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“Will you tell me about this one?”
With a nod, I take another drink of bourbon, letting the buzz loosen my tongue. Talking about my thought process for drawings always makes me sound crazy. “It’s the storm drain in the curb at the end of my parents’ street.” She scoots closer to me and rests the sketchbook on one of her knees and one of mine. “Whenever it would rain too much too fast, one end of our street would fill up with water. All the dirt, tree limbs, leaves, and litter would get caught on the grates.”
When I hesitate to think about my next words, she waits patiently, silently. “There was nothing wrong with the drain. It was doing its best, what it was designed to do, but the burden of the trash being thrown into it was too much.” She nods as I run my fingertip over the empty Coke can, a plastic bag, a clumpof leaves. “When I was a teenager, I saw something…relatable in it. In being overwhelmed, I guess. After every hard rain, I’d sit on the curb and watch the water struggle its way through until I cleared away the trash.”
“You drew this as a teenager?”
“No, I drew it from memory. It kept coming back to me.”
“Like the snowstorm with my dad?” she says softly.
“That’s a sweet memory, a significant one. This was literally watching water pour through trash. I know it sounds crazy. It’s not the easiest thing to explain, but objects or moments can stand out, shine in some way that sets them apart, no matter how mundane they might be. That’s what I like to draw.” Like to draw might be a bit of an understatement. It feels more like a compulsion.
Her lips tilt up. “The things that shine?”
“I know it sounds like bullshit,” I chuckle.
“No.” She shakes her head and looks me in the eye without a hint of amusement. “I understand. I have one of those moments too. I just don’t have the talent or skill to draw it.”
Now I’m intrigued. “Will you tell me what it is?”
“A broken orange juice bottle on a balcony.” It’s her turn to look a little chagrined. The alcohol has both of us opening up tonight. “You can’t tell me that’s not just as odd as your storm drain. I’ve thought about it, remembered it, since I was seven years old and have never really understood why.” Her tongue wets her lips. “We were at Dad’s apartment, a little two room hole in the wall with a sagging balcony. I couldn’t sleep. There was no TV or cell phone or anything to occupy myself with. My brother was asleep and so was Dad—or passed out, maybe, because he wouldn’t wake up when I tried.
“I was afraid and experiencing loneliness in a way I hadn’t before. Things were awful at Mom’s house, the divorce was recent and the loss of having Dad in our daily lives was stilla fresh wound. It was the longest night ever. Alone with bad thoughts. Finally, the sun came up and I was so happy to see it. I grabbed my little bottle of orange juice from the fridge and went out on the balcony to watch the day come. When I set it on the ledge, it tipped off and shattered by my feet. I wasn’t upset but I just stared at it for so long. It’s a moment that’s always stuck with me.”
She sips her drink, thinking for a second, then continues, “I think it was the dichotomy of it. The crushing despair of thoughts with no distraction, a dark feeling like it was soaking into me, then the relief that the sun brought. The new experience of being up outside alone at the crack of dawn.” Shrugging, she sits back. “But mostly I remember the moment staring at a broken bottle on the balcony. The thin sun catching in the jagged edges of the glass, how dew dampened everything, the smell of the air. Almost like I could step back into my second grade self for a few seconds.” She tilts her head to look at me. “I’ve never told anyone that because it sounds so odd, to repeatedly picture a broken bottle for over twenty years.”
“Like watching litter in a storm drain,” I reply, nodding. My chest is tight with two realizations.
She sees the world like I do, like an artist, and I could fall in love with her too goddamned easily.
CHAPTER 11
ARLOW
It was nearlythree a.m. when I walked Calli back to her cabin last night. After our talk about our families and memories, things lightened up. We ended up talking and laughing in my kitchen, eating French toast in the middle of the night. It doesn’t matter if we’re hiking in the woods, at a bonfire, or just sitting on one of our porches, I always have a good time with her. I need to keep things at a friendship level but it’s getting difficult. Ever since she kissed me, I can’t stop thinking about it, her fingers playing through my whiskers, the little moan she let out when my tongue brushed hers.
Fuck. Drinking around her isn’t a good idea. My self-control is too tested by her when I’m sober, much less when I’m buzzed. It’s not only because she’s gorgeous. When we were sitting on her porch glider with her cuddled up to me, my arm around her, it felt so comfortable, so natural. She’s a private person, like I am. Neither of us talk much about ourselves but the more she’s opened up, the more I want to know everything about her.
For the first time, it feels like someone genuinely gets me. It’s so gratifying but also heartbreaking because it makes me want things I can’t have. As friends, we can keep some distancebetween us. I can’t stand the thought of hurting her by letting things go any further. She’s so sweet.
She’s also the first thought in my head when I drag my eyes open just past noon. I need to work. I need to get focused on that and spend a little less time with her so these feelings will lessen. Scrubbing my face with my palms, I climb out of bed to shower and get ready for the day. My mouth is a desert, but at least I’m not hungover. After a quick meal, my intention is to spend the day in the barn, but that plan is halted when I step outside.
My truck sits parked in the driveway where it usually waits, but the driver’s side window is shattered. Glass clings around the edges, outlining the gaping hole in the center. Déjà vu washes over me as I open the door to survey for other damage.
Handleman. Mom warned me that he was being released from prison.
No. There’s no need to jump to that conclusion. Maybe this isn’t even vandalism. The column doesn’t look tampered with so stealing the truck wasn’t the goal. The console and glovebox are closed, and a quick inspection shows nothing is missing. Not that a thief would want an aux cord, tire gauge, or some proof of insurance paperwork. The window has had a tiny chip in it for over a year. The temperature changes recently combined with the repeated opening and closing of the door may have weakened it. It’s possible it broke from the storms last night.
My phone rattles in my pocket with a text from Lee.
Lee
I’m right down the road. Need to borrow your ladder so wake the hell up.
Me
I’m up.
