The Art of Falling in Love Read online

  “I’d have to have an address to get the payments. But I don’t. Because I live here,” he says, motioning to the beach around us.

  I arch an eyebrow at him. “Here? As in?”

  Foster bows his head. “I live here, Claire. I sleep in a tent under the pier.” His hands sweep around the beach, motioning toward the sand all around us.

  This. Is his home.

  My jaw drops. It's not possible. Sick, twisted shock swirls in my stomach. I'm going to vomit, or cry, or something. My voice is small, a tiny squeak. "You don't have a home? You don't have anyone?"

  He shakes his head. "It's just me. If I try to use the money going into my account, they’ll be able to track me down and find out where I’m staying. Once someone from Social Services discovers my brother is gone and I’m alone, they’ll try to put me in a foster home since I don’t turn eighteen until next summer.”

  I get not wanting to be with strangers or ratting out your brother, but I don’t understand Foster’s intense reluctance to have a real home. I’d take a bed and non-public bathroom over permanent camping any day.

  “Wouldn’t that be better?”

  His eyes widen, and I clamp down on my tongue. Apparently, I've said the wrong thing.

  Foster kicks at a speckled shell near his foot, sending it skipping several inches away. “No. It would be worse. I’d rather be alone than with strangers pretending to care about me. I'm tired of people pretending to care about me when they really just want something.”

  I leave the point alone for now, but I make a mental note to revisit it. Maybe right now he’s too sensitive, but surely at some point he’ll have to admit living under the pier is not a permanent solution.

  “Why couldn't you tell me about this? I wouldn't sell you out.” I want to sound casual, but I say the words much too fast and my voice is way too high, and I end up sounding every bit as hurt as his lying makes me feel.

  He blows air out in a slow whistle and ducks his head. “If I tell you, do you promise not to take it personally?”

  Crap. I have two choices here. I can either lie and tell him that of course I won’t take it personally, why would he ever think that, and internalize. Or I can be honest and admit that starting a sentence like that basically guarantees that whatever comes out his mouth next will hurt my feelings.

  “Um…” I pause for too long, and my silence gives me away. Foster scoots closer, grabbing for my hand again, sending an electric wave of tingles through my chest.

  "At first, it was because I didn’t think I wanted to work with you. I didn’t think you liked me very much either, so I thought I was doing both of us a favor. But after that first day together…”

  I raise my eyebrows. His admission makes sense as much as it hurts. We did get off to a confusing start before we entered the contest together.

  “You fell madly in love with me and my amazing sand sculptures and just couldn't stay away?” I finish for him and immediately regret my choice of words. It’s an unspoken rule that you don’t throw around the l-word, even as a joke. It makes people nervous. My stomach twists in jittery bursts just having said it.

  “Exactly,” he says.

  I squeeze out an unstable smile. What is that supposed to mean? Does agreeing with my—mostly joking—statement count as an admission of love? Probably not. But he doesn't deny it either, so that must mean something.

  My heart beats wildly in my lighter-than-air chest. I bite my lip.

  "Want to get some lunch?"

  Nineteen

  I want to remind Foster what being in a house with a family feels like. I never thought my family, which almost always seems dysfunctional, would be the one thing I could use to help him. But it's the best I've got. When things get tough or scary, I run to the beach house. This time I bring Foster with me. We drive over in near silence, my mind spinning with all the things he just told me.

  At a red light, I clear my throat. "Um, so, how do you eat? What do you eat? I mean—are you just hungry all the time?"

  He stiffens. Maybe it's wrong to ask, but the idea that I've been running home after long days at the beach to home-cooked meals and a freezer stuffed with three different flavors of ice cream while he's potentially huddled under the pier starving...

  I force saliva down my dry throat. There are so many basic things that I've taken for granted my whole life.

  "I mean—how do you shower, brush your teeth, go to the bathroom?"

  His body heaves with an invisible sigh. "I get enough money from selling my trash art to buy food. Mostly fast food and stuff that won't go bad like granola bars and chips."

