The Art of Falling in Love Read online

  The Art of Falling In Love

  Haleigh Wenger

  Literary Crush Publishing

  The Art of Falling in Love

  © 2019 Literary Crush Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior permission of the publisher or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of any license permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Published by:

  Literary Crush Publishing

  PO Box 451

  Springville, UT 84663 USA

  Cover design: Blue Water Books

  A CIP record for this book is available from the Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950344-04-8

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950344-01-7

  For Mark, Bennett, Silas, Nolan, and Drew. It hasn’t escaped me that I’m insanely lucky to have a built-in cheering squad.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More books by Literary Crush Publishing

  One

  My head pounds as I suck in a breath.

  Okay. Focus.

  Across the room, my laptop is open, cursor blinking on a blank screen. Despite my aching skull, today is the day I figure out what I'm going to do to get into Flagler College. I’ve always thought of myself as an artistic soul, but truthfully, I haven’t ever stuck to—or mastered—any one medium. Still, art school is the only place I’ve ever wanted to go for college. And in order to do that, I need to create a project that shows my true talent, but I’m stumped. Maybe I have no actual talent?

  No. I have to stop thinking that. This summer was supposed to be about Opa helping me figure it all out. This was going to be our Summer of Art. Opa said it'd be special.

  He always made everything so special.

  I choke off a breath and push thoughts of him away. I click over to another screen, eyes glazing over as I do.

  I’m only a few bullet points deep into my list of possible entry projects when a shadow in my doorway interrupts me.

  “Claire, there’s someone at the door. Do you mind?”

  Mom’s hands rest on her hips, and her eyebrows rise in my direction. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, she’s in no shape to chat with strangers. The distance from the front door to my bedroom doorway is so short that anyone standing outside could hear any word spoken, so I mouth silently to Mom. “Who is it?”

  She throws her hands up and shakes her head, loose dark curls left over from the funeral yesterday swinging. “No clue,” she mouths back.

  I quickly run a brush over my own stringy hair and go to solve the mystery. When I open the door to find the porch empty except for a rectangular package, I sag against the doorframe. I’ll admit part of me hoped to see Opa, here to announce that the past week was all a big, sick joke, but after seeing his body at the viewing, I know this isn’t a joke.

  It’ll never be a joke.

  I heave the package up with both hands and shut the door behind me. Mom has already disappeared, probably back to her room with a washcloth over her eyes to nurse her headache. I don't need her to tell me where to put the mail, though. All of Opa's papers always go straight to his study. I haven't even peeked inside since we got here yesterday. Too many memories. Too hard to look around and realize he isn't there in the black-leather swivel chair, one elbow propped against his mahogany desk.

  I suck in a breath in preparation and swing the door open. Peppermint stings my nose as soon as I step through the doorway. It's all the same as it's always been: neatly organized chaos. Stacks of papers line the back of the desk, leaning against the wall. Clear plastic containers, one on top of the other, sit in rows against the other wall, and each of them contains even more paper clippings, important documents, probably a lot of my early art projects. My hands itch to grab onto all of it and take any piece of him that's left. His desk is smooth and cold under my touch as I run one hand along the dark wood and drop the package on top with my other hand.

  Opa never minded me wandering around his stuff before, but now that he's gone, I glance around like he'll pop up from behind the mess to yell at me.

  I turn quickly to leave, but something flutters behind me, and a mountain of papers slips off the desk, the top pages taking their sweet time gliding to the ground. I stoop to gather them. Then I cross my legs underneath me and sit in defeat amongst the mess. My hand hovers over a brightly colored paper at the bottom of the pile, and I bring it closer to my face to inspect.

  TEEN SAND SCULPTING COMPETITION, the flyer reads in bold rainbow-colored print. It's promoting a competition at the beach, hosted by the recruiting team at Flagler. My eyes roam the paper for the details, which include a scholarship prize to the winner. Another paper is stapled to the back, and when I flip it over, I recognize Opa's small penmanship immediately.

  He's written my name at the top of the page. My hands smooth over the other paper. It's a registration form for the contest, and it's completely filled out, down to my name, birth date, and high-school graduation date. But why?

  My fingers crumple the edges of both papers as I fight the equal desires to smash them into a paper ball or hug them to my chest in lieu of the person I miss so much.

  Opa did this for me. He believed this was something I'd be good at, or at least have fun with. Knowing him, he was probably planning on turning in the entry on my behalf and then luring me to the beach, where he'd spring the news.

  My wet eyes find the registration form again, which I'd let fall to the ground in my uncertainty. I pick it up and fold it until it’s small enough to fit into the pocket of my shorts. I back out of Opa's study and zombie-walk to the kitchen, my head buzzing.

