The Art of Falling in Love Read online

  I flop onto a small couch next to the front door with a towel under my legs so I don't get the furniture wet and muddy. Foster's standing next to it, shifting his feet, as visibly out of place as I am. We couldn't have chosen a better place to run out of gas than near a farmhouse bed and breakfast, but, still, we can't be the usual type of guest. Half-drowned teens don’t exactly scream romantic getaway like the rest of the guests who are downstairs eating dinner at a cozy wooden farm table.

  Now that we're not running for our lives, I have time to look around at where we've landed. It's safe to say pink is Edna's favorite color. In fact, her main decorative theme seems to be just that one color. No inch of the wall space is left untouched. There are framed black and white photos, framed maps and blueprints of local landmarks, even framed flowers and leaves, preserved to live on forever in a small glass box. Top that off with the usual suspects like white-lace doilies on each table and side table and intricately woven Indian rugs under our feet. One splash of Pepsi or too-full bowl of cereal would ruin this place.

  Foster leans across the pillows and whispers. "Well, at least it doesn't smell like a tea factory."

  I grin up at him, and Edna turns just in time to glance between us like she wants in on the joke too.

  "I'm glad y'all found me. And you're doubly lucky because we've got a generator specifically for storms like these." She eyes the muddy towel under my butt.

  I smile at her reassuring words.

  Then she says, "I don't usually see many young couples around here." Her smile is as syrupy as her voice. She's probably around Mom's age, but she's not wearing a ring. This business seems to be her whole life. And she thinks Foster and I are a couple.

  Foster stares at her, expression unmoving, except for his lips opening and closing at a rapid pace. It'd be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing.

  My skin flushes warm against my water-soaked clothes. "We're just friends," I say quickly, in a voice that's too high and too rushed to make anything better.

  "Oh." She frowns, like she’s confused about something.

  Foster and I nod, almost in unison, as if our head movements alone will prove how platonic our relationship is.

  She considers us and then clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Well, that's fine. We have an empty room with two beds that's normally booked for families."

  My anxiety eases as that weight jumps off my chest. At least if Mom asks—and I can count on her asking—it will be easier to lie about sleeping in separate rooms. Separate beds is basically the same thing anyway. A covert glance at Foster confirms he's thinking something similar. His shoulders ease down, when seconds before they were tight and up by his ears. Instead of more eased anxiety, the tips of my ears warm. It shouldn't annoy me to know he's happy not to be squished into a bed with me. It doesn't occur to me to care at all until I see how visibly relieved he is. Now I kind of want to pinch him.

  The room is so tiny I can't imagine how we'd squeeze into a single bedroom if this one weren’t available. There's only a foot of space between the two beds to begin with, and part of that space is filled with a small dresser and a bedside table, all in matching antiqued wood.

  I edge toward the bathroom, itching to get clean, when I spot two gigantic bathrobes hanging from a hook near the bathroom door. They're pink, of course. I scrub every inch of mud off of me and wash my hair, then I lay my clothes across the side of the bathtub and wrap myself in a robe. I sink into the soft, plush fabric as it hugs my skin like the promise of a bonfire on a cold night. Foster showers next, and I bite my tongue when he emerges in a matching pink robe.

  We both collapse into our beds, but even in the dark, Foster's sigh of relief at not being forced to be too close to me niggles at my brain. "Sorry we have to sleep in the same room."

  He's so silent I assume he's asleep until I hear a throaty grunt. "What?"

  He sighs loudly. "I don't care that we're in the same room. I just wanted us to both have our space."

  I grind my teeth against each other even though the gravelly sound makes me want to plug my own ears.

  "Yeah, well, you're right—at least we have some space."

  He sighs again. "I don't get why you're mad."

  If there's anything that gets me fired up, it's being accused of being angry about things I'm clearly angry about but trying not to be.

  "I'm not mad. I just don't get what's so bad about sleeping in the same room. Or bed for that matter. I mean, we're just friends."

