by Mariah Dietz
“It won’t happen again, trust me.”
Different expressions of objection are worn on each of their faces as they turn to me.
“You can’t give up now.” King’s words beat the ones Kash was starting to say in a much softer tone.
“I’m pretty sure I can. My future depends on my being able to use my entire arm for drawing. Taking a chance to do something that has absolutely no benefit is stupid.”
Parker laughs, King scowls, and Kash pats my knee a couple of times before smiling. “The benefit is the freedom, Lo. You’ll learn to understand that with time.”
I’M mature enough not to break out in a chorus of “I told you so,” but not mature enough to miss the opportunity to shoot a pointed look to King as the doctor clears me of any breaks and informs me I’ve got a bad sprain that requires crutches for at least a week.
A week.
When I was little, the week before Christmas always felt like an entire year, yet now, this week sounds like ten. How am I going to get on the bus with crutches? How am I going to walk to and from the bus stop to the Knight residence with crutches? How am I going to get up three flights of rain-slickened apartment stairs with crutches? This isn’t even counting school.
I’m never riding a damn bike again.
My ankle is wrapped and I’m back in a wheelchair, being taken out to where Kash is retrieving the Suburban. King is carrying my crutches while listening to the discharge nurse remind him that I need to be careful with both my ankle and left arm for a couple of weeks and should ice them frequently. They’ve also given me some antibacterial ointment for my first official bacon—something Parker took several photos of and Tweeted while we were waiting for the results of the X-rays, stating I was official.
“She needs to take the ibuprofen religiously for the first couple of days to minimize the swelling. That and the ice will significantly help with the pain,” she prattles on. I’ve had worse injuries; this isn’t going to be a big deal. It’s the commute that’s going to be difficult.
The dark Suburban pulls up, and I grip each side of the wheelchair, ready to stand up before the nurse makes a cry of shock and puts her hands on my shoulders with just enough pressure that I know she’s instructing me to stay put.
“Alright, why don’t you help me.” I twist in my seat to try to see who she’s talking to. “She can wrap an arm around both of our shoulders and hoist herself up, and we can help her into the car.”
Without waiting for King to agree, she’s beside me, pulling my right arm around her neck and anchoring it in place by securely holding my wrist.
I feel completely dumbfounded and at a loss for words when King does the same with my left.
“Alright, one, two, three…” she counts, pulling me at the same time that King does so that I’m balanced on my right leg. “Okay, the easiest way to get in—wait!”
But I’m already free of her grip and being deposited into the Suburban behind the driver’s seat by King. Thankfully he doesn’t fish for my seat belt or situate me as though I’m a broken doll.
“Alright, so I think the best thing would be for you to stay at the house, Lo.” Kash pulls away from the curb as he makes the statement. The pain pills that were lulling me into a comfortable haze of nothing, vanish. “You can take up residence in a guest room and just chill out for a few days. If you start feeling better, we can drive you to school. This week is empty. We really don’t have much going on.”
“Thanks, but that’s alright. I think I would be more comfortable at my house.”
“You live on the third floor,” Kash objects, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, but I can’t go anywhere for a couple of days anyway.” I know my reasoning is faulty and weaker than my ankle at this point, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to stay at the Knight residence.
Nell says I’m as stubborn as the day is long, but apparently she hasn’t met King or Kash, because compared to them I’m easygoing. They entertained me with banter that at times made me briefly believe they were going to give in and take me home, but then it became clear that all they were really doing was stalling.
“How are you feeling?”
My eyes wander from the guest room to where King is resting my crutches on the wall beside me. “This really isn’t necessary.”
“Why is it so difficult for you to accept help?”
“It’s not!” My reply is instant, my voice high, making King’s eyes swing back to me for a second before he shakes his head.
“It’s those that don’t know when and how to ask for help that are weak.”
“Why did you stop riding?” My question lacks accusation, and I feel certain as he searches my face he can tell I’m genuinely curious.
“I ride every day.”
“But you don’t compete.”
“Who says?”
“Parker.” He looks down but smiles. I’m struggling to make sense of if he’s embarrassed, caught off guard that I know this, or is looking to change the subject.
“Parker has a big mouth.”
I shrug in reply and tuck a few strands of loose hair behind my ear before my hand freezes, hearing Charleigh in my thoughts, telling me the useless fact that playing with your hair in front of a stranger is a sign of flirting according to psychologists. “I asked him if you ever had competed after I watched you do the course last week. I’ve never seen anyone look so fearless and happy at the same time. You just looked like you belonged out there.”
My eyes stretch with shock. What are these painkillers doing to me? Why am I saying this?
“It’s always been Kash’s dream to do this.”
“Why does that have to affect your dream?”
King shrugs, his eyes again diverting mine. “He’s had too much taken from him. He doesn’t need to not only lose my help but also have another person to compete against.”
