by Mariah Dietz
“She walks by the house on her way to the bus stop,” Robert explains. “The first day she passed by my house a dozen times before I finally asked the poor thing where she was headed and what do you know, she was lookin’ for the Knight residence.” His eyes are bright and smiling as though he’s sharing a joke. “I knew as soon as I saw her that my granddaughter would like her. She’s got spunk.”
Granddaughter? She’s Mercedes’ grandfather? King and Kash’s dad?
“I had no idea you were…”
“Of course you didn’t. How would you?” I can’t tell if Robert is teasing me or eluding to the fact that if I had taken the time to ask a few questions, I would have. “That’s what made me like you even more. You’re a smart girl.”
“Wait until you see her draw. How are you, Robert?” I take a step back, angling my body so I can see both King and Robert. “It’s been a few weeks. Every time I try to track you down, you’re out. Up to some new shenanigans?” King draws out the word.
Robert’s head falls back as he laughs. The gesture is familiar; he’s done this a few times when I’ve spoken to him. It makes me wonder if this is his genuine laugh, or if it’s a façade for both of us. “I just keep ignoring you, waiting until I see your bike turn up.”
King’s eyes tighten. I’m not the only one who notices, because Robert’s eyebrows rise and he nods, confirming something that the two seem aware of while the rest of the group remains oblivious.
An introduction for Kash has us all sitting back in our seats, our attention shifting to the center of the concrete stadium. I have no idea who Kash is talking to as I catch sight of him before walking his bike forward. I’m curious to know why King, Parker, and Summer aren’t down there but fear my question is rudimentary and ignore it. The movement of Kash shaking out his left hand catches my eye. I’ve seen him do this before but don’t realize it until now. He wraps it around his handlebars and then does the same with his right hand before he glides onto his bike and kicks off. Many of the contestants seem to have a pattern, one which involves searching the crowds until they find their support group, as if reliant upon their encouragement. Kash never does.
My heart is in my throat as I watch his routine, transfixed by each of his movements. The more I continue to watch this sport, the more beauty I find in it. The connection, respect, and love between a rider and their bike nearly make me forget that it’s an inanimate object.
We’re all screaming and clapping as he rounds the edge of the jump with a finish. It’s then that his eyes find us, and his smile goes from bliss—to elation.
“YOU HOLD a brush a lot different from your pencils.”
People have been in and out of the shop all day, each stopping to chat with me and take in my work. I loathe people looking at the initial sketch. It’s a shell, an idea that I can’t fully translate until I’m able to add color and design, something I can’t do on this large of a scale with a pencil. I just started adding color, and there isn’t enough for attention to be welcomed. This is, however, the first time in two weeks since I’ve seen King. I accepted Kash’s offer to take last week off after he said he would appreciate having a reason to stay away from work and hang out with Mercedes, and the last three days of this week, King has been absent. I’ve been working to convince myself it isn’t suspicious. I was tempted to text him, debating on a joke or sarcastic remark that I knew would make him laugh, but all of them seemed like I was checking in, which is exactly what any of them would have been.
I look back at him as I dip my brush back into the black paint. I want to play this cool. I want to show him that if he has decided to regret his previous drunken admission, I am willing to let it pass as well. At least, I will try really hard to pretend that I have.
“I hold charcoals with all of my fingers because it allows more movement. I can use my shoulder and elbow, not just my wrist. I can do the same with paints on certain surfaces, but not on a wall like this. The texture makes it difficult. You have to be a lot more forgiving and try not to focus on adding too many details.”
“Who taught you to do this?”
“I’ve always loved art. I’ve been told I used to paint with my food.” I smile, and my shoulder lifts. “But I think every kid does that.” King’s lips turn up into an unexpected smile, and his eyes are steady as they gaze at me as though he’s not looking for a reason to leave. “When I was eight, my dad hired a farmhand that liked to sketch. He’d sit out in the fields and draw different scenery. I swear, by the time he left five years later, he’d drawn nearly every single angle of the farm. He didn’t talk a lot. He was older, and I think he had a lot of secrets he shared with his art, drawing darker shadows than what were present and clouds when the skies were clear.” Explaining this brings me back to sitting beside him, the scent of hay as potent as the Oregon rain is today as I braved approaching for the first time while he was in the middle of creating the field of mares. “One day I couldn’t stop myself. I knew he was out there drawing, and I sat right next to him and just watched. It was so different than what I had been doing. It was the first time I saw anyone use charcoal, and I fell in love instantly. “We rarely ever spoke. I just enjoyed watching him, learning techniques and his methods.”
“I think if others took the time to listen and watch rather than speak, we’d all be a lot smarter.”
“I think if people took the time to discuss things, there would be far less confusion.”
King tilts his head. “But the problem is, the same people that always want to talk are rarely ready to listen.”
“Are you insinuating something?” I’ve never been great at keeping my thoughts to myself, but with King I feel like my gloves are completely off, my base paint exposed. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one that’s been gone all week.”
“Missed me?”
“If you didn’t already learn from the last time you tried to tease and taunt your way into making me discuss things with you, it’s not a great approach.”
