The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  Slowly, she nods her agreement.

  “Come help me finish the sauce. You can tell me if there’s enough cheese.” She turns to me, revealing the frail measure of strength she’s struggling to maintain. I don’t smile because I know she would find the gesture to be patronizing rather than supportive, so I tilt my head back toward the kitchen and lead the way with the hope that she’ll follow.

  Thankfully, she does.

  “You cooked?” King’s question plays through my head a few times. It isn’t filled with sarcasm or shock, but pride that has me ducking my head a little farther as I return the last of the ingredients in the fridge.

  “Sort of. It’s more like my usual assembling because I mixed premade stuff together, but we made it last week while you were gone, and it was pretty decent.” King’s infamous uneven grin has me staring at him for several seconds though I’ve sketched this same expression so many times, I know the right pressure and angle to use.

  “It’s fab! You’ll love it, Uncle King,” Mercedes chimes, her mood slightly uplifted, giving me hope that she’s going to relax as I move back to the stove to stir the sauce and pasta together.

  “This looks and smells amazing, Lo.” The sincerity in his voice makes me want to turn and face him again, to smile with his praises. To laugh with some absurd joy he’s instilled in me. How can I feel so weak and ridiculous while also being so happy and content?

  I drop the ladle on the spoon rest and turn to face Mercedes. “Positive thoughts. Remember, everything is going to be fine. I will see you tomorrow, okay?”

  Her eyes grow wide with objection.

  “You can’t leave. Didn’t you hear me say they’re closing the roads? I’m sure the buses are all stopped. I’ll take you home tomorrow once it quiets down,” King says.

  I shake my head before I can formulate the right words. “No, I’m not sleeping over.”

  “You can sleep in my room.” Mercedes states her offer like a well-thought-out plan, her eyes growing with ideas.

  “You’re like sleeping with an octopus with a vendetta,” King says, pulling Mercedes’ back to his side and putting her in a playful headlock.

  “I am not.”

  “You are.” King’s tone is missing the teasing inflection, and his eyes barely acknowledge either of us, conveying something is bothering him. Whether it’s my lack of interest in staying or his disinterest in me being his girlfriend is the question burning in my mind.

  “We left the shop open,” Mercedes cries after another burst of thunder reigns the night skies.

  “The shop’s open?” King asks, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he looks to the large picture window. “Where are you going?” he calls, but I’m already pulling my jacket on. “Lo, you can’t go out in this.”

  “I didn’t check to make sure any of the bikes used went back, and they went out in the yard for a while.”

  “I’ll go. Stay here.”

  “It was my responsibility.” I have no desire to go out in this weather, but the idea of King cleaning up a mess that was a part of my job grates on my nerves.

  “You need to learn to accept help from others.”

  “I don’t need help.” I don’t mean for my words to be defensive, but my voice has deepened, and my eyes have narrowed.

  King opens his mouth, I’m sure with a retaliation, but I don’t hear it. I’m already heading toward the shop, using the small flashlight I discovered in King’s desk drawer that I had pocketed. The rain is coming harder and faster than I think I’ve ever seen it, hitting every surface with so much force that it bounces back into the air as if doing a choreographed dance that makes my shoes squish and squeak with each step.

  “You’re so damn stubborn! I would have done this and you could have stayed warm and dry. Your pride wouldn’t have been touched.”

  “I’m not worried about my pride.”

  “Bullshit! Since the first day I walked into this house, you’ve worried about your pride. There are times you try to fight with it and let me see sides of you, but let’s face it, Lo, you are so caught up with not needing help from anyone, you become a liability to yourself.”

  My head snaps back. The lights from the house and shop cast just enough light for me to see King and the reflection of thousands of raindrops continuing their torrential dance. We’ve stopped, and the fact surprises me. I can’t recall making the conscious decision to face him and listen to his accusations.

  King lowers his eyebrows and runs a hand along his jaw before clasping the back of his neck. “Why are you so damn afraid to ask for help?”

  My eyebrows slant together, slitting my eyes. “I’m not. I just don’t need it. If you want to talk about being a liability to oneself, you need to look in the mirror! You people are all crazy!”

  King’s chin dips toward his throat, lowering the bill of his baseball hat so I can hardly see his face. “Us people?”

  My hands swing around the empty yard. “Yes, you people. You guys are all adrenaline junkies. You think that by being crazy and reckless you are being an individual. Someone true only to yourselves. Newsflash: It’s not unique! People have been being stupid long before you guys started.”

  “Just because you’re too afraid to be yourself, afraid of who might judge you, doesn’t give you the right to point your damn fingers at others. I don’t give a shit if people know who I am.”

  “You just lie about your first name to everyone you meet, right?”

  King’s eyes narrow. “Why in the hell are you so pissed off at me?”

  “Why am I so pissed off?” I ask incredulously. King nods, rain dripping down his face. “I’m trying to do my job and you’re accusing me of being a fraud.”

  “I’m not accusing you of being a fraud.”