  "Are you kidding? I can't imagine anything worse."

  My mouth falls open as I try to incoherently stutter a response.

  "No. It's not that... I-I just mean your parents would kill me. That part would suck."

  My heart pounds in my ears as a warm rush settles across the whole upper half of my body. "Oh," I say quietly. If that's all it is, it actually does make sense. I sigh a little in relief.

  Most of my face is tucked into the crisp white sheets. When I inhale against them they smell like the same springtime-scented detergent Mom uses. Like if freshly cut grass and soap bonded together somehow.

  If I looked over at Foster I'd probably be able to see him, barely make him out in what's left of the moonlight not obscured by more clouds. But it's too intimate, especially after all the talk about sleeping together.

  "Thanks for coming with me. I mean, it's kind of a bust as far as all the stuff we were supposed to see, but I'm really glad you're here."

  I stare at the ceiling from behind the sheets, but I'm listening so intently that I register the intake of breath that comes from Foster's side of the room.

  "Um, sure. I'm glad I'm here too." His voice is soft and faraway sounding. I like that he doesn't just brush me off, though, like he sometimes does. He may be a mystery half of the time, but he’s still a really nice guy, and right now, I can’t imagine wanting to be in this situation with anyone else.

  The next morning, everything is heavy. My legs are so numb that they practically drag the rest of my body after them as soon as I swing them over the side of the bed. My tongue is sandpaper against the roof of my mouth, and I remember it's been way too long since I've had any water to drink. Mom's cardinal rule. Her thinly veiled instructions to Foster to make me drink water and pee regularly skitter to the front of my mind. I should remind him and jokingly blame it all on his forgetfulness, but we kind of left things on a sweet note last night. Plus, he's still asleep. Groaning snores come from his bed, where only one arm is visible. The rest of him is tucked tightly under the pink-and-white striped duvet, even most of his head. I guess he's pretty exhausted.

  I quickly pull a brush through my hair and sigh at the tangles from sleeping on it wet. By the time I've tugged on my still-damp clothes and shoes, Foster's still sound asleep. I tiptoe toward him, which is ridiculous since I have just as much right to be in the room as he does. But I'm still worried I'm bothering him, and there's always the slight chance he wakes up in some post-sleepy haze, totally confused about where we are and why I'm creeping around while he's out.

  I stop a foot away from his bed, making muffled slapping sounds with my hands that are no match for his heavy breathing. Next, I step closer and shake the part of the blanket where I guess his shoulder is.

  His lips part and a crease lines his forehead. "Ugh."

  I move backward as his eyes crack open. "Hey."

  He blinks. "Um. Hi."

  I edge myself to his bed and plop onto the edge near his feet, sinking into the marshmallowy mattress.

  "So, I think we need to go. Last night Edna said checkout is at ten, and it's..."

  I glance over at the digital clock between our beds even though I'm very aware of what time it is. Foster's eyes follow mine, and he winces.

  "It's nine-fifty?"

  He looks back at me for confirmation, and I nod. The blankets around his head slip as he sits up quickly, exposing his bare chest. My eyes find the ceiling. I guess he took off his robe sometime between me falling asleep and wa
king up. Which is probably a completely normal thing to do, but no amount of rational thinking puts a stop to the icy catch in my breath.

  He's oblivious, though. He leaps from his bed and snatches his shirt and shorts from a pile of his things on the floor. For all my efforts not to stare, my cheeks still burn fiery hot as his stomach muscles flex when he moves. There's something very, very different about seeing him in his boxers versus his swimsuit. From over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom, he calls, "I'll be out in two minutes. Don't worry."

  I nod again. The only thing I'm worried about right now is whether or not he leaves the bathroom wearing more clothes than he is currently.

  Sixteen

  After omelets and waffles made by Edna, she emerges from the shed behind her house with two five-gallon gas canisters, one in each hand.