  Mom wanders in from her room, eyes trained on me like she can smell the secret simmering inside. We sit at the kitchen table after she grabs some grapes and sets them between us. I pop three in my mouth before I can work out how to tell her what I found. She stares me down while I chew, making it harder to concentrate until I unfold the registration form and slide it across the table to her.

  She wrinkles her nose. “What is this?” I would roll my eyes if it hadn’t been my exact response, too.

  I’ve talked enough to Opa about my interest in art for him to know that I'm passionate about serious art. Not people making mermaids out of sand. Not fun-touristy contests on the beach. And I honestly don't have a clue what my dream school is doing hosting a contest like th
is. It has to be one of those things for kids or amateurs, something to fill the summer. Not for real artists.

  Opa wanted this for me, but why? And is this really what I want for my portfolio, even if my dream school does host the contest? A bunch of sand castles won’t impress next to the other applicants’ inventive self-portraits and bold paintings.

  I bury my head in my hands. If I thought my head hurt when I woke up this morning, it's nothing to the brain-numbing thumping I've got now.

  “Opa wants me to enter this contest, apparently.” Mom starts to say something, but I hold up a hand. “I can handle this. I’m going down to the beach tomorrow to ask around. Maybe it's not as dumb as it sounds."

  Not likely. But, I can at least give it a shot.

  She considers me for a second. “Okay. Let me know what you find out."

  We sit in silence as we crunch juicy purple grapes. If Opa wants me to do this contest, I should at least try. Maybe I can find some way to enjoy this summer after all, doing something he wanted for me.

  My heart suddenly feels a little less tight, and I almost smile. Almost.

  From across the table, Mom makes a deep throaty sound. I don’t know what she’s thinking about, but she’s frowning to herself and shaking her head like she's in the middle of an argument with an invisible enemy.

  I pat her shoulder. This is awkward. "Forget about the flyer. It's not a big deal," I mumble.

  She flashes me a blank stare and rubs her head. "It's not that."

  “Oh." I bite back relief that she isn't planning on obsessing over the contest. The last thing I need is her hovering over me while I fling sand in honor of Opa."You look worried.”

  She massages her temples while she talks. “It's everything. The funeral. Your sister...”

  Yesterday after the funeral, I caught Livvy out in the church foyer leaning against the wall, staring at her phone and pretending not to see anyone else passing by as they whispered condolences. "You're not still texting that guy from last summer, are you?” I’d asked her.

  I’d only met him once, but she's barely shut up about how 'epic' their time together was. Like three months out of the year justifies a real relationship. Especially when you're only fifteen. She even used her birthday money to see him over Spring Break. Not that she told my parents that part of the story.

  She shot me a death glare and clutched her phone closer. "None of your business."

  That’s how she’s been ever since we found out about Opa.

  “She’ll be okay, Mom.” I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. Hers is soft and small while mine is calloused from holding a pen daily to sketch. I’m not sure Livvy will be okay, but it’s what Mom wants to hear, even if we both know I can’t promise anything on my sister’s behalf.

  Two

  The beach is empty, just like it always is this early in the season. The schools in Texas let out a few weeks earlier than the schools here, so we always have a window of time where the shores are clear of crowds. Opa used to call Jefferson Shore “his” beach, even though it’s accessible to the public. Mom never understood why we wouldn’t want to go to the beach behind the house, a small, rocky patch of sand privately owned by the neighborhood Homeowners’ Association. Opa’s beach is better, but no matter how much we tried to explain that, she didn’t get it. No one ever questioned Opa to his face, though; he was right about most everything. Even when he was wrong, he was right. I used to argue with him for hours, trying to explain why cell phones have made the world a better place, but he was anti-technology, and nothing I said could ever make him budge.

  “You’ll miss out on the rest of the world,” he’d say.

  “It’s part of my world,” I'd respond.

  And round and round until all that was left was to stare at each other in frustrated silence.

  And he’d always end with: “The world’s always gonna be bigger than what you can fit in your hands. Being connected to the world around you is how you see all the art it has to offer.” If he had his way, we’d get rid of all our phones and computers and spend 24/7 outside.

  He almost convinced me, but I’m too loyal to my cell phone to just give it up.

  I slide myself down onto my butt on the nearly abandoned beach as I use my hands to smooth the patches of sand on either side of me flat. One hand bumps against something under the sand, and I fish out a small blue flashlight. Huh. Boring. I put it back down next to me and resume playing in the sand like a toddler at the park.

