Paintbrush

by Hannah Bucchin

  “You haven’t heard anything back yet?” Her back is pressed against the truck’s window, her legs stretched out on the wide backseat. I am leaning over her, hands on her knees, lips pressed against her neck.

  “Not yet.” I slide my mouth up to her ear.

  “Not even a no? None of the national parks emailed you back yet at all?”

  “Not even a no.” I gently bite her earlobe, and her eyes flutter closed.

  I kiss my way up her jaw, and her hands slide up my arms. But just when I’m about to reach her mouth . . .

  “So what are you going to do? If you don’t get into any of the programs?”

  I sigh and slump forward, pressing my forehead into her shoulder. “Josie . . .”

  “Sorry.” She laughs quietly, and her shoulder shakes beneath me. “I know this isn’t what you had in mind when you parked the truck here.”

  “No. It’s not.” I sit back up. “This is make-out meadow. Where we had our first kiss.”

  “Second kiss,” she reminds me.

  “First real kiss. It’s a place for kissing.” I raise my eyebrows. “And any other fun and illicit activities you can think of. Not twenty questions.”

  “Always so dramatic.” She rolls her eyes right back at me. “I’ve asked, like, five questions. Maybe. And you haven’t answered any of them.”

  Her eyes sparkle, her hair is a little bit tangled where I’ve been running my hands through it, and the collar of her shirt is pulled all the way to one side. She looks messy and flushed and beautiful.

  I sigh. “What will I do if I don’t get a job somewhere else this summer?”

  She nods.

  “I don’t know.” I run my fingers through my hair. “I haven’t thought about it much.” I pause. “I guess I might stay at Paintbrush.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

  I can’t help but hear the glimmer of hope in her voice, and it makes my heart happy. “Yeah.” I squeeze her leg. “After my dad kicks my mom out tonight . . . things won’t be so bad. And I’ll get to be with you.”

  “If your dad kicks your mom out.”

  I shake my head. “He will. He has to.”

  But I’m not actually as confident as I sound. Just thinking about tonight makes me nervous, makes my heart pound and my fists clench. So I lean in again, to kiss Josie’s lips and maybe her hair, and to lose myself in her. So I don’t have to think about anything that isn’t her.

  She puts her finger to my lips. “One more question.”

  My shoulder sag, but she continues. “Are you going to the meeting tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I hadn’t really considered it, but once the word leaves my mouth, I know it’s true. I need to be there tonight. I need to make sure my dad makes the right decision. “I’ll be there.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I lean in again. “Now can I ask you a question?”

  “Yeah?”

  I am inches away from her face. Up close, I notice she has a spattering of golden flecks in her green eyes. Almost like freckles. “Can I kiss you now?”

  She tilts her head in mock concentration. “I don’t know, I might have a few more—”

  But that’s all she gets out before I press my lips to hers again. I push my hand into her hair, and her hand sneaks under my flannel, gripping the small of my back. And just like that, everything I’m worried about evaporates away, spiraling into tiny particles and drifting off into nothingness. Like magic. Kissing Josie is like real and actual magic.

  The Meeting Place is even louder than usual tonight. All through community dinner, the table is filled with buzzing and gossip and whispering. Some people are trying to pretend they aren’t talking about what’s going to happen at the meeting after dinner. Lots of others don’t even bother, loudly stating their opinion. I hear my mom’s name and my dad’s name thrown around the whole night, whispers of “John” and “Carrie” and “Joe.” Even a “Mitchell” or two thrown in there.

  I sit all the way at the end of the table, eating a giant helping of parsley mashed potatoes and avoiding all conversation and eye contact. Josie sits a few seats down, occasionally glancing at me. She’s sitting next to Libby, whose arm is in a sling, helping cut up her chicken. Libby keeps rolling her eyes.