“What if you did different events? Two of my good friends are going to school to be fashion designers, and while there are times I can sense one of them getting jealous of the other because of attention they’re receiving, or because they’ve excelled at doing something, the pride and excitement they share, is much greater than those times of being green with envy.”
King nods three times, his head only moving an inch in each direction before he looks back at me and smiles his beautiful crooked smile. “Is one of them the friend you’re doing the fashion show for?”
“How did you know I’m doing a fashion show?”
King shrugs that small roll of his shoulders that he does so often. “Mercedes tells me about her day every night while we watch the highlights on ESPN.”
I don’t question what they talk about, though I’m curious. Hearing that they share this time each night does nothing but place a cape across his shoulders in my eyes. A cape he doesn’t need when I’m already working to ignore him. “Yeah, apparently she really digs the fact that I’m taller than most guys.”
“You’re tall, but you aren’t that tall.”
My eyebrows go up, and my eyes widen with obvious disbelief.
“Okay, maybe with heels you are, but normally you’re not.”
I huff a nearly silent laugh and turn my attention to the ice packs holding my wrist in place. Like bandages, the Knight residence has no shortage of ice packs.
“I also have really big hands and, according to Summer, a big head.” The words leave me before I can edit them. I’ve just told King that I have a big head! If he hasn’t already noticed, I’m sure that’s what he’s going to be thinking about now when he looks at me. These painkillers are apparently a truth serum.
“I like that you’re tall.”
Looking back at King isn’t even a question—it’s a necessity.
His upper body shifts back and then slowly forward again. “I mean, it’s not like I look at you and think it’s cool that you’re tall. I just don’t even think about it. It’s just you. The way you carry yourself doesn’t make any
one think about how tall you are. It’s probably the last thing people notice.”
“My dad says I walk around like my head is in the clouds.”
“That’s because you’re looking at everything, and rather than thinking about what is really going on, you’re finding the beauty in it all.”
“I do like to watch people.”
King chuckles quietly, his chin drawing to his chest before he looks back to me with his lips still spread in a brief smile. “We should do this again.”
“Do what again? Try to break my ankle?”
His smile grows as he shakes his head. “Talk. When we aren’t trying to hate each other, we seem to get along pretty well.”
“You consciously work at hating me?”
“I consciously work to remember you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. I never told you I hate you,” I object.
“Maybe not in those words.”
“I told you to stop being a jackass because you were acting like one. That’s not me telling you that I hate you.”
“Do you know how many girls have called me a jackass before?”
“Do you actually keep count?”
“It’s a pretty simple number when the only other one is my sister.”
“That’s because you’re usually nice to everyone else. Well, I have seen you act like an ass once in a while, but I can usually predict it.”
“You can predict when I’m going to be an asshole?” King’s smile tells me he’s amused.
“You get tense and avoid eye contact with people. You generally flip your hat around so the bill is backward, like you don’t want anything to distract you. When you’re in these moods, your smile is forced, making your jaw tighten. And you tend to pinch the bridge of your nose, like you’re trying to massage a pressure point.”
“You … I what? I pinch my nose?”
I lift my hand to my face, illustrating the same act I’ve seen him do on numerous occasions. “But you also do it when you’re deep in thought, so it really isn’t the telltale sign.”
“How do you know all of this?”
“Never trust an artist. We can read emotions better than those hack psychics at the fairs.”
“I’ll remember that.” His head dips slightly, but I can hear the smile in his tone. “So I saw your work at the restaurant last week. I thought you’d be there.”
“I don’t have a class in the morning anymore, so I’ve been going before they open.”
“You really don’t like having an audience.”
I shake my head, confirming his assessment.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Does it bother you when someone watches you learn something new? There’s a part of me that enjoys it. I like to see the wonder on their faces, but so often they see the beginning and lack seeing the potential.” His eyes are on the bed, making me shift with unease. “Am I boring you?”
His eyes snap to mine, and his head shakes while a grin grows. “You should get some rest.”
“You should find a more sincere way to end a conversation.”
“You should stop being so defensive.”
“And you should stop making me get so defensive,” I huff.
My brain scurries in a million directions preparing my next you should comment because he’s nearing the door, which makes this argument seem extremely unfair.
He turns when he reaches the doorway, one of his hands is in a loose fist in front of him while the other wraps around the door. His brown eyes find mine and a silent current of thoughts seems to pass between us. A tangle of sarcasm, secrets, and frustrations, along with something far more peaceful that I’m not able to identify because I’m still working to pick the right comeback line. “I’m glad you’ve been wearing your feather, Lo.” Then he’s gone.
My eyes drop to the duvet where my hands are laying, my left with an ice pack and my right encircled with the gold bangle.
BEING PUT on bed rest always sounds appealing when you’re really busy and obligations keep piling up without warning or preparation to make you go from feeling overwhelmed to not sleeping, living off caffeine, and riding the dangerous line of emotional imbalance. More than once over the past couple of months while I’ve been working to finish the mural at the restaurant, being a part-time nanny, going to school full time, and becoming the next forgotten model, I have wished to have a weekend in peace when I could do nothing but binge on Netflix and gummy bears and forget about doing any- and everything, including showering and getting dressed.