  I nod. But there's still a difference between starvation and being plain hungry.

  "What does 'enough' mean?"

  He lifts a shoulder. "Sometimes it means I eat at McDonalds twice a day. Other times it means I eat dry cereal out of the box until I can afford something else."

  I squeeze my fingers against the steering wheel as the light turns green. "What about my other question? Showers and stuff?"

  He lets out a low laugh. "It's probably better if you don't know, to be honest."

  Calmly, like he isn't discussing his lack of basic human needs.

  I give him a look, because I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know. He smirks in response.

  "Let's just say, I'm an expert at picking the locks they put on the public-access restrooms at night. And I buy cheap soap whenever I can. It's not ideal, but I do what I can not to stink."

  My throat tightens again. "I guess any shower is better than nothing."

  Though I can't remember ever taking a non-decent shower, and if I had, I definitely would have complained about it as much as possible.

  When we get to the beach house, the smell of smoked meats fills half the street. We follow the smoke trail around back to where Dad's hovering over a rack of ribs and thick juicy sausages. My stomach growls in anticipation. When he sees us, he props his pair of metal tongs on the armrest of his nylon camping chair.

  "Hey there, Foster."

  Foster steps forward to shake his hand, and Dad winks at me over his head.

  "We're getting a snack," I call over my shoulder. I lead Foster inside through the back door and straight to the pantry, where I practically shove him forward to choose from the rows and rows of shelf-food staples we have. He does a slow three-hundred-and-sixty degree turn in the small walk-in closet and inhales. Loaves of bread, packages of trail mix, and boxes of artificially flavored Pop-Tarts fill the space. Foster's eyes might bug out of his head.

  "This is awesome."

  My lips twist slightly for his benefit, but my cheeks burn behind my smile. I've never once thought to be amazed at the food in the kitchen. It's always there, and when Livvy eats the last box of Oreos during a late-night snack binge, Mom goes out the next day and buys more. If the pantry weren't perpetually, magically full, who knows if anyone would even notice. There's always the fully stocked fridge or money for takeout.

  He's eyeing a large pack of cookies in the far corner, and I slide them off the shelf and into his hands.

  I wave a hand. "Take the whole package. No one will miss them, I swear."

  He sits at the table, cookies in front of him. My phone buzzes with a text from Carolina. Did you talk to Foster?

  One eye on my phone, the other on Foster, I text back quickly. Yes. It’s complicated, but we’re good.

  As he's shoveling entire chocolate chip cookies into his mouth, Mom and Livvy walk through the front door and into the kitchen. Livvy doesn't even look at us before slamming her phone on the granite kitchen counter and stomping to her room. The door snaps closed with a loud crack. Mom runs her palms down her face like she's ready to pull her skin off layer by layer to rid herself of the stress Livvy's caused.

  Instead she stretches her lips over her teeth in a grimace and blinks at Foster. "So good to see you, hon. Are you staying for lunch?"

  Foster nods with his mouth full.

  "Glad to hear it," Mom sa
ys. She reaches for Livvy's phone on the counter and places it inside a pocket of the purse slung along her shoulder.

  "How was therapy?" The question is loaded, but Foster being here means she won’t erupt too much, which is a nice advantage.

  She puffs out her lips, angrily hissing air through them. "I wouldn't know. She refused to let me come in with her. And then she refused to even tell me how it went." Her jaw is set, her forehead drawn.

  "I'm sure everything is fine, " I assure her. Knowing my sister, she wouldn't miss her chance to let us in on the drama if things weren't going okay. Though I’m not sure I’d be thrilled either if Mom and Dad forced me into couples’ therapy and then my boyfriend kept skipping sessions.

  She lets out another sigh, half-sob this time. "The psychologist wouldn't tell me anything either because of some stupid patient-confidentiality agreement. Can you believe that?"

  Foster, who's finished his cookie at this point, shifts his eyes toward me like he's hoping I'll provide an answer.

  I reach out and pat her shoulder. "She'll be okay, Mom."

