The Art of Falling in Love Read online

  "Get pretend sick and make sure they know this time. Then you'll have an excuse to leave early while we stay for the fireworks."

  "It could work. Except…" Her voice is bright as she plots. "You need to do it too so you can drive me."

  I step backward, and my hands slide up defensively. "Why would I do that?"

  "Drop me off with Evan, then you can spend the rest of the night with Foster."

  An eyebrow arches above her smirked lips as I consider the deal. I have passed most of the trip downtown missing Foster and wondering how he's spending the holiday.

  "I don't know, Liv. Mom and Dad want us to be together today."

  I shove against the heavy restroom door, and it swings open. Livvy follows me, lip curled.

  "I didn't think you cared about family time unless it involved Opa."

  I stop mid-stride. "What?"

  She narrows her eyes. "I'm not totally clueless. You and Opa were always in his office talking about who knows what. And it doesn't take a genius to see you're not interested in hanging at the beach house now that he's gone."

  My mouth moves, but words don't come out. "Liv. I... You're always busy too," I blurt.

  She shakes her head and starts walking again. We're almost to our table, where Mom and Dad are pointing to their menus, a teenage girl listening patiently.

  "You're so self absorbed when it comes to missing Opa, Claire. You don't think anyone else cares, just because we don't sit in our rooms looking at pictures and crying about him." Her hissed words are sharp, and they hit their target nicely.

  I blink, my tongue heavy. "You don't know what you're talking about," I say.

  Her voice is low by my side, and there's no venom left. "Forget it. Just help me, okay?"

  That's not how I remember it at all, but even if I spent more time with Opa…it never occurred to me that she cared. Mom and Dad are watching us now, so I clamp my lips shut.

  We take our seats and my head spins. How much of what she's saying has she rehearsed, just waiting for the perfect moment to slap me between the eyes? How long has she felt like this and kept me in the dark?

  “What are you going to order, girls?” Dad narrows his eyes between Livvy and me. She ignores him and watches me.

  I sigh and give a tiny nod. She smiles sweetly and orders for both of us. “We'll both have the steak and shrimp platter, please."

  Dad points his folded menu at me before stretching it across the table to the server. "Feeling adventurous this year too, Claire Bear?"

  I mumble into my glass of water. "Something like that."

  Fifteen minutes into dinner, I have to physically clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from spewing chunks of forced-down steak all over the tabletop. My stomach lurches at the sight of the remaining shrimps pushed aside on my plate, each one swimming in a generous pool of pale-yellow butter and chopped garlic. Next to me, Livvy doubles over and groans into the white cloth napkin tucked in her lap. Neither of us need to pretend to be sick, at least.

  The drive to Evan's house is sticky with silence. Mom and Dad were reluctant to let us go, but after a few minutes of not-at-all-staged almost barfing, they said they'd see us at home. Key word is home, where we’d better be by the time they've worked their way out of the downtown traffic maze after the fireworks show.

  Livvy pulls a piece of foil-wrapped gum from her purse and pops it into her mouth. The strong scent of peppermint curling around the car invokes Opa like not much else can.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. "What you were saying about Opa—"

  In my peripheral vision, I see her raise a palm. "Stop. It's whatever, okay? We both loved him. It doesn't matter that he loved you more."

  I shake my head. "He didn't love me more. Maybe we just had more in common."

  All of our days spent sketching at the beach, our road trip plans, the application he left for me… I see why she'd feel this way, but it's still not true.

  She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "I said it's fine.”

  I turn to glance at her, but she's facing the window, her face gleaming off the darkened window, eyes vacant.

  At the bottom of Evan's sloped driveway, I lick my lips as she pulls the passenger side door open.

  "Thank you. And don't worry. I'll be home before Mom and Dad."

  I nod and watch her walk up the steep, curved path to where Evan waits, leaning lazily against the garage door. Funny, I wouldn't have pictured him living in a two-story red-brick house with a tidy green lawn. Maybe he even has a normal family sleeping inside this all-American house.