  “You did! You are! By saying I’m afraid to be who I am. Do you understand what it took for me to move out here? My dad has basically written me off. My brother—who didn’t like me to begin with—now loathes me. They feel as though I’ve betrayed them because I chose my dream over theirs. I live with … God, I live with your sister of all people, who, let me tell you, just in case you aren’t aware, is a giant pain in my ass! On top of that, I’m losing one of the two friends that I am closest to, and just learned through hearing you tell someone else that you don’t want me to be your girlfriend.”

  “You heard what?”

  I don’t see what reaction accompanies his response. I’ve turned, moving closer to the shop again, refusing to go down this road and admit just how sour my mood became after overhearing his words. Granted, how could I not have? It seemed almost as though he intended for me to hear them.

  “Is that why you’re so pissed?”

  “This isn’t all about you!” I screech, turning on my heel and nearly running into him, approaching me with long strides to keep up.

  “Titles are stupid, Lo. They mean nothing! That’s like having to deem someone your best friend. Your best friend could change tomorrow, next week, or in ten years, but likely, it won’t be who it is today, so why bother with such pettiness? To make them feel better? To make you feel better?

  “Why do you need to call me your boyfriend? Will it change your feelings toward me? Will it make me more attractive? Or does it simply justify you sleeping with me again?”

  My eyes are flaring with anger, I’m sure of it. I want to slap away his expression that’s waiting for my reply as though it’s a valid and appropriate question. “Do you know what I call my mom?” I shake my head to reflect I don’t want him to even attempt to answer. “Linda. I call my mother Linda because shortly after she had me, she decided she was done being a mother. She doesn’t want to be a mother. She doesn’t want to be my mother.

  “It doesn’t matter if the person that is your best friend today isn’t your best friend in ten years, because right now they are, and ten years from now, they still would have been. You’ll still think back and most of your stories will include them. You’ll still have pictures with them by
your side. And who knows, maybe that person would be your best friend still if you took the time to appreciate them and not write them off as just another person because of the chance that you might grow apart. That’s like refusing to call Mercedes your niece just because one day you may not live under the same roof and be her favorite person.” I shake my head again, frustration rolling off me, making my muscles ache with tension. “Sometimes I feel like you understand me so well. Like you’re looking at me and hearing everything that I don’t know how to explain, and then other times you come out with bullshit like this, and I feel like I don’t know who in the hell you are, and I feel confident you don’t know who I am either.”

  “That’s because you want me to give you everything to give me anything!”

  “You’re impossible!” And flipping crazy! It takes so much willpower to not throw those words into the fire we’ve built, that it makes me feel physically weighted with exhaustion as I turn around and head toward the shed once again. I hear his steps matching my anger as they splash against the sodden ground. The fact that he seems angry at me for initially being angry makes my blood boil, warming me though the temperatures are low enough I can see my breath linger with the rain.

  I spin on my heel, making my hair whip and slap my neck. “I can’t believe you think you’re justified in being upset and don’t think I should be. This is so hypocritical.”

  “I don’t even know why we’re fighting. I had to take twenty detours to finally find a route that allowed me to get here because I thought you would be freaking out, and I get home and you’re chomping at the damn bit to leave.”

  “Horse jokes aren’t cute. They’re insulting.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “Yes you did. It’s you, King. You always mean something with your words. We both know that.”

  “Are you only pissed because of the comment I made to Spencer?”

  I hate that he threw the word only into his sentence, but I release a deep breath that I try to shove the thought out with and wipe a hand across my forehead to push back the loose strands of hair the rain is plastering to my face. “I don’t want to be a convenience for you. I don’t want this to be something casual where when it fits into your schedule things are great, and when you’re too busy…” King is always busy, with crazy things that range from marketing, to taping for Spencer, to now preparing for his own biking career. “…I want…”

  King takes two long strides and slides his palm across my cheek. “You deserve to be significant to someone. You shouldn’t feel bad or embarrassed to ask for that.” My gaze drops to see his feet glide closer so that our toes are touching. “Lo, if you want a title, we’ll use them. I’m not trying to be an insensitive dick.” My eyes drift up when he doesn’t continue, taking in the rain that’s making trails down King’s face, touching and feeling places I’ve been tracing with stencils and have been anxious to feel again with my own skin. “My mom’s been married six times. Six times,” he repeats, heavily emphasizing the number. “She loves to use titles. When she introduces Kash, she lists off every award and title that’s ever been used by the media.” I can tell by the way his eyes darken and then close that there’s something behind how she introduces him as well, but I’m not sure if he’s upset that it’s accompanied by titles or a lack thereof.

  “I want you to be my boyfriend, King. I don’t want you to be my BMX-riding, brother-of-Kashton-Knight—” My eyes travel to the side because I was just about to say sex God, and really, that would have both been awkward and untrue. I do want him to hold that title. “I don’t care about those things.”

  “I like the ring it has when you say, ‘My boyfriend.’”

  “If you’re patronizing me…”

  King’s hands fly up to his sides, drawing my attention to the water sliding down his widely stretched palms. “I’ll call Spencer tomorrow and re-clarify things.”

  My head snaps to the side and then I turn and tromp the few remaining feet to the shop where the door is propped open and three bikes are out, sitting in mud puddles that are forming around them.