  My dad is sitting next to Myra at the head of the table. They spend the whole meal huddled together, talking in hushed tones and nodding seriously. And somewhere in the middle, my mom sits next to Joe. From where I’m sitting, it seems that Joe is talking a mile a minute to the people around him, shoveling food in his mouth with a voraciousness that can only be described as alarming. My mom hasn’t touched her food, and she hasn’t opened her mouth once.

  Never have the people of Paintbrush eaten so quickly or cleaned up the meal so efficiently. By the time Myra stands to make her announcement, everyone is back in their seats, places cleaned, looking up with expectant expressions. All except my dad, who’s staring determinedly at his lap. And my mom, who looks like she might throw up.

  “Well.” Myra looks around the table. “As most of you know, tonight is a special meeting.”

  She looks anxious, which is unusual for Myra, and I feel bad for her. Nights like this are not what Paintbrush is all about.

  “I am saddened that we have a situation on our hands like this,” she continues. “As you all know, Paintbrush is a community. We pride ourselves on our commitment to the environment, on purposeful and practical living, and above all else, on our mutual respect and support.” She swallows, hard, and then continues. “So when one of our members begins to feel threatened, or uncomfortable by another member, or members, it is time to examine the situation and to remedy it.”

  Around the table come nods and murmurs of assent. With every passing second, my heart beats faster and faster. I try to make eye contact with my dad still sitting at the head of the table, but he won’t look at me. He won’t look at anyone.

  “It is unfortunate,” Myra continues, “when a situation becomes so precarious that we are forced to consider suspension from the community.” Her eyes are glistening, and her voice is wavering slightly. “In fact, it’s never happened here before. But tonight, we will hear from both Carrie and John. We will listen carefully, with open hearts and minds. Then I will open the floor for input from any one of you who feels that they have a significant and helpful thought to contribute.” She gestures at my dad. “And finally, it will be up to John to decide the final verdict.”

  She gazes out over the forty or so wide-eyed and tense faces gazing back at her from the long wooden table. “If anyone finds fault with this plan, please say so now.”

  Silence falls across the room, and Myra nods. “Okay. Then, Carrie, go ahead.”

  My mom stands, her hands shaking, and Joe places one protective hand on the small of her back. She searches the table, looking from face to face, until finally her eyes settle on me. Instinctively, I look down.

  “What I did was wrong.” For a woman whose hands are shaking, her voice is surprisingly strong. “It was wrong because it hurt John, and it hurt Mitchell, and it hurt the community.”

  Several people turn to look at me. I ignore them.

  “But it was still the right move for me.” The shaking lessens as she continues, and her voice gets stronger and louder. “I fell in love with Joe, and I can’t apologize for that. And Paintbrush is my home”—she gestures to Joe—“is our home. And if we could be forgiven, and accepted here, then we would love to stay.”

  A tear runs down her face, but her chin juts up in the air. She is not backing down. That familiar anger claws at my chest, and I stare at the table in front of me. When I stare at the table, I can be as angry as I want. When I look at my mom’s tear-stained face, I come dangerously close to feeling sorry for her.

  No one says anything to reply to my mom. She sits down, Joe rubbing her back. I can see a bruise on his face from here, and I can’t help but feel slightly smug.

  At a nod from Myra, my dad sta
nds, slowly and purposefully. My heart pounds in my chest, so hard I can feel my pulse behind my eyes and through my fingertips. I press my palms into my knees and stare at his face. He stares back, straight into my eyes, and I will him to make the right decision.

  Tell her no, Dad. Tell her no.

  His eyes never leave my face. “I’m not going to make this into a long ordeal, and I’m not going to give some big explanation. Carrie and Joe are as much a part of this community as I am.” He takes a breath. “They are welcome to stay.”

  My heart drops like a stone, sinking into the pit of my stomach with an actual burst of pain. Like I’ve been drop-kicked in the chest. My dad’s eyes bore into mine as whispers and murmurs break out across the table. His expression is resolute, but his lip trembles slightly. He knows I’m upset.

  I break the eye contact. I can’t look at him. I can’t look at anyone.

