The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  King’s lips are leaving hot paths along my jaw and down my neck that I can’t reciprocate because my mouth is level with his forehead. I’m considering ways to convince him to set me down that won’t require words, when his hands shift, one running a teasing trail up my spine and stopping on the clasp of my bra. His mouth doesn’t leave my skin, licking, sucking, tasting as his fingers deftly release the clasp in a single motion. The magenta fabric slides down my arms, resting in the crook of my elbows. His tongue traces a line to the hollow of my collarbone, sending my heels to dig into his sides and my head to draw back. King’s hand rests on the bare space between my shoulder blades, and as his teeth graze over the tender skin that follows my collarbone. His hand slides down my shoulder, taking the strap of my bra with it so it hangs from just my right wrist, and his palm covers my breast, lifting the weight and compressing as his fingers glide back down to my nipple, and run over the sensitized peak with just enough pressure to make my thighs constrict.

  “There you go, baby. That’s my girl.” His words are quiet and throaty, and his lips tickle the bottom of my ear as they’re spoken before he slowly runs his teeth along the same area. His fingers compress more tightly, tugging on the tips of my nipples as his teeth catch the very edge of my skin, creating a sensation I didn’t know my earlobe could produce. My hands run up through his finger-length hair, my nails lightly scratching his scalp, pulling him closer to me. I want King to do that to every inch of me.

  His hand returns to my back and his lips to my neck, distracting me from the fact that we’re moving until he’s laying me against a down-feather comforter that sinks under my weight. King slowly stands, pulling my bra completely free and discarding it somewhere in the dark room. I can barely see his silhouette, let alone his expression, as his fingers brush from my shoulders, over my breasts, and along my stomach, to the elastic bands of my sweats and underwear. I can’t recall which pair I wore today, but it doesn’t matter. They, along with my pants, are gone with a second that stretches as King’s hands push them down while his palms glide down the outside of both of my legs, continuing all the way to my toes. His hands create a new path on their way up, gliding over the tops of my legs, over my stomach, and slowly over my chest before coming back down, where his hands trail the insides of my legs. My hips lift inadvertently with his touch. King’s hands stop on the inside of my thighs, his fingers massaging the skin as he hums a quiet approval and drops his head to kiss me. “Every inch of you is beautiful. Every. Inch. Don’t hide from me, Lo.” His fingers slide up, running along the area where I am now in need of his touch. My hips lift again, a quiet gasp breaking through my lips with relief and desire. Too quickly, his hands fall back to my thighs and continue their journey to my ankles, returning along the underside of my legs and clenching both butt cheeks before moving around to my stomach and tracing up along my breasts. This time, he doesn’t continue up to my neck; he kneads both nipples with enough pressure I’m confused if it hurts or feels like nirvana.

  My breaths come out shallow and uneven as he applies more pressure, my body writhing under his touch. He stops, and my throat groans with protest.

  “King.” I mean for his name to serve as a warning. A threat that he can’t stop at this point because I feel the buildup like a punch to my stomach.

  “I remember that sound,” he whispers, his lips sliding along my jaw. “You’re almost there.”

  “Then why did you stop—”

  King’s mouth moves to the apex of my legs, his tongue meeting the promises he made to my mouth as he massages every nerve ending with his tongue. My hands fist the comforter, my hips lifting off the mattress, pressing against him. His movements are slow, rhythmically moving higher and higher until he’s kissing my stomach.

  I hear him pull his nightstand drawer out and wrap my hand around his arm stretched forward. “I’m still on the pill, and I haven’t slept with anyone but you since…”

  King’s head drops and his teeth connect with my thigh. “God I’m glad I wrecked you as badly as you did me.” He stands up, spreading my legs, and I stop.

  “Do you have a lamp?”

  “What?”

  “I want to see you. I want to be able to draw this.”