  She gives her head a small shake and mumbles something about needing to help check on the meats, leaving Foster and I to raid the pantry again.

  Lunch is a silent, drawn-out affair after Mom and Dad try unsuccessfully to drag Livvy out of her room to eat with us. It leaves Foster and me to dominate the conversation, and there are only so many times we can try to explain sand sculpting to them before everyone starts wishing for silence again. Still, Foster eats so many smoked ribs that Dad sends him with a foil packet of leftovers and a slap on the back.

  I’m not sure what to say to Foster as we drive back to the beach. Besides the obvious, “Sorry for my insane family”, I’m tongue-tied around him all of the sudden. In the painful silence that follows, he reaches over to touch my hand again. My brain goes fuzzy, and all I can focus on is how soft his fingers are, even in the spots made rough from surfing and sculpting. There are no other cars on the road, and even if there were, I’m so blinded by this moment I don’t care that my eyes wander from where they should be.

  "Hey," he says. His voice is so soft it almost blends in with the whir of the tires on the road. It's not so much a greeting as a way to fill the silence and get my attention.

  "Hey," I say back. I don't mean to match his whisper, but I do anyway.

  "I'm sorry for not telling you about all that crap earlier," he says.

  I swallow. "It's okay. I think I understand why. It's heavy stuff. And you have a lot on the line if someone finds out. But your secret is safe with me. I hope you know that."

  "I do know. I trust you, Claire." His eyes are boring into the side of my head. He's leaning so far into my side of the car that his whispered words aren't soft anymore, and his breath blows across my cheek.

  There's a motel with a half-lit sign on the side of the road ahead with a nearly empty parking lot. I signal to turn and pull into the furthest spot in the back. Car in park, I turn my head and lean as far across the driver’s seat as I can. Foster’s eyes widen, questioning. I have to do this before I lose the nerve. If I'm misreading this, I can blame it on the exhilarating embarrassment of him spending the day with my family. I can say I'm punch drunk or something. I push toward him, and he leans forward even more to meet me. His hands trap my face as he studies me. They're steady and cool against my heated skin. His eyes rove across my features like he's just seeing them for the first time. First my eyes, then my sucked-in cheeks, then my mouth. The hairs on my arms stand on end, but I can't drag my eyes away from him. He inches closer to me. I’m barely in my seat anymore, but I still keep one hand gripped on the steering wheel.

  His lips hover above mine, pink and slightly parted. I'm not even sure I'm breathing as I freeze into the moment, waiting.

  Then he lowers them to mine.

  His mouth moves against mine, slow and warm and persistent. My whole body is on fire, but I only want to burn more, feel more, be more. My hands drop and find their way around his torso, gripping his skin through his thin cotton T-shirt. Summer air and spicy body wash sting my nose. The combination sends another jolt to my brain, and I push my lips and body against him harder than before.

  Something clicked after I questioned him and he spilled his guts. Things changed, and we've been pushing the limits of the thin line between us in the hours since. Holding hands and now this.

  This kiss.

  His lips firmly press against my mouth, and my stomach tumbles with the nerves of it all. His fingers lift from my face as his mouth drops. My cheeks spread to form a grin. I've never experienced anything as fundamentally right as this kiss.

  Twenty

  Fourth of July tradition demands we visit downtown Old Saint Augustine for their over-the-top display of fireworks along the water. And every year elicits more of the same: insane parking, crowds, and too many heads in the way of the dazzling firework eruptions. Every year, my parents decide we’ll give it just one more try in spite of it all. It’s one family tradition I don’t actually mind because I love the chance to explore downtown. There are so many people, probably half of them tourists, that it feels like we’re all part of something big and patriotic. Even if it’s just eating as much Cuban food and gelato as possible while we wait for dusk.

  My family strolls through the tightly packed, red-stained cobblestone streets. Livvy and I keep with tradition and lag behind our parents. The small streets are loaded with tiny shops selling everything from alligator jerky to clothing made from alpaca wool. The pungent smells of Spanish spices and salty ocean air lace the streets, mingling within the crowds. We wander in and out of the different stores, mostly just window shopping. One of my favorites is a magic shop hidden in the back of a musty building. Everything inside is delightfully random, like the pair of alpaca-covered magician’s gloves in the display window.

