The Weight of Rain

by Mariah Dietz

  My mom swallows, waiting.

  “She’s created a logo for my marketing campaign that people are amazed by,” Kash adds, not realizing that right now the best way to help me is to simply be quiet.

  “Lauren, you’re not going to Italy.” Her words are said with an authority she for some reason believes she still possesses.

  “This is stupid,” Josh mutters. “This whole thing is so you, Lauren. Always needing attention.”

  Their words don’t bother me. Growing up, my personal tormentor who teased and mocked me relentlessly was my own blood. My brother and I have been at odds since I was born, and nothing over the years has managed to do anything but intensify it. However, the fact that King, Mercedes, Kash, Summer, Charleigh, and Brandon are hearing them being said to me, bothers me a lot. I’m fairly certain everyone’s back has just gone straight, but I’m looking at Josh, noticing his flexed jaw, and out of the corner of my eye, King’s breaths coming faster, stronger.

  “This really isn’t a conversation to be having here. Clearly you both have concerns about Italy and art as a whole, and we can discuss them later. At my apartment.”

  “You’re so selfish! God, you’re so stupid!” Josh says the words so quietly, I’m not sure who can even decipher them.

  King clears his throat and sits forward, turning visibly as if in a silent threat to continue.

  “You don’t think about anyone but yourself. Everyone else is working their asses off, and you’re here doing what? Doodling? Walking around for guys to think you’re hot? God.” Josh closes his eyes and shakes his head. “You’re so dumb.”

  King’s chair goes back and my hand squeezes. “You’re so out of line right now. So. Far. Out. Of. Line. You need to apologize.”

  My heart is beating so hard and fast, it’s difficult not to focus on it as my entire body warms with anger. These verbal wars do nothing but end ugly.

  Josh looks at King and then rolls his eyes before leaning back in his chair so he can see me through the barrier King is trying to create. “You need to stop calling. You’ve already left the family. You think you’re so much better than everyone else. Woo hoo, my name’s Lauren, and I did good in school. Look at me!” His hands dance and wave in front of him and his voice goes ludicrously high, making me temporarily fear that I might sound that ridiculous. “You want to be some independent, failing artist, then do it. Don’t expect us to be there for you when you fail.”

  “You need to leave.” Josh and I both turn at the sound of King’s voice. His eyes meet mine. They’re wide and questioning before they turn back to my brother.

  “Who in the hell are you, anyway?” Josh asks, his tone aggressive.

  “Who in the hell do you think I am? I introduced myself as Kingston, Lauren’s boyfriend. How many more dots do I need to connect for you in order for that to make sense?”

  Josh doesn’t acknowledge King’s reply or irate tone. I doubt he even heard it over the words he’s clearly ready to spew. “You need to stop being a bitch and start thinking about someone other than yourself!” Josh continues, his belligerence making others in the restaurant turn, though his voice is still decently quiet.

  “You aren’t seriously going to let him say that to her!” Mercedes shoves back from the table. “I’ll punch him if you guys don’t!” She only makes it past Brandon before Charleigh stops her with an arm.

  “You need to apologize,” Mercedes demands. Her fists are stuck to her small hips, her chin raised high.

  “You’re dating someone with a kid? This is great. Mom couldn’t stand you. That’s why she left. Now you’re trying to be a mom?” His laughter is colder than his words that fall too easily, without a second of thought behind what pain the callousness of his words brings.

  “She’s my nanny, you jerkface!” is screamed from Mercedes, but I don’t see her. My attention is on King, whose head turns quickly, his fist even faster. His knuckles connect with Josh’s cheek, making his head whip.

  “I don’t give a shit who you are. You don’t talk to her like that.”

  Josh laughs and it’s filled with a mocking enjoyment.

  The entire restaurant has turned to face us. Everyone at the table is now standing, even my mom.

  “Lauren, what are you doing?” she asks as I turn and grab my purse.

  “Leaving.”

  “What’s new,” Josh mutters. “She’ll leave you too, man. Get out while you can.” King whirls around, his hands both fisted. “Ask her,” Josh prompts, the muscles in his neck straining. “She doesn’t need anyone. She’s never needed or wanted anyone. She isn’t someone you can hold on to and expect to be there for you when you need her.”