  “What? I’m kidding. I’m just … bad at this … Clearly.”

  “Clearly,” I agree.

  “Titles aren’t something I’m a fan of.”

  “So you’ve said,” I state, making his eyebrows rise with a silent challenge.

  “You really aren’t the kind of girl that has angry sex, are you?”

  I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips.

  King’s eyebrows match mine, but a small grin appears on his face. I hate it because it makes him look more desirable matched with his wet hair and long-sleeved tee that is currently clinging to every line that I’ve tried to re-create and, I’m now realizing, have failed at. “Clearly not.” His tone is friendly, playful even, but I’m frustrated. I’ve just revealed things about my family that I hadn’t intended to and don’t think he understands the significance of either the fact that I’m trusting him with it, or how much it bothers me that my family has never truly accepted me. I turn and head toward the bike that is the farthest away.

  It’s slick, and my feet keep getting stuck in the mud. There’s no way I’ll be able to wear these shoes again, even washed. I know after being submerged this many times in the dirt they’ll never come close to clean. As I pull out the bike, my left foot slides deeper into the muck. Thankfully my hands are on the brake pads, and I’m able to use the bike as an anchor, but when I pull my foot, my shoe is stuck, encompassed in the sludge.

  I struggle for several seconds, muttering every curse word I know and damning this weather.

  King’s hand disappears into the puddle up to his wrist, clutching my foot. He tugs my foot loose with a squishing sound as the muck loses suction with my shoe. “You love the rain. You can’t hate it just because it doesn’t always do what you want or expect. We all have ugly sides.”

  “It doesn’t mean I have to like it right now.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I turn with the bike and head to the shop, my left shoe filled with grit from the puddle that rakes painfully against my heel and the top of my foot.

  King is behind me with the other two bikes. I’m not sure how he managed to get both of them when he had just freed my foot, and both were covered, but I don’t ask. I’m not into pointing out that I’ve acknowledged both his speed and strength. He flips on the lights and goes over to the lockers where he retrieves a stack of old rags. Without asking for help or giving direction, he starts toweling one of the bikes clean.

  I watch him carefully for several seconds, noting how dark his hair looks when it’s wet and the width of his muscles around his shoulders as he moves. In modeling sessions I’ve been looking at many backs with the numerous strapless gowns and have realized that it may be one of the most beautiful parts of a human. However, most of the women modeling are thin, lacking much tone or definition, while King is corded with thickly defined muscles. Watching him makes my body heat and my pulse quicken.

  His dark eyes flash up as though he knows what I’m thinking and I swallow, moving my attention to the pile of rags. I grab one and take a few steps back. It’s crazy the simplest thing on King seems to have such an effect on me. I know he caught me staring at him. I also know he reads me well enough to have known that I was admiring him, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither of us does. We simply dry the bikes and put them away before shutting off the lights, closing the door, and making the wet and muddy trek back to the house.

  “What took you guys so long?” Mercedes cries as we step inside.

  I don’t move. I remain huddled in a small corner of the extended doormat, feeling the warmth of the house slowly sink through my layers of mud and rain, causing shivers to run through me.

  “You guys left three bikes out. You know the rules,” King says, stepping in behind me and kicking off his wet shoes.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear,” Mercedes assures him, her eyes avoiding eye contact wit
h him.

  King shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. “Put your dishes in the sink, and go watch a movie or something.”

  I follow Mercedes down the hall, relieved to have an excuse not to talk to him while I’m feeling so off kilter.

  “You can borrow some of my pajamas,” Mercedes offers, opening her closet.

  “I think I’ll stick to my jeans, thanks.”

  “You can’t sleep in those. You’re all wet.” Her face twists in disgust.

  “I’ll dry.” While she changes, I retrieve a couple of towels from the bathroom and return to where she has flipped on every light, including her closet, desk lamp, bedside lamps, and floor lamp that has five single shades spaced out, shining in each direction.

  “There’s this great old movie you probably haven’t seen, but they sing during a rainstorm like this.”

  “No,” Mercedes says without thought.

  “Want to dance?”

  “Dance?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Come on.” I pull her from the bed and pick up her phone from the nightstand, flipping through it until I find a music app. I turn it up so loud I can’t hear her objections, and then I begin to dance.

  I’m a terrible dancer. It’s an activity that I vehemently avoided while growing up because I was never able to find enough confidence or comfort in my own body to move freely, especially not in front of others. Each time my friends somehow managed to convince me to go to another school dance, I’d mingle, finding people I hadn’t talked to in semesters, sometimes years, that were getting a drink or taking a break. I took the opportunity to chat with them—act like it was a great coincidence that we had run into one another—and would catch up until the music would pull them back to the floor. Then I’d go in seek of my next long-lost friend. I even avoided turning in circles with slow songs, discovering the entire process of finding a dance partner to move in mercilessly slow circles with extremely painful. I shut these thoughts down and proceed to let the music carry me. My moves are exaggerated, my voice nearly as loud as the speaker, and my eyes are closed, not caring that I’m showing Mercedes a side of myself that I’m slowly becoming more comfortable and familiar with.