  “Settle down.” Myra stands, her voice booming across the room. “Now. Does anyone have anything they need to say? Anything useful?” she adds sternly.

  Most people shake their heads. Hot anger grips my chest. No one’s going to say anything. My mother destroyed my family, and no one’s going to tell her what she deserves to hear.

  “I respect John’s decision,” Ned says gruffly.

  “Seconded,” says Bernie.

  There are mumbles of assent. Myra lets her gaze sweep the table one more time before nodding. “Okay. Then that’s that. Carrie and Joe can stay. Meeting dismissed.”

  I stand. I know my mom is about to make a beeline for me, and probably my dad, and Josie too.

  So I turn and stride to the door, slipping out into the night.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Josie

  When I finally find Mitchell, he is cross-legged, resting against the old toolshed out by the back field. He leans his head against the worn wood, eyes closed, mouth set in a firm line.

  “Hey.” I nudge his foot with mine.

  “Hey.” He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even open his eyes.

  I think about settling in next to him or kneeling in front of him or pulling him into me and wrapping my arms around him. But his vibe isn’t just sad. The air around us is . . . uneasy. Tense. I have no idea what he’s feeling. Like he’s an old firecracker I found in the garage, and I’m waiting to see if it’s still active. If he’s about to explode in a fiery mess or just fizzle out.

  I cross my arms over my chest and stand awkwardly next to him. And wait.

  Finally, his eyes open. But he’s still not looking at me. He’s staring off into the dark.

  “I’m so sick of being angry all the time.” He rubs his eyes with a balled up fist.

  “At your mom?” I shift from one foot to the other, rubbing my arms to keep goose bumps from rising in the chilly air.

  “At her. At my dad. At Joe.” His hands find the grass below him, and he yanks up a big clump. “At this whole stupid place.”

  His jab at Paintbrush stings. Like always. I bite my lip and try to think of the right thing to say.

  “And at myself,” he continues. “I’m always mad at myself.” He tosses his handful of grass to the ground and reaches down to grab another clump. “Sometimes, I’m even mad at you.”

  “Me?” My voice comes out shaky and weak, and it makes me cringe.

  He looks up at me, finally, his eyes wide open. “I’ve been ready to leave here for months. Years. I was going to get the fuck out of here. That’s always been the plan.” He rubs his palms on his jeans. “But now, there’s you.”

  “I’ve always been here. There’s always been me.”

  “Well, now you’re . . . different.” He drums his fingers on his knees. “And I let myself get attached to you, and that made me attached to this place again.” He clenches his fist. “And that sucks.”

  His words hit me hard, like a punch to the stomach. Like the air gets knocked right out of me. It takes me a few seconds to respond. “Wow. Thanks.”

  “Wait, no.” He sighs, frustrated. “That came out wrong. You don’t suck. I’m glad I’m with you.”

  “It really doesn’t sound like it.” I’m fighting back tears, which is so embarrassing. I hope he can’t hear it in my voice.

  “Josie. You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I do.” My hands are trembling. I tuck them into my pockets so he can’t see. “We can’t do this anymore, Mitchell.”

  His head snaps up, eyes wide in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head. “We can’t be together.”

  All of a sudden he’s standing, just inches in front of me, reaching for me. “Josie, no. That’s not what I meant.”

  His hands skim my arms, but I step back out of his reach. “It’s what I meant. You hate this place.”

  “Well, yeah.” He shrugs. “But that doesn’t matter. We can leave here, like we talked about. You can come with me this summer, we can travel around the country, we can—”

  “Mitchell.” I cut him off, my voice louder than I intended. He’s not listening. “I like it here.”

  His eyes widen. “I know you like Paintbrush, but you can’t expect to stay here and garden tomatoes forever—”

  “Why not?” My heart is racing. “Why can’t I stay here forever? I like it here. I love it here. These people are my family, and this place is my home.” I blink, trying to clear the tears already forming. “And that’s why we can’t work. Because you hate this place so much.” I swallow, hard. “How could you ever be with someone who loves it?”

