The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  It feels silly. It feels freeing. It feels great.

  I open my eyes and see her standing on her bed, a hairbrush in one hand as she belts out the lyrics with me. I’m smiling so wide I can hardly see her, and then I’m moving again, my heart pumping in rhythm with my feet and hips. I’m sure I look ridiculous, but I don’t care, and neither does Mercedes.

  “You need to go to bed,” I say, still fighting to convince my lungs to expand enough that my breaths don’t come out in short bursts. We danced for an hour with only short breaks to laugh, or change songs when Mercedes vetoed them.

  “I can’t go to bed, Lo. I need to wait until my dad gets home.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

  “I need him to be home now.”

  “He’s coming home,” I insist.

  “What happens if he doesn’t though, Lo? What if something happens?” Her words waver and then she gasps and buries her head in my shoulder.

  The warmth of her forehead makes my arms, which are still damp, prickle with goose bumps.

  “He’s going to die.”

  I squeeze her as my heart races with confusion and shock from hearing her words. “He’s not. He’s not going to die, Mercedes.”

  “I can’t lose him, Lo.”

  “You won’t. I promise.”

  Mercedes pulls away from me, her hands extended to reveal she doesn’t want me to come closer. “My mom died because she lost control of her car during a storm.” Tears run down her cheeks that have turned even redder than they were moments ago from our dancing. I had no idea. It makes me feel guilty that I didn’t know how she had passed. I just never knew if it was okay to bring her up when Mercedes never does. “She hydroplaned right into a tree.” Trees rarely lose to a car is a line my dad used repeatedly when either my brother or I ever left to go somewhere on a weekend or evening.

  “Mercedes.” My voice is so quiet I feel as though I should try again, but still, she looks at me, her eyes round and glossy with tears. “I’m so sorry.” Her head moves jerkily with a nod, her walls rebuilding rapidly as her posture becomes more rigid. Before she can completely erect it, I wrap her in a hug, ignoring her arms still stiff as I attempt to take every single one of her desires to become distant and defensive with me. When her arms don’t wrap around me, I squeeze tighter, pressing my cheek to the top of her head. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “I want a mom. I want my mom, but I want someone that actually understands me, someone to get pedicures with, and do girly stuff that I can’t do with my dad and King. What’s going to happen to me when I start my period? What about bra shopping? What happens when I get my first boyfriend? Or worse, when I get dumped?”

  I hold her even tighter.

  “I don’t even remember her, Lo. I don’t remember what her voice sounded like, or how she smelled, or what kind of music she liked. Everything I know about her is stuff people have told me.” I’m amazed by how strong her voice is, only cracking twice as she admits this to me as though it’s her greatest fear, or possibly regret. “In some ways I’m really glad—I think it would hurt so much more if I could remember her—but other times, I think it makes it worse. I want to have something of her that is just mine. Something I can remember.”

  My eyes fill with tears. I understand this predicament so thoroughly and still don’t know which is the better option, or if there is one.

  My fingers constrict to the point they ache.

  “I can’t lose him too.”

  “You won’t, I swear.”

  Her sobs are so quiet, and her body so still, it’s nearly impossible for me to tell that she’s crying until she gasps, trying to catch her breath.

  I wish there was something for me to say. Some significant words that could grant some relief or at least impart some wisdom. I have nothing. The BlueCross Babysitting classes that I attended years ago never taught me how to even make a meal for the kids I would take care of, let alone discussed distraught pre-teens who lost their mother and don’t know how to discuss their feelings. I take a deep breath, smelling the sweetness of her shampoo mixed with the scent of the shop and dirt that I’m pretty certain is coming from me, and press my hand to the side of her head so she’s completely against me, and I cry with her. I cry for her.

  MY EYES are sticky and dry when I open them, feeling a hand on my shoulder. It takes me two seconds to realize that it’s King, and another two to realize I should be startled since nothing about this scenario is within my comfort zone. First off, I’m cuddling, and although it’s with Mercedes, it’s not something I do. Secondly, I’m wearing soggy clothes and sleeping in Mercedes’ bed—an atmosphere I only see during the day.

  “Come on. Let’s get you some dry clothes,” King says quietly.

  I look back to Mercedes and find her in a deep sleep with both hands tucked under one side of her face. She looks so peaceful I fear moving.

  “She sleeps like a rock,” King says when I hesitate.

  Still, I pay close attention as I move ever so slowly to get free before I follow King to the well-lit hallway.

  “This way.” King tips his head and moves toward the basement. I follow him slowly, still feeling the urge to head to the front door and hike through the rain to my apartment. I allowed myself to be so vulnerable, and while a side of me relishes in the fact because I’ve found so few people I can reveal my darker sides to, I hadn’t anticipated doing so tonight, certainly not in that setting.

  I know most of the basement is set up for King. There’s only the laundry room and a large closet down here that I’ve ever accessed. There was never a stipulation put in place that I couldn’t enter his space, but even now that we’ve been dating for a couple of weeks, I haven’t been down here. I’m assuming it’s because it resembles the rest of the house BM: a disastrous mess.