  I text Foster before shifting the car into drive. My phone sits by my side on the console, and I switch my playlist to Pink Floyd on the drive over, humming along to the songs I swore I'd never listen to after the road trip. The second Foster comes into view, butterflies emerge in my stomach. Giant butterflies with wings strong enough to blow over a sizable shrub. Definitely strong enough to make me queasy and knobby kneed. He's waiting for me in the parking lot of the McDonald’s across the street from the beach. Lines of cars are parked alongside both sides of the road. There are barely any parking spots left due to the fireworks show at the beach. He jogs toward me as soon as I stop the car. His hand pulls on the door handle, and he opens my door for me, a grin lighting up his face. This is the first time we've been alone since we kissed.

  That kiss.

  It was a religious experience. Our mouths moving together was the closest I've ever been to pure bliss. It's been replaying in my mind on a constant loop. And now that we've finally snuck away again, my eyes won't move from his lips. I have to fight to keep my hands by my sides and not on his body, where they seem to think they belong now.

  "I missed you," I say.

  It's only been a day. Less than that, technically. My throat constricts as he gazes down at me. I look up into his eyes and click my car door shut behind me. My back bumps against the window, but I barely register anything as Foster hovers closer and closer.

  His hand brushes my ear, sending electrifying shivers down my neck. His eyes zero in on my lips, and I hold my breath. How is it that time can move so fast when I want to hold on to something but not the other way around? I need him to kiss me already.

  As if sensing my impatience, his arms circle my waist. Then finally, finally, he ducks his head. I stand on the tips of my toes and crash my lips into his. His mouth on mine is so warm that I might melt from the impact. I tease my tongue with his, out of breath and reluctant to ever come up for air all at the same time.

  He murmurs against my lips. "I missed you so freaking much."

  The sky above us is midnight black, but in this moment, my world is an explosion of light. This is all the fireworks I'll ever need.

  Twenty-One

  Foster's sitting on a bench on what I used to call Opa’s beach. It's early enough that he still has his shirt on and it's not soaked through with sweat yet, but not so early that we're the only ones here. I can’t help but think of this as our place now––Foster’s and mine. I wonder what Opa would think about the shift in my thinking. Foster waves as I walk up, and I nod my head since both my arms are full.

  "Good morning," I chirp. "Before I forget—"

  I set my armful of stuff on the bench and slide the grocery bag toward him. "Eat something first, then we can get to work."

  He eyes the bulging paper bag before pouncing on it and unloading a pile of bananas, granola bars, and sports drinks. He stops once he gets about halfway. His eyes connect to mine, and he reaches in and throws his head back with a sharp groan. His fist emerges, clutching chocolate in a plastic wrapper.

  "Thank you for this. Seriously. The other stuff is great, but this." He holds up the king-size candy bar like a first-prize trophy. "I could eat a whole grocery bag of just these."

  I roll my eyes, the corners of my mouth lifting. "I'll remember that next time."

  He unwraps the candy bar, snaps it in half, and passes one piece to me. I wave him away. "I'm fu
ll."

  His cheeks are already bulging with chocolate, but he lifts a shoulder and swallows, making room for more.

  I shake my head. If this is how he eats when the food is there, how hungry does he get when it's not? I sit down next to him on the bench, our ankles bumping.

  “Okay, so, we need to finish our plans and turn them into the judges by the fourteenth, which is...” I wiggle my head from side to side as I calculate. "It's next Saturday." Just over a week away, which suddenly makes it seem like the summer is closing in on us.

  Foster finishes chewing the rest of his chocolate, and now he's washing it down with a blue sports drink. “Well, I have a few ideas, but we should decide together." He sets down the empty plastic container with a clunk.

  My mouth twists. "I have some ideas too."

  I hand him a sheet of poster paper from my bag. Last week after our firework of a kiss, I stayed up to sketch out some ideas when sleep just wouldn't come. I’ve brought the best one with me today. It's beach inspired, of course. But it also belongs to me and Foster in a way that makes my stomach clench as he pulls the sketch closer with furrowed brows.

