Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  The only other boy I’ve kissed is Mitchell, when we were, like, eleven. And up until a few days ago, I wasn’t even sure he remembered. I’m still not totally sure.

  All in all, this has not added up to a lot of kissing experience for me. Definitely not as much as Mitchell, I’m sure. I might be a bad kisser. I can’t risk it. No matter how happy Mitchell looks. No matter how cute he looks in the candlelight.

  Mitchell stares at my face. He stares at my lips. He leans slightly forward, with this kind of blurry look in his eyes, and my heart beats double time. Maybe triple time. Maybe too fast to even tell.

  I clear my throat. “So what did you want to show me?”

  He blinks and leans back, eyes still dazed. “What?”

  I gesture to the candle. “You were blowing out the candles?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He leans over and blows on the final candle. The wick sputters, and then the light is gone, and we are in total pitch-blackness.

  “You still there?” His voice floats through the darkness.

  I laugh. “I don’t have a lot of options.”

  “Right.” He shuffles around, and then his knee bumps against mine. “Okay. Just lie down.” He pauses. “Sorry. Not in a weird way. I mean—”

  “It’s fine.” Slowly, I lower myself onto the floor and hear Mitchell doing the same. We end up side by side, our shoulders brushing against each other. The sound of Mitchell’s breathing is so close to my ear and the warmth radiating from his body is so palpable I have to force myself not to shiver.

  “So?” he asks.

  I haven’t been paying attention. “So . . . what?”

  “Look up.”

  I do. And when I do, I gasp. I can’t help it.

  “Right?” I can hear the grin in Mitchell’s voice. “No light pollution out here.”

  Above us, the opening in the top of the cave reveals a perfect starry night sky. The stars don’t just dot the sky; they swirl in the sky, they make patterns, they are small and big and bright and soft, all at the same time. The darkness is stuffed with stars, stars crammed in every corner of the great expanse above us. I feel like I could reach up and scoop a handful down and watch them glitter in my palm. I am blown away.

  “And I always thought the stars were pretty up at Paintbrush,” I say softly.

  “They’re good there, too. But even the light from the cabin porches at night can mess it up,” he says. “Here, there’s absolutely no light for miles. And it’s a super clear night, too. I checked the forecast before we came.”

  I picture Mitchell checking the forecast, planning for this night with me, and something swells inside. It makes my heart speed up.

  And seconds later, when Mitchell slips his hand over mine, soft and hesitant and careful, I feel like it just might burst.

  This feeling, this falling, for Mitchell Morrison of all people, it’s so new. I never thought I would be holding hands with Mitchell in a cave. Not in a million years. It’s like taking a sip of a glass of water on a hot day, only to realize it’s actually sweet tea; it’s not what you expected, but it’s better. It’s what you realize you wanted all along.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mitchell

  We are quiet on the ride back. It’s well after midnight. I feel wired, adrenaline swirling through my veins. Josie likes me. I like Josie, and she likes me back.

  But Josie is tired. She’s struggling to keep her eyes open. I kind of hope she falls asleep. She looks so cute when she sleeps. But I need to say something first.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She turns toward me, eyes half-closed, smiling. “Hey.”

  “I want to kiss you.” I say it so quickly, it all comes out in one mashed up, made-up nonsense word. Iwanttokissyou. Eye-wanna-kiss-yew.

  Her eyes flutter as she sits up straighter. “Oh. I—”

  “But,” I continue quickly. “I want it to be right. I want it to be on your time.” I swallow. My heart thumps like crazy in my chest. “I want you to make the first move.”

  She considers this for a second. “Okay.”

  “I just wanted you to know. That I want to. Whenever you do.”

  The truck is quiet again. Too quiet. I’m worried Josie can literally hear my heartbeat, hear the way it’s pounding against my ribcage. The way it’s practically pounding right out of my chest.

  Then, slowly, Josie leans over the console and places her head on my shoulder. Her braid drapes down my back, and her forehead nestles into the crook of my neck.