  “That’s not true.” But his response is half-hearted, and we both know it.

  His eyes are shiny, his expression shocked, and it takes every ounce of self-control for me to not reach out for him, to press my head into his chest and tell him that we’ll be okay.

  But that would be wrong. Because we won’t be okay. He’s leaving, and I’m staying, and that’s that. And if I’m being honest with myself—really and brutally and horribly honest—we probably weren’t even a thing. Not even a real relationship. After all, Mitchell never called me his girlfriend. He was just using me as a distraction from his problems.

  And I let him. Like the stupid girl I promised myself I’d never be.

  Mitchell’s lip is trembling, and I have to go. If he cries, I’ll cry. And I’ve been humiliated enough by this conversation.

  “This is just a stupid fight.” His voice is shaky. “I’m just upset. Let’s forget the last five minutes ever happened.” He takes a step closer to me. “We can figure all this out.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened tonight, Mitchell.” I close my eyes. “But I have to go.”

  And before he can say another word, I turn around and run away.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mitchell

  I jump into the truck and slam the door. I slam it hard and loud, and it feels so good that I swing it back open just so I can slam it again.

  Then I drive. I drive a few minutes away and stop. Maybe I should go after her.

  So I turn around and drive back to Paintbrush. I pull up and then get out of my truck. And then I picture myself begging for her to reconsider, and I picture her rejecting me. Again. I kick my tire, and I get back in, and I slam the door again.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until I show up on Cord’s porch. I send him a text, and seconds later he swings open his wide white door to find me standing under the dim porch light, swiping at my eyes.

  “Shit.” He reaches out, grabs my shoulder, and pulls me inside.

  Cord doesn’t make fun of me for crying or for caring this much about a girl. It’s not awkward when we hug or when I cry onto his shoulder, and he doesn’t even get mad when I push his gross little white dogs off the bed so I can sit down. He listens to everything I say, and he gets me a glass of water when my throat gets raspy, and he gets me extra blankets for my bed in the guest room. And when I ask if I can sleep on the futon in his room instead, he doesn’t ask why or get all weird. He just nods and pulls it in
to the bed position and asks if I need any extra pillows.

  When I go to college, I’m really gonna miss this guy.

  I thought the feeling of another person in the room with me, the soft snores coming from Cord’s bed, would make me feel better. I thought maybe it’d be easier for me to drift off. But no. Here I am, completely fucking exhausted and totally unable to sleep. I’m not even angry any more. I don’t have any anger left in me. I just feel . . . empty. My mom chose Joe over me. Tonight, my dad chose my mom over me. And Josie chose . . . herself over me? That doesn’t feel right. She chose something over me. Maybe she just chose everything over me.

  The point is, she didn’t choose me.

  I feel hollow and heavy, like my chest is empty but my bones are made of lead. I want to sink further and further into the futon, want to burrow into Cord’s ridiculous down pillows and sleep for a million years and never wake up. Because when I wake up, I have to deal with the fact that I really don’t have a place to go. After tonight, I know it for sure: Paintbrush is not my home.

  “Cord?” I whisper.

  “Yeah?” His pillows muffle his bleary voice.

  “Can you tell me something? To distract me?” I sit up and punch my pillow into place, trying to settle down.

  Cord rolls over to face me. “I’m working for my dad’s company this summer.”

  “Seriously?” I crack a smile. “Wait. That means you’re going to have to wear—”

  “A suit,” he grumbles. “Don’t remind me. And get this: They drug test twice a month.”

  “No,” I gasp.

  “Yep. No smoking the whole summer.”

  “Did you get forced into this by your parents?”

  “Nope. I signed up for this torture by choice.” His voice is fading again, sleep catching back up to him. “I need the money. And I figured it couldn’t hurt for me to chill out a little bit, you know?”