Now that I’ve been living the “fantasy” for three days, I’m restless, twitchy, and I stink. I took a shower my first night here and was able to replace my clothes with my art clothes that I had worn to school, but didn’t wash my hair because when you have unruly hair that you work to straighten to try and create a façade of normalcy, you don’t wash it every day. Instead, you wash it every other day, and in two hours, I am going to be on day four of having it gone unwashed, and it feels gross.
I’ve watched the entire first season of a show that I fell in love with and was disappointed to learn the second season wouldn’t be on for several months, and haven’t been able to find another that will hold my attention. I need to shower. I need someone to talk to. I need to draw.
My ankle objects as soon as I’m vertical. I can feel the blood pooling, increasing the throb that has been an unwelcome visitor. I grab my crutches that are leaning against the wall and clumsily fumble with each to get them securely in place. I’ve been sentenced to crutches a few times before, once when I was kicked by my horse, another when I fell off said horse, and a third for trying to do a cartwheel at my friend’s and landing on a rock. It’s the one story I rarely share and prefer to pretend never happened because really, how uncoordinated does that make me sound?
The rubber and metal make clicks as I navigate my way to the bathroom where the mirror confirms how badly in need of a shower I really am. I strip out of my clothes and have to sit on the edge, and then lift myself inside. I’ve felt like an intruder staying here, and felt worse when they’ve asked if I needed or wanted anything. I’m their employee, and they’re now having to replace my ice packs, get me food and drinks, check and make sure I’m taking my required doses of ibuprofen, and sometimes just say hi. Mercedes spent most of her afternoons with me. I hadn’t used crayons in so long that the coloring books ended up being my favorite distraction of the different gimmicks she brought in. It was fun to see what I could create with them, and only slightly frustrating when I was reminded how impossible they are to blend. Kash has been surprisingly doting, reminding me once again that although he sometimes forgets some fairly important parenting details, he won’t ever fail at the task. He couldn’t even if he wanted to because his heart is far too big. I’ve only seen King once, and that was when he walked by the open door. He looked inside, but that was as close to conversation as we’ve gotten.
Toweling off proves to be more difficult than I remembered, and I ultimately lay my towel over the toilet seat lid and sit down to finish and get dressed again, shoving my underwear to the very bottom of the trashcan because I refuse to put them back on.
After finger-combing my hair, I head out to the kitchen, the clicking of my crutches growing louder as I enter the living room. I’ve only been here on a few occasions when it’s dark, but tonight, it looks different. I’m not sure if that’s because it’s past 1:00 a.m., or because I’ve spent the past three days being a houseguest rather than employee, or because I took my pain medicine less than an hour, ago and they’re starting to make everything seem a little different, even myself.
I take a seat at the head of the kitchen table, my left foot elevated with another chair. I left only the barest of lights on so I wouldn’t catch too many reflections on the long windows that line the room. My sketch pad is opened to the first blank page, my charcoal posed, ready to be given direction. The predictable fight to draw something else doesn’t occur, not tonight. I simply give in to
the energy flowing through me, allowing it to dictate what my mind sees—King—even when I’m looking at everything else. I don’t consider what he means to me or why. The questions about what, if anything, that night meant to him don’t enter my mind. I also don’t work to decipher his recent comments about Charleigh, I just draw.
“Why do you pretend that I don’t mean anything to you when clearly I do?”
My charcoal presses hard against the paper as my neck snaps up to see King. He’s fully dressed, his usual baseball hat still on, flipped backward, and wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Flannel is growing on me, but I won’t tell him that. His face shows no signs of humor or teasing. If anything, he looks almost pained.
“Did you just get home?”
“Why did you pretend you wanted to know me? Why not just call it what it was?” His eyes narrow as his chin drops.
“Have you been drinking?” I know the answer before I ask the question. I can smell it.
“I liked you, Lo.”
My heart races with too many possibilities and hopes, and not enough validation.
“You spend so much time trying to convince yourself that what happened that night wasn’t real.”
“I was drunk.”
“You weren’t drunk. I wouldn’t have slept with you if you were drunk! I don’t do shit like that. It’s disgusting!”
“I don’t remember large parts of that night.”
“You remember more of that night than you’re willing to admit.” His eyes land on my drawing where he studies the image for several long seconds. I should have covered it as soon as I realized he was here, but it was too late from the beginning. It’s of him—of course it’s of him. And to make matters worse, he’s shirtless. The scars he mentioned me knowing about are there, as well as the few tattoos most of the world is deprived of seeing. “Obviously you remember.”
His words make my cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’s right, but hearing that he’s aware of this fact is both strangely relieving and move-to-Australia-tomorrow worthy. “You left an impression,” I admit before moving my attention so I don’t have to see his reaction.