  It can’t be comfortable for her. And my arm falls asleep almost immediately. But we stay this way the whole ride home.

  It’s three in the morning by the time I crawl into my bed. My eyelids are heavy, and a warm contentment spreads through my limbs.

  Falling for Josie isn’t like other crushes, like kisses I’ve had with other girls. It’s skipping all the hard stuff, the messy stuff, the baggage and backstory and ugly parts. It’s like we’re halfway there before we’ve even really begun. It’s like slipping on an old sweater, the one hidden in the way back of a forgotten closet. And then remembering that it was always the comfiest.

  I wake up with a jolt; one moment sound asleep, and the next wide, wide awake. I’m humming with energy, and my insides are bouncing, and all I can think about is Josie.

  Josie, Josie, Josie.

  I try to calm myself down. You’re an adult, I tell myself. You’re not a sixth grader with his first crush. Cool it.

  It doesn’t do much. My little pep talks almost never do.

  I throw on a white t-shirt and athletic shorts and then walk out to the kitchen. My dad is already dressed and sitting at the table. He has an untouched cup of coffee in front of him, steaming and full. He stares at the wall, his expression empty and blank, borderline catatonic.

  But he starts when the floorboards creak beneath me. “Hey, kiddo.” He smiles a weak smile.

  I want to run outside and hide from this pathetic scene. My feet itch to leave. This isn’t my dad. This isn’t the same strong guy who taught me how to use a chainsaw and throw a Frisbee and ride a bike. But instead of bolting, I make myself carefully walk to the counter and pour a cup of coffee into my favorite blue ceramic mug. Then I sit down at the table across from him and take a deep breath.

  “How’s it going, Dad?” I exhale the words.

  “Not so great.” His voice catches on the last word, and his knuckles whiten as he grips his mug.

  Please don’t cry, I think. Please, please, please don’t cry.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. I don’t know if I mean that I’m sorry for bringing it up or for what happened with Mom or for not being around the past week. Maybe I mean it all.

  He just nods. We let my apology hang in the air between us. Dad stares down into the depths of his coffee mug before taking a deep breath. “Saturday morning, kid.” He takes a sip of his coffee and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Think Ned could spare you today? I have some projects I need some help on.”

  “Yeah, Dad.” I nod. “Of course.”

  I finish my coffee as he putters around the kitchen, rinsing his mug, throwing ingredients for veggie soup into a crock pot, wiping the counter down. It’s all so familiar, so normal. For the first time, I let myself think: Maybe we’ll be all right.

  I spend the whole morning and most of the afternoon helping my dad work on lesson plans for his business class that starts next week. Normally, he co-teaches it with my mom. I’m guessing now he’s doing it solo, but I don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer.

  Helping is kind of a stretch, actually. We have all his papers spread out on the front porch, and my dad is dictating changes to me while I write them on his laptop. I’m probably only capturing about thirty percent of what he’s actually saying, though. Because most of the time my gaze darts around for Josie.

  I see her in the morning, raking the tomato fields across the way. Even from far away I can see she’s covered in dirt and her face is bright pink. Josie has a perp
etually red face—when it’s hot, when she’s embarrassed, when she laughs really hard. Her hair is falling out of its braid in big chunks, and the little wisps around her face are plastered to her from sweat. I bet she smells good. That earthy summer smell. I want to go hug her and see. I want to tuck her hair back into its braid. I want to kiss her lips and her salty skin.

  What my dad wants is for me to focus. He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Mitchell. Earth to Mitchell.”

  I blink up at him. “What?”

  “Come join us back on planet earth, dude.” He gives me a playful shove. “Seriously, what’s up with you?”

  I shake my head and tell him it’s nothing, until he leaves me alone again so I can focus and type his words and edit a few spreadsheets. And I’m getting tons of work done, being really productive . . . until I see Josie across the yard later in the afternoon, swinging Ada Macpherson into the air. Ada’s delighted five-year-old screech echoes across the yard, accompanied by Josie’s loud, happy laugh. Josie doesn’t laugh like that a lot. She reserves those laughs for moments of true, total happiness. I want to be able to make her laugh like that.

