The Art of Falling in Love Page 7

  Finally, Mom's mouth slips into a smile that could pass for normal, much softer at least than the half-crazed look from a few minutes earlier. She reaches into the purse at her hip and retrieves a blue-and-white credit card and presses it into Foster's hand. Since I'm her daughter and the one who will be driving, I'm not sure why she's not handing it to me, but Foster clutches it so tightly that his fingers burn white.

  Twelve

  "It's my turn."

  Foster pulls on the cord connecting my phone to the car stereo and switches it out for his own. Then he scrolls to a playlist and a soft rock intro blasts through the speakers.

  I shift my eyes toward him as much as I dare while driving, and he grins in my peripheral vision.

  I nod at the music. "What is this?"

  His face falls. He looks around, his mouth open like there might be hidden cameras revealing I'm pulling some seriously awful prank on him.

  "You're not serious, are you? Please tell me you're joking."

  My embarrassment creeps across my cheeks, no doubt leaving visible pink streaks of shame. I set my jaw. "I'm serious. I've never heard this before in my life.”

  He leans back in his seat, hands lacing behind his head. "Well, thank goodness you met me then. It's Pink Floyd."

  Obviously, I've heard of the band. Foster's acting like it's crazy I don't know every song by a bunch of old guys, but I'm not completely clueless.

  "Oh, yeah," I say. "Dark Side of The Moon, right?"

  "Yes!" He claps his hands together like I've just asked him to confirm he's a lottery winner instead of it being a very mundane answer about his favorite band.

  The music pounds into my skull like an itch that I can't quite scratch. If I weren't driving, I'd close my eyes and lean into it, feel it more fully, but it's too difficult to divide my attention between the road and the songs, and I'm left torn and annoyed. My GPS tells me to turn right on the next road one second before I've driven too far past it to make a reasonable turn. I try anyway, swinging the wheel so far right that the tires make a sharp screeching sound and my phone on the console between us slips under my feet, out of my reach.

  I skid to a stop on the side of the road while Foster turns toward me, eyes wide.

  "What happened?"

  No way I'm telling him I'm actually getting into his old-person music. I lift a shoulder and grab around under my feet for my phone.

  "Oh, hey." Foster's arm reaches across the seat, and he's searching too, both of us feeling blindly under the dark crevices of my seat. My pinky bumps into something cool and metallic and hard, and I emerge victorious, my phone clasped tightly in my palm.

  Foster's eyes dart upward. "Nice. You found it."

  I nod. "Thanks for helping me look."

  He pulls his hand back, bumping it against my phone and knocking it out of my hand again in the process.

  We both stare at the phone where it's landed, partly visible, under his seat.

  Then I breathe out a small laugh.

  And so does he. Giggles tumble out of me until I'm almost breathless and definitely hysterical. But he's laughing too.

  He hands me my phone and I set it firmly on the console between us again.

  "Um." I take a steadying breath, my face flushed against the cold air blowing from the vents. "Okay, let's get back on track."

  And then we're both done laughing, and we don't say anything else until we stop for gas several miles after. But the skin where his hands touched mine after he handed over my phone is warm for some reason.

  When his playlist ends, I press the replay button while he's inside the gas station.

  The first stop on the list is a museum neither of us has heard of. I try to pronounce the name twice and fail before Foster unbuckles and leans over my shoulder. When he speaks, the words vibrate against my back. "After the lake?"

  I turn my head half an inch toward him before realizing how incredibly close it brings our faces and shrinking back. He smirks. At my ignorance of Floridian lakes or at how quickly I jump away from him, I'm not sure.

  "Lake Okeechobee?"

  My nose wrinkles. Of course he said it perfectly on the first try. "Yeah, I guess so." We both gaze upward at the black iron sign sprawling above the whitewashed brick building that reads Okeechobee Museum of Art.

  "My mom and I used to drive by the lake sign a bunch when I was younger. We looked up how to pronounce all the weird names we saw and memorized them."