  "These should be enough to get you guys to the gas station off the highway."

  I could kiss her, but I settle for a hug and a generous tip added to our bill for all the mud she'll likely have to clean from our bathroom.

  We're back on the road again after quickly filling up with the canisters and heading to the gas station, where the gas attendant takes one look at the mud-caked wheels and shakes his head. I can practically hear his thoughts. Apparently, only city kids would get themselves stuck in a storm in the middle of farming territory.

  I pause the music and turn to Foster. "There's enough time for one last stop before we head home. What do you think?"

  He seems to know what I'm thinking. "Let's do it."

  The Little Art Park is just as whimsical as Foster promised. We drive off the highway and into a gravel-lined parking lot. To the left of the parking lot is a grass field, and in the center of the field sits a large white awning, like the kind you see at outdoor weddings. Flowers line everything. Wild roses hang from the sides of the awning, dropping down from the top like pink and red polka dots, dotting the sky for anyone who stands underneath them.

  Daisies and zinnias stand tall in bright-yellow planter boxes along a winding brick path that circles the awning in a loop. Every few feet, sculptures stand in the grass next to the path. Some are clay sculptures of people or animals. Some are modernistic iron statement pieces. We stop in front of one near the back of the awning.

  "This looks like your art." I point to the sculpture and raise an eyebrow at Foster, who's staring at the flowers all the sudden and not the piece in front of us.

  I lean closer to the tiny black-and-white tag and gasp. A jolt of excitement runs through me. "This has your name on it!"

  Foster finally looks at me and smirks, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

  "It's mine." He runs a hand over his hair as I step closer and drink in his work.

  It's almost the exact copy of the first picture he showed me at the beginning of the summer. A thick, gold-painted wire runs up through the center of a matching gold sphere. Shapes connected to tiny hooks hang from the wire, like strange Christmas decorations. My heart swells at the sight of art that means something—finally. Even if I'm not sure what it means to Foster, it's more than color splashed on a canvas for the sake of some stuffy exhibit.

  "I can't believe you remember coming here when you were a kid." I run a hand across a flower petal and gaze at the sculptures lining the grass. I smile. Inspiration's finally found me at the end of our trip.

  Foster looks around too. "My mom loves flowers and the outdoors, and I've always known I wanted to be an artist. It was a really good day for both of us."

  "Today is a good day too," I say. The rest of our road trip was chaos, but this makes it all worth it.

  And then he crosses my mind. Opa would have loved it here too.

  As soon as I put the car in park after dropping Foster at the beach, Dad is there, standing next to the door. When I get out, his eyes travel to my wrinkled and dirty clothes and up to my forced smile and under-eye circles.

  "Is this something we need to tell Mom about?"

  "Hopefully not?"

  I pull my bag out of the back and loop my arm through his. "The important thing is nothing happened and I made it back on time, right?"

  His arm squeezes mine. He pats the hood of my car, checking to make sure I'm telling the truth about both mine and the car's safety. He groans, but the corners of his mouth twitch. "I'll tell Mom you're home safe."

  I balance on my toes to kiss his cheek. "Thanks, Dad."

  Livvy's lying on her stomach, stretched out on the couch with her phone in hand. She glances up when I walk in, one hand resting against her cheek.

  "How was your super-special trip?"

  Her vitriol mixed with my exhaustion is more than I can handle and something inside me snaps. My voice turns sugary sweet as I cock my head to the side. "It was great, Liv. Maybe I would have invited you to come along if you actually cared about Opa, even a little bit."

  Her eyes widen, and her mouth narrows. Maybe she actually is human after all. Then she shrugs and turns back to her phone. "Funny. I can care about Opa and have a freaking life that doesn't revolve around him at the same time. Wonder why you can't seem to do that?"

  I shrink back as her eyes glint. She knows she's struck perfectly once again. None of the retorts hanging on the tip of my tongue ring true anymore, so I suck back the rest of my venom and walk past her to my bedroom, small and deflated.