  A small stained glass lamp with milky panels and small dragonflies creates a dim light that allows me to see the bright gleam of lust in King’s eyes, and his hair, tousled by my touch.

  He watches me for long seconds, and then drops his hands to either side of me and kisses me. His chest is pressed firmly against mine as his lips move with a reverence and need that I reciprocate. King presses one last kiss to my lips and stands up, linking my legs over each of his arms he pulls me to the edge of the bed and slides into me so slowly, I’m lost between frustration and bliss until he pulls out and does it again at a slightly faster pace. He repeats the movement until I make a guttural sound in my throat, and then King takes me to every edge as he burns new memories and fuses previous ones to this night, making every inch of me feel beautiful and sated as only King can.

  “I have known you for only a few months, and already it feels like you know me better than anyone.” Using his finger, he slowly traces my cheekbone.

  “You should let more people in.”

  I look down as his wide fingers press firmly around my hand. I look back to his face, and his eyes are wide with patience. “It’s not that I keep people out. I can tell twenty other people the same stories that I’ve shared with you, and they still wouldn’t understand.” He lifts his free hand and cups the back of his neck, dropping his head. “This sounds so lame. I sound so lame. I’m not saying you’re … I don’t know what we are, Lo. All I know is that six months later, you’re in my head more than ever. Hell, that’s saying something because I didn’t even know who you were for the first two, and I would still feel your skin when I was trying to sleep. I was thinking about what makes you laugh when I was supposed to be working. I didn’t even know you. Something about you just buried itself inside of me. Initially, I thought it was because you didn’t know who I was. You treated me like I was just a normal guy. It wasn’t until a few months ago that I realized it’s not something about you, it’s everything.”

  THE NEXT morning I stand in the kitchen, surveying the coffeepot. I may not know how to cook many things, or use kitchen gadgets with much success, but coffee I can do. I’ve been an addict since I was eight. Apparently I was either meant to be well over six feet, or it truly doesn’t stunt your growth.

  I set the machine to brew as I lean against the counter, appreciating the soreness of my muscles. King and I fell into an exhausted state of euphoria last night, and if I hadn’t been so tempted to draw him this morning, I would have woken him up to do it all over again. Instead, I dressed in his borrowed clothes again and grabbed my bag from upstairs, preparing things in case he was a light sleeper before I made my way back down and sat on the edge of the bed so I could still see him while my hands went to work. I worked for over an hour, until my lids felt heavy and my shoulders ached from slouching, making coffee a necessity.

  “Hey.” King rests his cheek against mine. I feel his chest slide against my back, memorizing the heat and friction, the width of him against my frame, before his arm wraps securely around my stomach, overwhelming me with sensations.

  “Did I wake you?”

  He shakes his head slightly. “No, but I was disappointed you were gone.”

  “I needed some fuel.”

  “I can help with that. Let’s go back—”

  “Is Dad home yet?” Mercedes makes her way into the kitchen, her hair in a million directions and her eyes still blinking with sleep.

  King sighs, his hips shifting against me slightly before he moves to stand behind the bar.

  “Not yet, but it’s still early,” I say. It still looks gray outside, but I checked the news when I first woke up and reports informed me that crews worked late to clean everything up.

  “Want some coffee?” I ask, turning to
King.

  “Please.” He leans forward on the bar. “Are you the kind that drinks their breakfast?” Curiosity pulls his eyebrows up.

  “Not always, but it is what makes me approachable.” He laughs as I pull two mugs down and face him. “How do you like it?”

  His eyes turn bright, his lips curving into a smile that makes them nearly even.

  “Your coffee,” I say, shaking my head.

  King’s lips stay pulled into a smile as silent innuendos pass between us. “Two sugars,” he says finally.

  I’m distracted by his silent insinuations, picturing images of him from last night that make my movements feel slow as I reach for the coffeepot. The sound of the front door closing has me turning to the foyer where Isabelle’s now calling out a happy greeting. Her eyes land on me and grow wide with calculation before she smiles again and wanders farther into the kitchen, stopping to hug Mercedes.