  He looks up. "From the road trip?"

  I nod. My shoulders relax as his lips curve upward.

  "Nice idea. Do you mind if I add something?"

  I wrinkle my nose playfully as I hand him a pen from my bag. He hunches over the paper and draws. I chew on my lip while I wait.

  When he holds it up for me to see, it's like he's added the final piece of a puzzle. All along where I've sketched our plans for the sand art, he's inserted arrows showing where items from his trash art will fit. It's a combination of both our styles, both of our stories.

  I stare at it until I'm forced to blink. "It's perfect."

  He sets the paper on the bench beside us. His hand drags through the back of his hair as he turns his attention to me. “I don’t think this needs to be said, but I’m going to say it anyway.”

  I inhale when he pauses. My heart beats deep inside my chest, the thundering moving up to my ears and pounding in my head.

  “I really like you, Claire.”

  I lace my fingers with his, sliding my thumb along the inside of his.

  My insides expand, like they're suddenly full of helium. It's hard to carry my voice higher than a choked whisper. Our hands intertwined, our voices soft; it's a reverent moment.

  “I really like you too. Um, a lot."

  His hand squeezes around mine, pumping my fingers like a heartbeat.

  We fall back into silence as we study the sketch of our sculpture. His head bumps mine, and a strand of hair falls and tickles my cheek. I glance up. and his eyes are no longer on the paper. He leans down, his lips brushing mine softly—

  "Hey there, little brother."

  A loud voice near us destroys the moment. Foster's head snaps upward, and he sucks in a sharp, audible breath.

  I look up and follow Foster’s gaze to see a tall, stocky guy stalking toward us. Foster nods at him, but he whispers under his breath so only I can hear.

  “Don’t say anything.”

  My breath catches as I smile through gritted teeth. I’m not as good of an actor as Foster is, and I’m even worse at hiding facial expressions. By the time the guy reaches us a few seconds later, perspiration is already dripping down my neck and the small of my back. I have a pretty good idea who this is. And if it's who I think it is, Foster is in trouble.

  Instead of talking to Foster, he walks straight to me. He points one giant finger into my face and chuckles, low and deep in his throat. “You’re not with this guy, are you? Are you kidding me, man?” His square face scrunches up and he turns to Foster, whose face is blank. I’m full of enough wide-eyed terror for the both of us.

  He whirls on Foster. “I thought I told you to get off this beach. If you're not gonna come with me, you're sure as hell not gonna be sleeping here.”

  He leans more of his full weight into Foster with each word. I glance at Foster for some subtle sign or direction. Should we make a run for it, or should I call 9-1-1? I’ve never quite been clear on whether you’re supposed to call the moment you feel threatened, or the moment some crazy person at the beach starts to pummel you. Foster won’t look at me. He doesn’t even blink.

  I’m almost positive Foster will hate me for it later, but I do the only thing I can think of in the moment.

  “Hey,” I say, waving my hands in the face of the near-giant. “Hey, it’s not your beach, you know. This is public property. Anyone can be here.”

  It’s a stupid thing to do. And a stupid thing to say, but I’m not quick in situations like these, so I’m kind of proud of myself for even being able to get words out. Foster still won’t say anything, but his eyes bug out and his neck flushes red.

  My plan is working, though. Because instead of screaming in Foster’s face, the guy is back to leering in my direction.

  “You gonna stop me from splitting his face open?” He nods in Foster’s direction and bares his knuckles, all without breaking eye contact with me.

  I want to tell him his threats make him sound like a lame character from Grease, but I’ve already antagonized him enough. I wait for Foster’s cue to know what to do next, but it doesn’t come. He’s completely frozen. This is real. This guy is dangerous, and I’m going to have to get us out of this on my own.

  “We’re not going to fight you,” I tell him. “We’re just sitting on the beach, talking.” I gesture to the scene around us, where people fill the beach, lounging on towels draped across the sand and splashing through the shallow edge of the ocean.