  He gets this distant, slack-jawed look and gazes past me, out my window. I follow his line of sight, but there's nothing. I guess he’s seeing some memory he doesn’t want to share.

  "That's cool that you get along with your mom," I say. A hint of wistfulness slips into my voice, and his head snaps back to me.

  "You don't?"

  I make a big show of clearing my throat. "Ahem. You saw my parents that day at the beach. I love them, but they can be pretty dramatic. Especially Mom."

  Foster's lips twitch. "I think that's all moms. And even if she's over the top, she probably thinks she's trying to protect you."

  I lift a shoulder. "I guess. What's your mom like?"

  I search his face, but his only reaction is a tightened jaw. "She's great."

  His back-and-forth warm and chilly persona is giving me whiplash. There's got to be some reason for the way he shuts down like this. But for me to find out, he'd have to actually open up to me. Sometimes—like this conversation—it seems as if he’s about to say something that will explain everything. And then he closes off and he's stoic, silent Foster again.

  "Okay."

  I pull my keys from the car's ignition, taking the frigid air conditioning with them, and we step onto the bubbling black asphalt. The parking lot of the small art museum is nearly empty. There are only two other cars, not including mine. One is a beat-up gold minivan and the other is a shiny black pickup truck, and they're both parked right up front like they're poised for a quick getaway.

  I speed-walk past Foster toward the heavy metal front door and swing it open without bothering to wait for him. It closes behind me with a satisfying clunk. The huffing breaths I let loose have nothing to do with how fast I'm walking and everything to do with how annoyed I am about Foster's reluctance to talk. I’ve told him plenty about my family, about Opa and Livvy. Plus, he’s met them all. But he won’t even give me more than a two-word answer about his.

  Once inside, I pause on my heels and turn around the one-room display. Before I can even get a feel for the place, a strong leafy smell hits me. I bring my head up, tilting my face toward the smell so I can drink it in. It's like walking in a forest and coming across a bush full of juicy purple fruit, but instead of eating any, you just shove your face in the bush and inhale.

  The door thuds behind me again, and a hmm sounds from Foster. Probably trying to figure out the smell too. He stands beside me, and I grudgingly nudge him with an elbow. "What is that smell?"

  "Herbal tea, I think. But a lot of it."

  None of the peppermint or chamomile teas I've had have ever smelled like this, but it's news to me that other varieties exist, so Foster's probably right.

  I breathe in again just as a petite, grey-haired lady wearing tiny gold-rimmed glasses way down on the edge of her nose sweeps in. Her black muumuu runs across the floor as she shuffles toward us from a door in the back corner. The herbal smell increases when she emerges. She must be boiling a cauldron full of tea in that back room.

  "Visitors." She clasps her hands together solemnly and nods at us from halfway across the room.

  "Hi," I say. I raise my hand in a half-wave, half-salute motion and then pull my arm tightly to my side. A bead of sweat forms on the end of my nose.

  She motions around the claustrophobic room. "Welcome. Please let me know if I can help you with anything."

  Foster nods. "Thanks. We're just here to look around a little."

  She blinks at him and then turns on her heel and swooshes back through the door.

  We turn t
o each other, stifling giggles as soon as she's gone. Sweat pools around my lower back, and I try to position myself near any of the box fans placed in each of the four windows without drawing attention to exactly how hot I am.

  The museum is one long row of paintings after another. Each row is divided into different painting styles. One is impressionist, another modernist, some renaissance, and etcetera. It should inspire me to see so many styles all grouped together in such a small space. Instead I count the paintings, filing them away to think about some other time, just like I might for some tiresome homework assignment. Foster doesn't say anything as he wanders a few feet behind me staring at the endless groupings of art. But the repetitive brush strokes and boring colors seem to have the same effect on us because by the time we've both reached the end of the exhibit our shoulders are slumped, our eyes sagging.

  Maybe this isn't our kind of art anymore.

  Despite never actually drinking any of the flowery warm-smelling stuff, I'm swaying on my feet by the time we move from the museum to the parking lot. My mouth opens in a yawn so big my shoulders shudder.