  I’m considering this when the laptop resting on my knees shuts. I look up to find my dad smirking at me.

  “Something distracting you, Mitchell?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “What?” I open the laptop again. “No. I’m just tired, I guess.” I stare intently at the computer screen, then at my dad, then down at my fingers. Anywhere but across the yard.

  “Right.” My dad sounds amused, but he doesn’t push it. “Well, you’ve been a big help today. Despite your wandering eyes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble. I close the laptop again and stand up.

  My dad checks his watch and sighs. “We better get cleaned up, anyway. Party starts at six.”

  “Party?” I follow him into the cabin.

  “May birthday party?” He opens the crock pot and sniffs his soup. “The party that happens on the last Saturday of every month?”

  Shit. I forgot about that. The monthly birthday party. I think tonight we’re celebrating Mae and Libby, Joey Macpherson, Eric, and Julie Benson, a.k.a. naked yoga lady. Her partner, Miriam, bakes an awesome lemon cake.

  I wasn’t going to go, of course. I’ve been avoiding Paintbrush stuff even more than usual lately. But it’s Libby and Mae’s birthday. Which means Josie will be going for sure.

  Which means that I’ll be there too.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Josie

  I’m surprised when Mitchell walks into the Sanctuary, hands in his pockets, dark hair neatly combed across his forehead. I thought Mitchell swore not to come to another Paintbrush event ever again. And now he’s here. And he’s here early.

  His eyes light up when he sees me, and he makes a beeline right for me. My heart stutters in my chest. I want to run to meet him halfway. I want to throw my arms around his neck and bury my face right under his chin and kiss his collarbone and feel his soft blue flannel under my hands. Ninety percent of me wants to do that.

  Ten percent of me wants him to turn around and walk away and let me finish decorating this cake in peace. My brain goes kind of fuzzy around him, and I get nervous. And my heart beats so hard. Most romance novels describe this feeling as romantic and cute. But sometimes it kind of feels like I might throw up.

  But he makes it over to me in record time. He’s beaming; Mitchell has the most open, readable face I’ve ever seen. The ninety percent of me sighs with relief and buzzes with happiness. And the other ten percent just sort of evaporates until I can’t remember why I ever wanted him to leave.

  “Is that lemon cake?” He bounces on his heels. He’s standing so close that his chest brushes my denim shirt.

  “Yep.” I crouch over and carefully squeeze the frosting tube. A small pink flower appears on the cake. “Delicious cake by Miriam. Mediocre frosting decorations by me.”

  He laughs. “Shut up. It looks amazing.” He leans over my shoulder, his breath tickling my neck as he reads. “Happy birthday to Eric, Joey, Julie, and Mibby.” He straightens up. “Mibby?”

  I close my eyes and try to concentrate. “Mae and Libby. They hate when I call them that. So I thought I’d put it on their cake.”

  “On their birthday? That’s just evil.”

  I shrug and add a few more frosting flowers. “Technically, their birthday was on May first. We celebrated then, too, and I made them each their own individual cake. Chocolate for Libby, coconut for Mae, just how they like it. So today they can deal with Mibby.”

  “Sister of the year.” Mitchell grins at me.

  “At least the best sister of the family. Which is good enough for me.”

  Mitchell pulls out a chair and sits on it backward, watching me work. “Does Libby have an inferiority complex?”

  I snort. “She has a something complex.” I look up. “Why?”

  “They were both born in May. But Mae’s the only one who’s got the name to show for it.”

  “Oh, that.” I wipe a smudge of frosting off the table. “My mom didn’t know she was having twins. So when Mae popped out, right after midnight on May first, she called her ‘my little May baby.’ And Mae stuck. But then Libby came a few minutes later. And my mom was so surprised she just picked an old family name.”

  “So is Josie an old family name, too?”