  My eyes widen in surprise as I follow him through the door that bridges his space. We’re in a living room where a large overstuffed sectional sofa is cozied up to the far wall, across from an expansive TV. There are three bikes mounted to the walls and several framed black and white photographs that I know without asking were taken by Summer. The floors are a dark cherry like the upstairs, and the walls a muted gray. A desk with a computer sits near the door. It’s sleek and industrial, tying in with the metal and hard lines of the bikes and black frames, softened by a large white area rug. The contrasts remind me of King, who’s currently opening a door off to my right.

  I’m curious to follow him. Since there are only two additional doors and he came to get clothes, I have a pretty safe assumption he’s gone into his bedroom, and the urge to see it is increasing by the second.

  Before I can move more than two steps, the light is flipped off and he reappears. “Here.”

  I accept a handful of clothes and quietly muster a thanks before King directs me to the other door: the bathroom.

  The walls are a dark espresso, and while the pedestal sink needs to be cleaned, I can tell it was washed within the last couple of weeks. It explains why the kitchen was the only clean room in the house when I began.

  It takes me several minutes before I finally manage to get my jeans off, tight and sticky from being wet. I pull on the soft cotton of King’s sweatpants with relief. They slide low on my hips and end slightly past my heels. I then pull on his T-shirt. The hem reaches the top of my thighs, and the sleeves go down just past my elbows. It’s so rare for me to ever feel small, yet I feel that way now, petite even.

  I pull my hair free from the collar of the sweatshirt he gave me and head back to the kitchen when I find his living room empty. The house feels so different at night. The large windows that line the dining room and usually allow the muted Oregon sunshine and shades of green to brighten the house are dark, revealing faded reflections that make my eyes continuously dance over shadows. The wood floor is cool under my bare feet as I cross to the fridge. I pull a glass down from the shelves, admiring the flash of lightning that dances across the sur
face like a firework, and turn at the sound of quiet footsteps. King stops when my eyes meet him, and he freezes. It’s apparent with the way his eyes are searching mine, he’s looking for some sort of clarification on where things sit between us.

  “Do you remember that song? It was popular when I was a kid I think, so I don’t know, but you’re older. You may remember it.”

  “Are you calling me old?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  He laughs, and the sound is nearly an acceptance.

  “The lyrics talked about how the rain sounded angry, and I never get that when I listen to it. To me it’s just peaceful.” Silence extends around us. We’re both listening to the dance rain leads with every surface outside.

  “Do you know what I like about rain?”

  I turn to King, my curiosity piqued.

  “People can try their damnedest to avoid it—add extra layers, umbrellas, boots—but you can’t escape the rain. It will always get you wet, even if it’s only a few drops.” His account is so true. I know from working to avoid it on numerous occasions myself that it’s nearly pointless. “That and girls at parties tell me it makes my face look like a sculpture that inspires them to paint.”

  His comment sparks another memory from that night. I recall following a raindrop down the side of his cheek with my finger, twisting his hair and feeling the contrast of cool and warm. “Girls?” I ask, stretching the s.

  He shrugs. “Girl. There’s only one girl that has made me feel comfortable in my skin. Like it doesn’t matter what my name is, what mistakes I’ve made, or whether or not I’ll ever live up to my brother.” King takes several steps, closing the gap between us until there are only a couple of feet.

  “You and I both have a negative history with titles, but you shared something with me that I didn’t respond to like I should have. You opened up to me, Lo, and told me something personal about your past that I know you don’t share with others, and I should never have thrown my mother into the mess like it was a valid reason to void your experience. It doesn’t.” His hand travels to the side of his jaw, and I hear his nails catch on the short stubble.

  I shake my head, uncomfortable with his apology though it offers a salve to my previous embarrassment and rejection that I hadn’t realized was there until now. “I’m only going to be here for a couple more months. Using the terms girlfriend and boyfriend isn’t necessary for something that we already know is going to end.”

  King’s eyes widen. “You got accepted?”

  “No. I haven’t heard from them, but if I’m not, I’ll likely head back to Montana and work there until I figure out what to do next.”

  He looks at me with patience in his wide brown eyes. “Let’s go downstairs,” King says, nodding toward the foyer.

  I follow absentmindedly, wondering if he’s trying to convince me to stay.

  He turns to face me after flipping on a floor lamp. We stand near the sofa, but neither of us sits. “Can’t you figure out what to do next, here in Portland?”

  “Portland’s expensive. Kenzie’s moving to Seattle in June and I don’t want to find another roommate to live there with me. I’ve realized studio apartments really are made just for one person.”

  “We can look outside of the city, Hillsboro, Vancouver…”

  “I’ve thought of that, but…”

  “We can figure it out.”

  My lips part with an objection and King takes a step closer to me. He wraps a hand firmly around my hip and his eyes bore into mine. “A lot can happen in a couple of months.” King’s eyes become darker, unfamiliar, yet I recognize them so clearly from that night back in July. It’s been seven months since I last saw him look at me like this, and the memory it brings forth has every cell in my body brightening, strengthening, anxious.

  “We’ve only gone on one date,” I murmur into the darkness of King’s living room.