  "That was interesting." Foster side-eyes me once we start driving again.

  Interesting, for sure. I nod and rub at my heavy eyes. Hopefully our next stop provides more artistic clarity and a less sauna-like atmosphere.

  Thirteen

  I let Foster pick where we eat for lunch. He's super insistent on something cheap even though we have my parents' credit card. He's all about his job and his own money, but you'd think he'd be glad to have someone else paying for once. Instead, his nostrils flare when I poke him in the back to remind him about the card before we order.

  He chooses a food truck that serves only burgers and fries, but I'm not complaining. We order one of each and a side of fries to share. I carry my tray to one of the three black metal tables a few feet from the truck. When I sit, my chair wobbles unevenly under my feet. Foster follows, taking the seat opposite mine.

  The napkins included with our orders are the same blue as his eyes. Ever since the first time I noticed his eye color, I can't not think of the ocean when I look at them. That and his love of surfing…in some ways Foster's more connected to the beach than I am.

  He pats the stack of napkins on the tabletop between us and grabs a handful. Starting at the top, he makes slow, careful rips that make quick gusts of wind over the other napkins. Once he's done turning the first napkin into equally measured blue strips, he starts on the next one.

  "Are you making something?"

  His lips smoosh to the side as he considers me, but his eyes—ugh, his eyes. I rip my own gaze away. There's staring and then there's drinking someone in, and I'm about to waver on the latter. Sure, Foster's cute, but he's also infuriating at times, and I'm not about to get myself caught up in all of that.

  "I just had an idea." He shrugs.

  I lift an eyebrow. "Just like that? You saw the napkins, and an idea popped into your mind immediately?" Where's the skulking around for hours, sketching until your hands are numb, thinking until your brain melts? Art comes so easily to him that I should hate him. But I can't bring myself to feel anything other than utter, sinking disappointment in myself. I bite my lip and try to ignore the rock in the pit of my stomach.

  "Don't you ever do this? Just make something out of whatever's around? It's something I've been doing since I was little. It’s how I realized I wanted to do something with art someday."

  My stomach rolls giant green waves at his words. No, I've never done what he's doing. His hands work quickly as he's talking, and part of me wonders if he's even aware of what he's doing at all. Like, maybe his hands have a mind—and artistic will—of their own.

  "So, what's the deal with your grandfather? What do you call him—Opa?"

  I suck in a breath. "What do you mean?"

  "I just—sorry. I guess I'm just wondering why this trip and the contest and this summer mean so much to you."

  "They're all I have left of him."

  His face pinches. "Yeah, I get that."

  There's a pause when we both pretend to be absorbed in our burgers. I nibble at the cheese peeking around the edges of my toasted bun. Then Foster sighs and swipes the basket of fries aside. Our eyes meet again.

  Maybe he's lost someone like I have. Maybe all of the quick answers and silent stares are more than just guarded personality. Whatever it is, I’m starting to think he's never going to tell me. My head turns the other way so he can't see what's written on my face.

  "Opa was the one person I could always count on to believe in me. He always knew I could be an artist, even when I wasn’t so sure. Without him..."

  I sigh and press a palm to the cool metal table top, made slightly damp by the warm summer air.

  "I'm trying to keep that belief alive however possible."

  Foster nods and sets his creation in front of me. It's a blue paper bird, folded and pinched delicately into a whimsical replica of the seagulls we always see at the beach.

  Fourteen

  We're not going to make it to the next stop. Ninety minutes into our drive along a road that just barely counts as paved, I glance down at the gas gauge and cold dread clenches my arms, leaving tiny hairs standing up as I try to catch my breath. We're supposed to be at a museum north of our last stop with an hour or two to spare before closing time, but it's not going to happen.

  We've been relatively quiet since lunch, both of us lost in our own train of thought and Foster absorbed in his music. But now he pulls his headphones from his ears and turns toward me.

  "What's wrong?"

