why are you wearing plaid again?”

  King’s eyes move to his shirt, and he shakes his head with annoyance before looking back at me. “What happened?”

  “I cut it.”

  “Obviously. With what? A machete?”

  “A knife that was in our sink. I didn’t see it because I was trying to make the burning stop.”

  “The burning?” His eyebrows shoot up under his baseball hat, his eyes reflecting lighter shades of brown with the yellow and black plaid shirt I’d like to stain with bleach in an attempt to get it out of his short rotation.

  A smirk curves my lips as I curl my fingers into a fist and lift my bandaged middle finger. He doesn’t react like I had been expecting, making the act far less satisfying. Instead, he takes my hand in his and makes quick work of peeling the bandage off while I list off several objections. There’s a large blister along the pad of my middle finger that still feels like the epicenter of hell.

  “You need to put something on it that isn’t going to stick. This stuff will make it hurt worse.”

  “I know, but it’s all we had and I don’t want it to pop. With my luck it will become infected and I won’t be able to work for a month.”

  He keeps hold of my hand, rotating it from side to side to look closely at the swollen area that seems darker than appropriate against my pasty skin tone. “This is going to take a couple of weeks.” I don’t voice that I already know this. There’s a scar across my shin that is a lasting memory of just how long burns take to heal. “We’ve got some dressing that will be better than this shit.” King crumples my old bandage in his palm and lifts his chin to gesture toward the hallway.

  He follows me down the hall while a hundred different ways to tell him I can take care of this on my own cross my mind. I should, but a sadistic part of me wants to see what he’s going to do. Being around King is like having a tooth cavity; you keep biting down on the area to see if it still hurts even though you already know it will. I’m fairly certain they consider this behavior a symptom of insanity.

  King pulls open the medicine cabinet and rifles around for several seconds before pulling out a few items. He washes his hands methodically and then draws out a clean towel from under the vanity. I watch as he prepares the bandage by covering it with an ointment, and then he instructs me to thoroughly wash the area. After drying my hand, I carefully extend it palm up, spreading my fingers wide so as to create enough space to wrap the tape.

  “I thought you remembered how much you liked saying ‘fuck me’ that you were going to do it again.”

  “I was just showing you my burn like you asked.”

  He’s still holding the bandage a few inches from my hand, but he looks up at me instead of my wound. His eyes are shadowed by the bill of his hat, but it’s still apparent they’re wide with sarcasm. “I remember you saying it plenty of times when we—”

  I clear my throat loudly, drowning his words, and reach for the bandage that he pulls back as if anticipating my move. “I can take care of this, thanks.”

  “I’m pretty sure you enjoyed me taking care you that night.”

  “What in the hell is wrong with you?” My tone and eyes are lowered with a fierce anger that has me ready to quit my job so I never have to see him again, and tempted to bite down to see if it will still hurt. “I am not some cheap whore that finds your disgusting jokes humorous. Everyone else might think that because of who you are, you’re entitled to say crap like that, but you aren’t. That night meant nothing. I’ve been over it and you for a long time. Now you need to get over yourself.” I reach forward and rip the bandage from his stilled hand and stalk out of the room, my heart beating so fast and powerfully I can feel it in my throat.

  My hands feel unsteady as I wrap the dressing around my finger while my words run on replay through my head. I’m not afraid of him firing me, I’m not afraid of hurting his feelings, but for some ridiculous and inexplicable reason, I feel guilty for lying.

  He really must be driving me to insanity.

  “WHY ARE you fidgeting again?” Allie’s scolding is in the form of a whisper but still reaches my ears as a yell because I know by the sharp look in her eye that she’s ready to stab me with a pin if I
don’t stop.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. I work to ignore an itch on the back of my neck and another on my shoulder. As I think about how much I hate standing still and why I didn’t see King at all today though he always works in the home office on Fridays, I feel several more tickles across my skin that arise because I know I can’t move.

  My eyes scan over the large space that we’re filling. There are at least two hundred other students in here, each with a model who, like me, is standing atop a crate, making a select few of us even more uncomfortably tall. Several people look perfectly relaxed as they stand completely still, their shoulders back and chins raised as though they’re already on stage. My eyes trace over each of them, noticing their poise, boldness, and beauty.

  “She’s really pretty.”

  Allie’s looks up at me with minimal interest. “Who?”

  “The girl over there with the dark blond hair.” I nod in the direction of where she’s standing.

  “You’re an artist, Lo. She’s definitely pretty, but her confidence is what makes her stand out so much.”

  Allie’s comment makes me stare longer at the girl, noticing her eyes are a little too close together, and her forehead too short to be what is believed to be the definition of attractive. It brings me to hate those ignorant facts even more because she is beautiful, and I’m grateful she seems to believe so without meeting the dictated standards.

  “Lo,” Allie hisses in warning, making my hand drop from where it’s rubbing across my mostly bare thigh.

  “You should really consider asking Kenzie.”

  “I would have if I had known you have ADHD. What’s with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s because you can’t draw, huh?” My attention drops to Allie as she places another pin along the hemline.

  “That’s definitely not helping.”

  “When do you think you’ll be able to hold a pencil again? Are your professors freaking out?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping by the end of this week so I can draw while I’m home for Christmas.”