  “And, in case you didn't notice, we’re not the only ones on the beach today. So you might want to keep the threats to a minimum.”

  I use the deliberately calm tone Mom uses when she thinks Livvy or I are being unreasonable. Who knew I could learn so much from Mom's psychological tactics.

  He turns to give the beach a quick once-over before he starts to pace between Foster and me. “I need to talk to my little brother. I have every right to."

  I raise my eyebrows but resist the urge to look at Foster.

  “Johnny, this is not a good time.” I jump a little when Foster speaks, because I’m so surprised he’s finally shaken off his stupor. Johnny stops pacing to curl his lip into a snarl. I’m getting scared enough to start offering this guy money or something just to leave us alone, but something warm touches me, and I glance down to see Foster’s hand covering mine. His fingers tremble against my skin.

  Suddenly, I’m standing up and squaring off face-to-face with the guy. “Leave us alone,” I say. “Or I’m calling the police.” I hold my phone up as proof. He stares at it and then back down at me. His mouth hangs open a little bit, and his eye twitches like he’s trying to convince himself that he heard me correctly.

  His balled-up hand reaches for my phone. Foster leaps from the bench and darts between us, a blur in my side view. And then there’s a crunch. The guy’s hard fist comes in direct contact with Foster’s chin. Blood sprays through the air as Foster’s knees buckle to the sand. Screams come from somewhere nearby as other people catch sight of the fight. Johnny steps over Foster and spits in my direction. A blob of spit like a washed-up jellyfish lands inches from my shoe.

  "We're still gonna talk," he calls over his shoulder as he strides away.

  Twenty-Two

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so so so sorry.”

  Foster hasn’t stopped apologizing. Which is ridiculous, because my faux bravery is the reason his chin is twice its normal size and black and blue. He also has a small cut on his cheek that’s gushing blood like a bottle of ketchup. The doctor at the emergency-care office says it’s probably due to Johnny’s massive hand size as well as how hard he was hit. A two-for-one sort of thing. They almost didn't agree to see him after we couldn't show them an insurance card, but I slapped down my emergency credit card, only a tinge of guilt niggling in the back of my brain.

  “Don’t apologize. You didn't do anyth
ing wrong." The situation is awful enough without him reminding me how badly I messed up. He should be giving me the silent treatment or yelling at me––or something––since I’m the one who antagonized his brother into hitting him. I didn’t even have the foresight to call the police—even though I had threatened that exact thing and was already clutching my phone. Some people are quick under pressure. Me? Not so much.

  "I didn't do anything at all. I froze." His hands encircle his head, and he curls into his knees.

  "You were scared." I give my head a tiny shake. "I was too."

  “Johnny would have come after me whether you were with me or not. I just hate that you had to see that.” Foster groans softly as I set an arm around him. Even though his injuries are restricted to his face, he moves his whole body gingerly. A side effect of being in extreme pain, I guess.

  I can’t let him go back to the beach like this, knowing Johnny is potentially there waiting to beat him to a pulp. And even if Johnny’s gone, Foster needs to rest somewhere comfortable for a change, so he can start healing. And I already have a plan in motion—he just doesn’t know it yet.

  After we leave the doctor’s office, I pull into the drive-through of the closest burger place. I order two milkshakes (one chocolate, one vanilla), two cheeseburgers, and two large fries. People are much more likely to accept crazy ideas on a full stomach; that’s just common sense. It’s a tactic I learned from Dad. He used to take Livvy and me for milkshakes and fries every time he needed us on his side for a vacation choice or weekend plans. Mom pretended to hate that we banded together against her, but I think it secretly made her happy everyone was getting along.

  I hand Foster the vanilla milkshake and take a giant slurp out of the chocolate. He eyes me before drinking it. “How did you know I like vanilla?”

  I shrug and reluctantly slip the straw out of my mouth. “I have a milkshake theory,” I say. I know I sound ridiculous, but I figure Foster should get to know this silly side of me too. He raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. Some people take badly to being categorized, but it never occurred to me that he might be one of them. “Do you want to know what it is?”