  “Hey, Isabelle,” King greets her. Rounding the bar, he hugs her and then stands behind me, his hand resting gently on my hip. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  I nod absently, not certain if I prefer him being around while she’s here or not. He disappears down the stairs as Isabelle takes a seat next to Mercedes at the bar.

  “How are you hanging in there, monkey?”

  “I’m going to go try calling Dad again.” Mercedes slides from her chair and looks back once before also disappearing.

  “Is she okay?” Isabelle’s tone is filled with a sincere concern that makes me feel worse for not liking her.

  “Yeah, the storm last night spooked her, but I’m sure as soon as she talks to Kash she’ll be fine.

  “It’s so great you’re getting along so well with the family. It surprised me a little to hear about you and King, but I’m happy he’s happy.”

  “They’re a great family.” I feel as though I should say something more profound, or something to verify I’m worthy of their time, as pathetic as that seems. “Would you like some coffee?” I lift the coffeepot in question.

  “Sure, that would be great.” I pull down another mug and fill it. “Is that for King?” she asks as I pull the sugar bowl forward.

  Arching my eyebrows, I nod.

  “He likes brown sugar.”

  “In his coffee?” I ask.

  She nods with a shy smile that ties my stomach in knots. It exposes secrets, truths about their relationship that, as benign as I know they are, still burn.

  I want to find out what else she knows, but the front door opens and Kash and Summer make their way in with rushed movements, showing they’re just as anxious to ensure we’re all safe.

  While I would prefer to ride the bus home, King insists on driving me. We sit in silence, one of his hands resting on my thigh while the other drums against the steering wheel. He’s relieved and happy, forcing my interaction with Isabelle to the recesses of my mind.

  “I THOUGHT we talked about this smiling thing. I’ve only seen you down a couple of times: that first time we met, a few times early on when I knew Mercedes was giving you a run for your money, and now.” Robert’s voice is clear as he calls to me from his porch. I left early, before King got home, because I couldn’t face him. Not today.

  “The good news is these downs remind you that you’re living. If life doesn’t offer both good and bad, we’ve lost our reason for existence.” His words replay in my head as he makes his way down the cement steps, his smile widening as I take a couple of steps up his narrow driveway.

  His comment makes me think of the conversation King and I shared weeks ago now, and I attempt to smile though the thought makes me want to cry. “That attempt at a smile is a little pitiful. What’s bothering you?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say with a sigh.

  He shrugs noncommittally, and I’m suddenly curious about how often he and King speak and how detailed their discussions are. “Likely, you’re making it confusing.” He scratches his cheek that still looks too young to be capable of holding the title of grandpa to a ten-year-old. “You didn’t get accepted to Italy?”

  I raise my eyebrows and stretch my hands out, feeling the tightness in my muscles and tendons stretch with a painful reluctance. “No, that’s the problem. I was.”

  His eyebrows go up, clearly caught off guard. “You’re afraid to leave.”

  “I finally feel like I’m in a really good place. I care about them. I can’t ask King to give up on his dreams and come with me.”

  “No,” Robert says, slowly shaking his head. “You can’t. Just like he can’t ask you to stay. If either of you did, that wouldn’t be love.”

  I press my lips together, feeling the burning threat of tears.

  “My dad used to say that people generally start something out of love, but then it becomes a rat race. We lose our focus, our passion, our drive to complete our initial mission because we get so caught up in the competition, the bright lights, the distractions. You need to think about what your mission is and focus on it. You’re young, Lo. Don’t throw away your dreams because you’re afraid you’ll lose someone. All that will do is lead to later resenting him, and that won’t be good for either of you.”

  “You guys need to talk about bikes, or … whatever it is you guys used to talk about before I stopped to ask for directions.”

  His eyes reveal more humor than his faint smile. “He cares very deeply for you. Don’t doubt that.”