  My whole summer, every year for as far back as I can remember, has been about Opa. What we'd do together, what I'd show him, what he'd teach me. And this summer, even after he's gone, is still his. But what about next year, or the year after that? Something tight grips my chest as I hold onto my bag, hovering over my bed and unable to move my legs to sit myself down. Livvy probably doesn't even understand how close to home she's hit, how true it is that I have no life, no ambition left without Opa to guide me. As wild as she's become, she's the one guiding her own life while I'm stuck in the same loop I've been reliving my entire existence. Wonder why you can't seem to do that.

  I finally drop my bag at my feet and collapse onto my bed.

  Seventeen

  “And here we are! This is your spot, Claire.”

  A middle-aged lady with a chipper voice and a short black hair points to an arbitrary spot of sand on the beach. Sticking out of the sand is a tiny red-and-white flag with the number fifteen on it. I stride over to it and flop my materials onto the ground. I have considerably fewer molding tools than the teams surrounding me, but I’m not too bothered. In our test runs, using these same tools, Foster and I have been able to build sculptures that far surpass my very first sand cat.

  The qualifying round of the contest is still two weeks away, but apparently an important part of the process is assigning work areas so contestants can take distance to the ocean into consideration. I’m close enough to the ocean that getting water and wet sand won’t take long at all, and I’m in a corner spot, just past the pier and up against the edge of the fenced-off sand dunes, so we can work in private.

  The black-haired lady leaves me, and I stare at the sand at my feet for a few seconds. Foster's supposed to be here by now, but he's not answering my texts, and I know he still has data left on his cheapo cell phone. All of the other contestants are busy with their own teammates, making plans. I scan the beach and then the waves, but he's still missing, so I line up my tools and blink at them in the meantime.

  “Hey, you’re new this year, huh?"

  A petite girl who looks way too young to be in the contest marches over to me. Her shiny black hair swings over her shoulder.

  I nod over my shoulder, turning to see her. “I’m new to working with sand, period.”

  Admitting this makes my stomach turn. I’m used to being a veteran in my art classes at school. But I figure I might as well tell the truth and glean any extra information I can.

  She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “You’re brave.”

  I nod. “Thanks.” I’m not sure what entering the contest has to do with bravery, but sometimes you have to
take compliments wherever you can get them. “Have you done this before?”

  She sharpens her gaze and frowns. “I’m Carolina Garcia. This is my third year in the contest, and hopefully my third year taking first place.”

  I wrinkle my nose but take a step back just the same. “Isn’t the contest only for high-school students?”

  She looks like she wants to fight me; all five feet of her body is tensed and her eyes bore into mine.

  I frown. Shoot. “Sorry. I-I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m seventeen,” she says. “I just have a baby face.”

  My mouth forms an O shape. “Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize..." My cheeks burn, and my feet dig further into the sand. Maybe I can burrow myself underground and escape before she slaps me.

  She picks up my longest shovel and digs it into the sand a few inches from my flag. It makes a sharp dinging sound as it sticks. “It’s okay. I get it all the time.”

  She finally smiles at me, and I breathe a silent sigh. The last thing I need is to make an enemy in the art community here. She leans on the shovel, her arms wrapped around it. “So, I hear you’re working with Foster this year? You're Claire?”

  My head tilts. How could she know that? How does she know anything about either of us?

  She shrugs and shoots me a sly smirk. “Like I said, I’ve won this competition twice. I do my research. Especially since there’s a scholarship on the line for the first time this year.”

  I nod. Even given the scholarship, it’s never occurred to me this was a serious competition. We’re working with sand. I'm here because of Opa, because he obviously wanted me to do this. Why, I don't know. To learn something about myself? About my art? Maybe he wanted me to win the scholarship. If he were here, I'd hammer him with questions until it all made sense. Since he's not, pushing forward and trying my hardest is all I've got.