  “Josephine, as in Jo, as in Little Women. She wanted to call me Jo. But my dad said it was a boy’s name, so he wouldn’t let her.”

  There’s silence after this. I don’t talk about my dad much. Or ever. Twelve years since I’ve seen him, and just thinking about him still makes me furious. My mom tells me it’s unhealthy to hate someone this long. I think it’s unhealthy she doesn’t hate him.

  “Jo.” Mitchell leans his chair back on two legs, smirking at me.

  “No.” I give him a warning look.

  “Yep.” His chair clatters to the floor, and he gives me an evil grin. “From now on, I’m calling you Jo.”

  “From now on,” I say, “I’m not responding.”

  He shrugs. “Whatever you say, Jo.”

  I roll my eyes, but it’s hard to be mad at him when he looks so pleased with himself.

  I’m putting the last touch on the icing when Myra comes tearing in. Mitchell stands, like an automatic reflex. Myra can do that to a person.

  “Josephine. Mitchell.” She strides over and puts her arm around both of us in a weird, three-way hug. It would be super awkward if it was anyone but Myra. Today she has flowers in her hair. Let me rephrase that: She has plants in her hair. Flowers would be too normal. A long strand of ivy is woven through her braid, the deep-green leaves contrasting with her soft gray hair.

  “New hairstyle?” I ask.

  Behind her, Mitchell grins at my question.

  “I was out pulling ivy in the forest this morning, and I was just so sad.” Myra sighs dramatically, reaching up to touch the shiny green leaves. “It’s invasive, of course, so we have to pull it up. Otherwise, it chokes the trees. But that doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful.”

  Mitchell nods. “It’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Myra bobs her head up and down. “Exactly. So I thought if it can’t live here in the forest, I’ll give it a new home. Where its beauty can be appreciated.”

  “In your hair,” I clarify.

  “In my hair.”

  “It looks good,” I say, and I mean it. If anyone can pull off weaving a giant vine into their hair, it’s definitely Myra.

  “I’m just glad it’s not poison ivy,” Mitchell adds.

  “Don’t get me started on poison ivy.” Myra gathers the frosting tubes from around me. Apparently cake-decorating time is over. “Another tragically misunderstood plant.”

  “Even so. Definitely not a plant you should be putting in your hair.” I fix a blue flower and then hand over the last frosting tube.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she
concedes. “Well, everyone’s waiting.” She gestures to the door to the Sanctuary. “Ready?”

  I look at Mitchell. He’s looking right at me, his dark eyes searching mine.

  “Ready,” he says.

  “Flowers.” Ned wrinkles his nose at the plate in my hand, his tone dripping with contempt. You’d think I was trying to hand him a plate of old garbage rather than a piece of chocolate cake.

  I sigh. “Is there a problem, Ned?”

  “Always with the girly cakes,” he grumbles. “Just once I want to see a cake with a gun on it. Or a monster truck. Or a dinosaur.”

  “Girls like dinosaurs, too, you know.” I shift the paper plate from one hand to the other. “And guys can like flowers. Look at Eric.” I gesture across the room, where the burly six-foot man is shoveling cake into his mouth while clutching Lucy to his chest. Fork in one hand, baby in the other. He’s a pro.

  “He’s on his third piece,” I say. “And it’s his birthday. And he clearly doesn’t have a problem with flowers.”

  Ned mumbles something unintelligible that sounds an awful lot like pansy. I plant my hand on my hip, about to give him a piece of my mind, when the plate is whisked out of my grasp.

  Mitchell takes the plate and shoves it into Ned’s chest, forcing the old man to grab hold of it.

  “I swear,” Mitchell says. “Only you would complain about eating cake.”

  “I’m just saying,” Ned grumbles, picking up his fork. “Things are getting a little soft and mushy around here. Not like in the old days. When Bernie and I would go out and hunt. We’d kill ourselves a deer, and then we’d bring it back and cook it up and serve it to everyone. Now you people are eating tofu and veggie burgers”—he spits out these last two words—“and flower cakes.”