  My lips roll against my teeth as I nod. “I know.”

  “Do you? Because you look like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

  I blink several times, unsure of how to respond. Instead, I numbly nod in response and fish out my phone to see what time it is as a casual way of finding an excuse to leave. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you.”

  “When you’re sad, everything seems worse. Stop looking at things through jaded glasses and look for some rose ones.”

  I lift my chin once in acknowledgement and then turn, taking two steps before he clears his throat. “The world needs smiles like yours, Lo. Don’t deprive people.”

  Sometimes like now, I’m fairly certain he’s crazy. I’ve always lacked the enthusiasm that perpetually optimistic people seem to maintain regardless of what the world delivers. I much prefer to sit back and watch everyone, memorizing eyes and how they often reveal answers that lips rarely do, arms and how they can be so defensive and possessive with simple and slight differences, postures and how when you’re too far to see someone’s face clearly, you can generally read the excitement in someone’s bounce, or sadness with the roll of their shoulders.

  I stop at the bus stop and search the cloudy skies that are a dark enough shade that I’m amazed it’s still dry.

  I change buses and head south, getting off at Sonar, the restaurant that has been a constant during my time here in Portland. The air is warm and spicy with the hint of freshly baked tortillas that makes my stomach rumble.

  Without taking the time to greet the others, I set up my supplies and fill the container I’ve designated for water in the restroom so as to get straight to work. There’s white noise behind me, but I easily block it out without even an ounce of thought being applied to it. I’m lost in a haze of familiarity with colors, textures, lines, and shading that blocks even the thought or concern of time.

  I make a final sweep with my brush, smoothing a line, and take a step back.

  It’s done.

  I’ve been working on this for months, and now it’s complete. The swell of emotions that has my eyes blurring and my lips breaking into a wide smile surprise me as much as they overwhelm me.

  Several moments later, I step closer to the painting, selecting a fine brush that I use to make minor corrections that most would likely never notice. This deserves to be as perfect as I can make it. I want Estella to feel as warm and loving toward it as I do about her.

  Sighing, I drop my brush on the tray I converted into a painting tray and step back to look over it again.

  “You were made for this.” Ki
ng’s soft words don’t surprise me. Not in the least. I think I subconsciously felt him here the last few hours.

  “I can’t believe it’s done.”

  “It’s amazing, babe.”

  “King.”

  His eyes sweep over me, hearing the emotion in my voice. They’re focused and tender, yet determined.

  “Let’s go back to your house.”

  “Is it hard to leave it?” he asks, running a hand over my shoulders.

  I nod. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully explain how I’m feeling. I imagine it’s much like a mother sending a child off to college. This is my first and largest wall mural, and while I completed Kash’s first, there is something so significant about this painting. I’ve spent hours upon hours creating this wall that is now covered with a large group of people dancing to a song I could physically feel and hear as I painted. There is a beach in the distance, an expanse of sand that’s been stamped with people coming and going. Love and happiness are carefully etched across each of the people in the picture, reflective in every last detail. The emotion I feel about leaving it scares me about the prospect of how many works I’ll be leaving an ocean away next fall.

  Time freezes, but my heart accelerates. Have I already decided I’m going?

  “Let’s go,” I say, plunging my brush into the water and quickly swirling it clean before grabbing my other brushes and dropping them in their case.

  “Estella’s still here. I think she’s waiting for you.”

  “Art is meant to be looked at alone. No expectations.”

  “You don’t want to see her excitement?”

  “Not this time.” I don’t. I can’t. Another emotion isn’t able to fit in my head right now.

  King wraps an arm around my shoulder again, his warmth causing my head to naturally recline back.

  We step out into the cool spring air, and King digs in his pocket. I watch him flip two pennies on the sidewalk before we reach his truck.

  “Are you excited for your event Saturday?” I ask, reaching forward to turn down his music that is always loud from when he rides alone.