His hand reaches forward, encircling the feather bangle I have worn every day since receiving.
“Nor is claiming.” I pull out of his touch and shoot a glare to send my point home.
“Dude, you ready?” A guy I barely recognize directs his question at King.
“No, he’s not ready.” The guys’ eyes rotate to me, his head still facing King and his lips parting with unease.
“Um…”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” King assures him.
Without nodding or saying a word, the guy turns and leaves.
“I’m done playing these games with you. If you really want to hang out, or be something besides an annoyance in each other’s lives, you need to cut this shit out. I’m funny. I’ll laugh at your jokes, but I am sick and tired of being the butt of them.”
“Your butt has never been in one of my jokes.”
My chin drops. King’s lips twitch before he stops trying to maintain his stoic expression. Then he nods. A loud breath blows between us and he moves a hand to his face, where I know, as I turn back to my painting, that it’s pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m not trying to be an asshole. I just don’t know … We’re going about everything in reverse order. I feel like things are upside down and backward because I already know so much about you. I know what kind of person you are. I know that you don’t give two shits about who I am or what my brother does. I know you are crazy cool and ridiculously talented, and while you can’t cook to save your life, I’d be okay with eating it simply to spend time with you.”
My brush holds no paint, yet I can’t move it from the wall. After demanding that he change his approach, I’m so caught off guard with this one that I can’t look at him.
“You know I like you. I think I like you a little too much, and it makes me forget I’m not ten.”
My lips tug into an automatic smile that lifts higher when his hand brushes down my back, settling where my spine curves inward. “I’m going to stop bei
ng such a dickhead … or at least try. I’ll warn you though: you have the ability to irritate me more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
I’m no longer too shy to look at him. My eyebrows are drawn with my confusion and offense.
“Don’t act surprised. I know I drive you crazy too.”
“That’s because you act like a dickhead.”
“You guys are both stubborn and way too proud. Lo gets on drawing and painting tangents and King, you find every excuse to travel, or come beat the hell out of yourself in the shop.”
“Thanks for that assessment, Summer.” King lifts a hand and points to the door. “We’ll see you later.”
“As long as you guys both know that I know. Now when one of you starts acting like a jackass, I’ll be sure to remind you to stop.” Her smile is nearly as bright as it turns when she’s spending time alone with Kash. Her blond hair fans as she whirls around and heads outside.
Before turning back to King, my eyes dart around the shop, studying each of the areas to ensure we’re actually alone before continuing the conversation.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning for San Francisco, but I want to take you to dinner when I get back. How about Friday?”
“I can’t. I have model practice.”
“How much longer is that?”
“Five more weeks.”
King’s eyes stretch. “Jesus. Okay, Saturday I have to be up in Seattle for a competition. What about during the week?”
“You do realize I see you like every day, right?”
King furrows his eyebrows, telling me my words are crazy. “That’s not the same. Yeah, I like getting to spend time with you and just see what you’re like and be in a relaxed setting, but I want to see you in heels and a dress. I want your attention focused on me. And I really don’t want the Peanut Gallery to be around, adding subtext to all of our interactions.”
A dress? Heels? I’ve been out on dates with guys before, but never while wearing that attire outside of a high school dance.
“I have to get some work done next week to complete my submission.” I balance my paintbrush in my hand holding the palette so I can brush a few strands of hair back from my face, not caring when I think of Charleigh’s assurance that it means I’m flirting.
“Submission? For what?”
“Italy this summer.”
“You’re going to Italy?”
“I doubt it. There’s some really steep competition, and multiple colleges across the country are participating.”
“What would it be for?”
“Art restoration.”
“Next Saturday.” He shakes his head when my mouth opens. “Next Saturday,” he repeats.
“Next Saturday,” I confirm with a nod.
His lips quirk up into his uneven smile, and without question or thought, mine follow. Confidence radiates in his steps and his eyes that are focused on mine, making me squirm and look back to my palette and the wall a few times before finally returning to King. He smiles even wider, revealing his perfect teeth that I had described to Charleigh, and then he leans closer. I can feel my pulse in my neck, and it increases when the scent of him blocks the acrylic paint and coolness of the cement that the shop always exudes. “Lo, close your eyes.” His tongue wets his lips, and his eyes blink slowly, the weight of lust making them heavy. “You’re studying me.”
I shake my head so slightly that it’s nearly imperceptible. “I’m memorizing you.”
“Are you going to draw me?”
“Are you going to kiss me?” My voice is low, the anticipation making my lungs forget their primary function.
“If you tell me you’re going to draw me.”
“Probably a thousand times tonight.”
“Good.” The word barely slips through his lips before I lean closer and kiss him. If it surprises him, I can’t tell, because there is no hesitancy, no awkward shifting that often happens when you’re learning to kiss a new person. King’s bottom lip covers mine and then moves to my upper lip, pulling, plying, massaging, and erasing every last thought and image aside from him. The palm of his hand is hot as it cups my jaw. Then his fingers gently press firmly into my skin as his other hand wraps around my back. Our chests and hips are close enough I feel the graze of him as he breathes. Everything is fluid, matched, perfect.