  “We’ve known each other for months.”

  “We hated each other for most of them.”

  “Lo,” he whispers, and I feel fairly confident it’s to make me shut up by the sternness that makes his voice slightly deeper. “I want this.”

  “What?” I ask. “What is this?”

  “Us.”

  He steps forward, allowing my eyes to see him a little more clearly. His hand falls from my side and fists the hem of the shirt he loaned me, making my heart rate bolt. He hesitates, and I nearly protest. Instead, I lean forward and kiss him. His lips are soft and warm, familiar as my own brushstrokes, but realizing that I’m going to sleep with King again—completely sober this time—stops me from falling into rhythm with him and my teeth crash against his, making a sound as revolting as nails on a chalkboard.

  King grips my shoulders and pulls me forward, a lazy smile on his lips. “I’ve already seen you naked. In fact, I’ve…”

  I press my fingers against his lips, silencing him. But then I move them, curious as to what he was going to say. “You what?”

  “Lo.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was better than you remember. I’m going to make you remember everything tonight that you’ve been working to forget.”

  My heart thrums, an excitement that makes all of my limbs feel suddenly different, more alive and aware. My eyebrows rise and my lips set into a smirk. “Promise?”

  His lips meet mine and his hands travel under the baggy layers of his shirt and sweatshirt, gripping my sides with a reverence that makes me feel claimed. I’ve never been someone who has ever wanted to be a possession. I want to be a strong, competent, capable woman, never needing anyone, especially not a man to make me feel whole, or of merit, certainly not a possession, but the way King handles me like I’m necessary for his own survival, makes me want to be every title, every significance to him, because he’s become so many of mine.

  King’s hands trail higher, tracing the line of my bra and then over my clavicle, making me shiver and shift with impatience.

  “I told you I’d make you remember. I didn’t rush this then; I sure as hell don’t plan on it tonight.”

  “King.” My voice is quiet, nearly uncertain of what all I’m about to reveal. “I remember that night with such perfect precision. I have several notebooks of you that I will never be able to show others.”

  The air between us thickens with the magnitude of my admission. “For months, I was desperate to find out who you were. Charleigh and I asked so many people about you, about your tattoos, scars. I couldn’t forget any of it. It was as though I was constantly reliving that night. I never expected you to walk through that door. I was so upset with you…” I’m not sure what I’m about to admit. That I was angry with him because he was even more attractive than I had managed to remember? That I felt used? Embarrassed? Elated? Terrified that he had forgotten me?

  “You felt everything shift,” King says, tightening his hold on my waist where his hand rests just below my ribs. “I’m pretty sure it took me a week to convince myself it was really you.”

  I’m tempted to tell him how much he means to me, but I don’t know how to unwrap my words from my lust. We slept together twice that night. I had laid in bed completely naked, tracing lines and scars over his body while laughing and revealing secrets about myself I’m fairly certain I didn’t even know about prior to that day. But it’s far more than that. I know King. While that night back in July was void of inhibitions and packed with trust and comfort, I now realize that part of that was simply an image that we both created and fostered. While neither of us has any idea what would have happened had his number not rubbed off or had Kenzie not meddled, I feel that we never would have become what we are today. I know how much he loves his family, the extents he would go to for his friends, and how much attention he’s been paying to me when I never even knew.

  My hands glide over his chest covered by the thin barrier of his T-shirt as I take a step closer to King and slowly tilt my head, smiling as I do as if to pronounce my intentions. The right side of his lips rise w
ith the uneven smile I now consider mine, and his head tilts forward, his chin tilting to prevent another collision. Our lips move slowly, tracing over each other with the intention of imparting every detail of this night to memory. With each ridge my hand travels over, the muscles in my stomach get tighter. King’s hands are stretched wide as they travel under the cotton layers. I feel the pads of his fingers pressing into my skin like they don’t want to let go, and the reverence they possess as they slide across my ribs, my stomach, my lower back, making me move even closer to him, knead my fingers deeper into his skin, press myself flush against him. It elicits a groan from King that I trap with my mouth.

  His hands are spread against my back, searing their memory into my skin while mine run over his shoulders, tying him to me as our tongues trade promises.

  King releases me slowly, sliding down my sides and fisting my sweatshirt and T-shirt together. His tongue presses more firmly against mine, the stubble on his chin deliciously sharp as his head moves forward with the intensity of his kiss that only lasts a moment before he draws back and pulls the shirts from me in one fluid motion.

  The lighting is muted, yet King stares at me as though I’m a fine painting being showcased with impeccable light. As his eyes slowly trail down my body, I step forward and place a hand on his chest and tilt my head forward. King leans his upper body back and rips his own shirt free before pressing his warm chest against mine.

  His lips graze against mine, but before I’m able to kiss him back, his hands are gripping my thighs, encouraging me to lift them to wrap around his waist. Thoughts of being too big, heavy, and awkward for this to happen make an ugly appearance that King amplifies by bending and not giving me the chance to consider things. My knees bend only out of the absurdity that comes with seeing them both sticking out at uncomfortable angles. He carries me through his bedroom door, where we’re encompassed in darkness.