  There’s something therapeutic about letting handfuls of grainy sand wiggle through my fingers. The beach at sunset is my second favorite time of day, closely rivaled by the super early morning. Daytime hours are too blindingly hot during the summer, and there are way too many tourists sweating it out for it to be worth the trip. Strolling a couple hundred feet from where I sit is a couple holding hands and walking so closely they almost look like one big over-sun-screened blob. They move in and out of the edging tide, whispering things I can’t hear. There’s no one else around besides the homeless man napping on the steps by the parking lot. I stretch my arms out again and scoop up fistfuls of warm soft sand and let it filter out of my hands in slow streams.

  “Hey, man, that’s my flashlight.”

  I spin to see a guy about my age with his hand outstretched. My arm automatically shoots upward, light in hand. My eyes widen.

  Careful not to brush my fingers with his, he pulls it from my grasp and pockets it. “Thanks." Instead of the smile I expect him to be wearing, one eyebrow's cocked and his mouth is a lopsided line. “Oh. You’re a girl.” He slowly moves his gaze from my loose tank top to my too-tight shorts, causing my cheeks to burn hot. So embarrassing.

  “Yep, I am definitely a girl."

  I’ve never had to clarify it for anyone, and the words are sticky and foreign on my tongue. He points to my hair and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. The implication washes over me.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  I let my hands go to my ultra-short locks. A new haircut for the summer, and a first for me. I’ve always had shoulder-length brown hair, but the day that Opa died, I found myself in my bathroom with a pair of kitchen scissors and a shaky YouTube tutorial on DIY pixie cuts. I’ve avoided looking in the mirror ever since but reading my mom’s tight-lipped expression every time she sees me is more than enough to remind me of her opinion on it.

  The guy still hovers over me, eyes darting between me and the parking lot. He clears his throat a few times like he’s going to speak and then swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I wouldn’t blame him for running, truly. He makes a movement that I’m sure means he’s going to walk away, but instead he drops down onto the sand next to me and stretches his legs across the sand.

  “I mean, I can totally tell that you’re a girl now. I’m just dumb. Don’t feel bad about your hair. It’s really cool, actually.”

  He looks sideways at me with puckered lips and furrowed brows, concerned over the misunderstanding. I almost can’t help the smile pulling at the sides of my mouth. Some of the embarrassment fades away, and I finally let myself breathe enough to really look at him. He reminds me of a teenage surfer from a Disney movie. He has sun-bleached blond hair, perfectly unbrushed strands that come down to his chin. I peek at his eyes, which are classically blue and framed by dark lashes. He’s gorgeously tan, obviously. But his chill surfer vibe is compromised by how hard he works to apologize for offending me, and I have to admit it makes the corners of my mouth turn up in spite of myself.

  “My hair is not cool, but thanks anyway.”

  He shrugs, and I mentally kick myself for doing that thing where I can’t take a compliment.

  “So, what’s the flashlight for?”

  The beach usually clears once the sun sets, and anyone who sticks around is most likely there for a bonfire or lighting up a pipe. My breath catches as he pulls something plastic from his shorts pocket because if the only reason he’s sitting next to me is to sell me crack, I�
��m so out of here. Thankfully, all he brings out is an empty trash bag. From his other pocket, he pulls a wad of blue latex gloves.

  He grins as I let out a long breath.

  “You’re cleaning up the beach?" It’s nearly impossible to keep high-pitched skepticism out of my voice. No way this hot seventeen-year-old is here by himself to fish trash out of the ocean on a Friday night.

  “Yep.”

  I tilt my head. “Just because?”

  “Come with me. It’s easier if I show you.” He waves his hands towards the darkening skyline and clicks his flashlight on. The small light shrouds us in an eerie halo, and I’m reminded that I’m sitting alone on the beach at night with a complete stranger. I stand, my legs unsteady on the uneven sand.

  “Maybe some other time, but you have fun with that. I have to get back home.”

  I half-wave and turn to walk away in slow motion. Part of me wants to stay. I love this beach as much as anyone and maybe more. If there's so much junk here that this guy has taken it upon himself to clean up, maybe I should too. But the part of me fueled by years of Mom’s paranoid warnings wants to get out of here before he suffocates me with his trash bag.

  “What’s your name?” His voice calls from behind me, and I stop and turn again despite Mom's nagging in the back of my head.

  “I’m Claire. You?”

  I can barely see him from this distance in the dark, but I think a smile spreads across his face. It shouldn’t matter, since he’s a stranger, but I wish it were lighter outside, so I knew for sure. I’m a sucker for a cute smile.