“WHAT’S GOING on?”
I turn to face Mercedes, my eyebrows stretched high in question.
“You did your hair today and you seem really happy, when all week you’ve been a stress case.”
“I was able to get a lot done with my portfolio this week. I’m relieved that it’s starting to come together.”
“That doesn’t explain the hair.”
Touché.
“I’m just…”
“You know I know, right?”
“Know what?”
“Everything.” She giggles as my eyes roll. “I might be ten, but I pay attention. I know you like my uncle King.”
“That’s…” Mercedes’ fists go to her hips. “…true…” A smile breaks out across her face with my confession.
“Let’s go out to the shop! He’s out there riding right now.” She takes my hand before allowing me the opportunity to object and pulls me to the front door.
I’m trailing behind her only slightly, my own excitement not allowing me to play it very cool. Each day that we’ve been in here this week while King’s been gone, my eyes have landed on my painting before seeing anything else, scrutinizing it and reminding myself of things I need to change or do. Today my black and white creation isn’t even a thought as my attention lands solely on King. He’s mid-air, a euphoric expression highlighting his face.
He completes two more trips across the ramp before coming to a stop and looking our way. “I thought you were bringing her here as soon as she arrived?”
“She made me do my homework first. I tried texting you!” Mercedes cries.
My neck and face heat. I know I’m blushing, something I can attribute to my ever-white Irish skin. I shoot an accusing look to Mercedes that she reciprocates with a laugh.
“I knew already. King can’t keep a secret. Not from me.” Mercedes’ voice holds a lilt from her obvious amusement.
“No gloating,” King says, walking his bike up beside us. Mercedes’ smile isn’t affected by his words, but she does turn and get her own bike.
“Hey.” My eyes stop following her and return to King, my pulse quickening. “Want to try getting on a bike again? We can go for a ride on the trails instead of in here.”
“I have to be able to stand for three hours tonight. I don’t think riding would be a great idea figuring what happened the last time.”
“I’ll help you. You can trust me. I won’t let you do anything to hurt yourself.” The sincerity in his eyes makes turning down his offer a little harder, but I’m not ready to get back on two wheels.
“That’s okay. I don’t want you to do it while you’re nervous. That can lead to unnecessary accidents. Take your time, watch, and when you’re ready, we’ll go together,” he says before I have to object.
“King’s the best teacher,” Mercedes chimes as she rolls her bike past us.
“At everything,” he adds, his eyes lighting up with endless innuendos.
I smirk to hide my laughter, but his growing smile tells me he knows that I understand his silent insinuations. I’ve been holding on to our last kiss since Monday, four days ago, and it’s making the teenage boy euphemisms and implications that are running through my mind seem far more entertaining than they are.
“Hey!”
I turn, hearing the greeting and find Isabelle at the door with a bag slung over her shoulder. It’s too big to be a school bag or purse.
“Hey, Isabelle!” Mercedes calls out. Her excitement for seeing Isabelle makes guilt swim thickly through my distaste for her.
Isabelle’s smile is a mixture of nerves and excitement as she steps inside, and while I know King has feelings for me, watching h
er actions makes me aware of how much she likes him and drowns the guilt with jealousy.
King steps forward, his chest meeting my back. His hand loosely clasps my left shoulder. “What’s up, Izz?”
“I heard you were heading to Seattle tomorrow so I came by to see if I could bum a ride. A friend drove me down a couple of days ago but came down with the flu, and I’m worried about riding with her. Getting sick right now would really suck with classes.”
I listen to the steady clicks of Mercedes’ pedaling, the intakes of King’s breaths, and feel the slight pressure as his fingers squeeze me closer to him so that as he starts to tell her he can if she’s willing to get up early, I can feel the reverberations of his voice. Like everything about King, I feel it in every single cell, all the way to my toes. I want him to speak again, let me experience the sensation once more, and then Isabelle laughs and expresses a genuine appreciation that tears my attention to her. I tell myself to smile three times before my lips finally listen.
“STAND UP straight. You have all of this beautiful height and long neck, and you stand there slouching like a tortured tortoise.”
I purse my lips so tightly I’m sure it looks like a pucker as I force my spine into a rod and push my shoulders back. I don’t care for most of my own professors, but having to deal with someone else’s, who constantly ridicules all of the volunteer models in the class, is becoming my greatest challenge.
Allie gingerly pats my forearm. “Sorry. I think she’s getting a little stressed out about things.” I cock and eyebrow to ask if that’s an excuse for her always acting like such a bitch, and Allie presses her lip together, one side going up in a hopeful expression. It forces my thoughts of her professor, and the sharp prick of a pin that she apologizes for sticking me with, to subside because it reminds me of King. I didn’t see him as I left today because he was in the office with the door closed, talking to someone about the weekend. I had wanted to wait until he was done so we could sneak in another make-out session, but I was already pressed for time and after missing the last two modeling practices, I had to leave. My thoughts of regret wander to King riding in a car with Isabelle for three hours tomorrow. Both thoughts make my muscles contract, bringing me to stand a little taller.