  "We're almost on empty." I shake my head and point a finger at the arrow on my car ticking dangerously close to the letter E.

  Foster leans over, his eyes widening. "Crap."

  Exactly.

  "I didn't even think about gas after we left the museum. I just wanted to get out of there, but I haven't seen a gas station in at least an hour." My voice cracks, a tiny sound that still sounds like the echo of some deafening thud in my own ears. I can't just break down like this. Foster's still staring at the gauge like he thinks he might be able to fuel the car by sheer willpower. Or maybe he's just searching for the words to chew me out for being the worst road-trip partner ever.

  I pull the car over to the shoulder, and we both bump in our seats as rocks and dry dirt jolt under the tires. I put it into park and turn the engine off, collapsing against the back of my seat as soon as the keys are freed. I'm still cold despite the persistent humidity and absence of AC, but no amount of rubbing the skin on my shaky arms helps. My eyes blink closed as I lean my head against the seat.

  "Hey, don't freak out. We'll be fine."

  Something warm brushes over my arm, softer at first, like an unsure whisper, and then more heavy and reassuring.

  I open one eye and squint at his hand on my arm. He's smiling, even up to his eyes. How, I don't know, since we're basically stranded in the middle of nowhere with no plan and it's one of those overcast days so thick with humidity you can smell it. The only worse thing that could come out of this is rain, and honestly, it's probably not far off.

  "We won't be fine." I tug my teeth along my lip.

  I shake my arm away from him and tuck it against my chest, even though I'm actually a little calmer because of it.

  "Worst case we'll have to walk to the closest house and ask for help. Or call an Uber or something."

  I almost agree before a pounding sound stops me cold. Wrong. Worst case scenario is this. A rainstorm in the middle of nowhere, leaving us stranded overnight.

  Drops patter onto the hood of my car, streaming down in uniform torrents until the air's so thick with rain that nothing else can be seen. I shield my eyes with both hands curved above them, but it's still like diving with no goggles where everything's so blurry you're not sure if that blob in front of you is a fish or a really wiggly rock. Even if I turned my car back on and used my windshield wipers, it wouldn't make a difference.

  Silence sting
s between us until a beeping sound causes us both to look around for the source. My phone beeps again with a warning. SEVERE THUNDERSTORM WARNING! STAY INDOORS OR SEEK SHELTER.

  The blood drains from my face as I stare at the message, and my brain flicks through our viable options.

  Foster whispers against the torrential rain. "There's that little pink farmhouse a mile back. Maybe they'd let us wait there until the rain settles enough to call someone. Or until we can figure out how to get gas."

  I hesitate for a moment, like there's some other option to consider. Turning the keys in the car engine, I start back for the house, driving as carefully as possible to avoid getting stuck in one of the fresh mud pits. I park the car on the road right in front of the farmhouse, and Foster and I look at each other. It's either run for it or risk being stuck in the car for who knows how long.

  We both place our hands on the door handles.

  "On three, okay?"

  Foster nods.

  "One...

  "Two...

  “THREE!"

  The last word is drowned out by the pounding rain and our running against the wind. I grab Foster's arm because it's all I know is out there and if I don't, I might lose sight of him altogether.

  The distance to the farmhouse is short, but our clothes and shoes are still plastered with mud when we reach it. Floorboards squeak under our feet as we run up onto the front porch. I knock on the pale-pink door, throwing aside all manners and pounding when no one comes immediately to rescue us from the sheets of water falling from the sky.

  The door cracks open, and a woman with red hair peeks from behind it, her eyes wide.

  "Come on in," she says, ushering us through the front door into her home, like she's been waiting for us all along.

  Fifteen

  Luckily for us, the little pink farmhouse is actually a bed and breakfast that accepts walk-in guests at any hour. Unluckily, Edna's B&B is not for teenagers. It's the first thing I realize once we've paid and are huddled in the sitting room waiting as Edna bustles around looking for our room keys and gathering extremely fluffy pale-pink towels. Still, she makes an exception for us after we explain about the car and that we're hours away from home.