  Today it all reminds me of what's missing: Opa and Foster. Opa loved the Fourth of July. He took just as much pride in these kinds of summer traditions as Dad does and especially loved taking yearly family pictures by the water as the light display went off at midnight. Foster should be here too. He's alone tonight, a fact I stressed to Mom as much as possible without giving away the truth of just how alone he is. But holidays in our family have always been about family time. Just family, Mom says. At least he's not hungry though. I made sure to stop by this morning with as much food from the Publix as could fit in my emptied-out art bag. Still, there's a hollow spot in my chest that pangs every time I catch myself laughing at Dad's dumb jokes or shoveling an oversized handful of caramel popcorn into my mouth. I'm not sure I'm allowed to enjoy any of it anymore, knowing what I now do about Foster's life.

  There’s a band playing makeshift instruments outside of Casa Blanco, the Cuban restaurant we always go to, just like all the other bands stationed on every other corner. Dad slips an arm around Mom as she sways to the music of the trashcan drums. I watch my parents and try to imagine them as a couple. Like a normal couple without kids. I can’t picture them as anything other than parents. But every once in a while—like tonight—I get a tiny glimpse into what it must have been like before they got old and Livvy and I ruled their lives. Livvy’s watching them too. Maybe she’s thinking the same.

  We walk into the restaurant and navigate our way around the other families crowded in the front, waiting for the black-clad servers and their stacks of menus. Thanks to Mom's neurotic planning, we give them our reservation name and are seated immediately. As Mom and Dad slide into their seats at the table, Livvy grabs my arm, holding tightly. She angles her head so only I can hear. To anyone else we might look like two sisters sharing a lighthearted secret. I'd be ready to believe it too if this were any other summer.

  "I need your help leaving during dinner." Her voice is soft and low next to my ear.

  I whip my head toward her, throwing off any plans of discretion with it. Mom raises an eyebrow at us.

  "Everything alright, girls?"

  Livvy laughs a high
-pitched, half-crazed laugh like she's just heard a hilarious joke. I squeeze out a dry chuckle.

  "We're good, Mom," she says over her shoulder, her tone bored.

  Even though it's been months since we've played off of each other like this, I still know my sister well enough to know she wouldn't ask for my help if it weren't important.

  I turn to my parents and screw my face into a sympathetic frown.

  "Bathroom. We'll be right back, okay?"

  Our parents nod and give us silent waves toward the bathrooms on the other side of the restaurant. We march toward them with Livvy trailing behind me and struggling to catch up for once.

  Once we're in the restroom, I fold my arms against my chest. It's pristine white in here, but it reeks of bleach, unlike the mouth-watering smells coming from the rest of the restaurant. Whatever she wants, I’m more than ready to just get it over with.

  "What's going on, Liv?"

  She bites her lip. "I can't be here tonight." She pauses and then rushes on. "And I know you're going to ask, so yes, it's to see Evan, but it's not what you think. I wouldn't ask unless it was a special circumstance, okay?"

  I sigh. "Does it have something to do with your appointment the other day? Mom said he didn't even come."

  She sucks in her cheeks. "Yeah, kind of."

  My shoulders shrug. "Why don't you just ask Evan to come get you? That's what you usually do."

  Her face flashes red. Blotchy spots climb along her cheeks and neck as she shakes her head. Her voice is just above a harsh whisper. "No thanks."

  I frown. "Okay. Remember last summer when you tried to be fancy by ordering that gigantic shrimp and steak platter? And everyone told you that much food would make you sick, but you ate it all anyway, just to prove some point?"

  She rolls her eyes, but a smirk plays along her pinched lips. "I remember," she says. "You walked in on me barfing my guts up right as we were leaving for the fireworks, but I made you swear not to tell anyone. What about it?"