  Kash grabs King’s arm, holding it firmly to his side and saying something so quietly, only King hears it. Then he turns and faces the table. “Lauren has been one of the greatest blessings our family has ever experienced. She has taught all of us about life and love and following your dreams. You guys should be embarrassed and ashamed. Don’t step back into this city again with all this crazy shit. You aren’t welcome.” His hand is against my back, King’s on the back of my neck.

  “We’re the city of weird, not rude,” Mercedes says, her hip jaunting and eyes glaring. It seems like a million years since it was me on the opposite side of this reaction.

  THE PARKING lot is far worse than standing in front of everyone while modeling today. Far, far worse. Everyone is off balance with what to do or say, creating an awkward energy that has us all looking down at the pavement rather than each other.

  “I say we get a drink. Are there any good pubs in the area?” Charleigh breaks the silence, looking to King and Kash for direction.

  Kash rubs a hand along the back of his neck, exposing a long scar on his forearm. His eyes dance over each of us, focusing on me before looking back to Charleigh. “We could head back to the house. We’ve got all kinds of shit from different things.”

  “You want to ride with us, Lauren?” Charleigh asks, her voice high, revealing a hopefulness that makes me even more embarrassed.

  I shake my head and look toward the street to gain my bearings. “I’m going to head home.”

  Mercedes looks my way, and I instantly turn my head. I feel like a coward. I’ve encouraged her to open up and speak freely with me about the tormenting she has endured at school, and now that we’re in reverse rolls, I can’t even look at her.

  “We need to properly celebrate and get that awful taste out of our mouths.” Charleigh’s voice is hopeful and shaded with sympathy, which I loathe hearing.

  “Yeah, I’m tired. I need to study for my math final, and I feel sticky and gross from all that hairspray.”

  “Let’s just go for one round,” Kash suggests.

  “That’s alright. I’m not in the mood either,” King says, taking a step closer to me.

  I notice Brandon shift uncomfortably and feel even worse. I haven’t even introduced myself to the guy and he’s already been thrown into the crazy circus that is my life. No wonder Charleigh went AWOL. I understand it. I completely get how life can be so distracting and crazy that sometimes it’s more tempting to leave it all behind for a while and just enjoy something that makes you feel good.

  “I’ll see you guys on Monday,” I say, taking a long step back.

  King moves with me, his weight shifting in tandem with mine. I look to him, confusion knitting my brows. His draw down as well, and then he shakes his head just once, and I see a trace of pain cross his features before he drops his head. He remains in step with me though, a hand resting on my hip. I allow him to guide me to his truck, though I’d prefer to be on the bus tonight. I want the distraction of nameless faces and the lull of white noise.

  When his driver’s side door closes, he inserts the key and then drops his hand to his slack-covered thigh. The slacks he’s wearing because of me. “That’s the anger you were referring to. It wasn’t your mom or your dad; it was your brother.”

  For several seconds my jaw stays flexed
, my attention trained on the passing cars. Then I look over to him, my lips still firmly together.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking. I can’t tell if you’re sad or angry, or even worse, embarrassed.”

  I narrow my eyes, puzzled. “Why is embarrassment the worst thing?”

  King’s eyes shift between mine, still searching for recognition. “Because you deserve to be angry and sad, but there’s no reason for you to feel embarrassed. You didn’t ask for them to act like that. It’s not your fault they were being assholes.” He moves a hand to his nose, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure to the slight bridge there. His hands look cleaner than I’ve ever seen them, scrubbed to the point there’s only a hint of grease along some of the deeper grooves on his fingers. Last night I had to alternately soak and scrub my hands until the charcoal was gone except for the small callus on the knuckle of my middle finger. I think it’s imbedded into my skin at that spot.

  “I knew … I could feel it.” My attention moves back to King’s face. His dark eyelashes are fanned, his eyelids scrunched with thought and frustration that has his head shaking nearly imperceptibly. “Everything about it seemed off. You hadn’t mentioned them, and Charleigh looked so annoyed … I knew you weren’t expecting them, but I thought … I hoped … they were there to support you. I so rarely hear you talk about them, I thought maybe it would be a good thing.” He opens his eyes but doesn’t meet my stare. “Something was off though, and I could tell things were going to go to hell in a hand basket.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done to stop it.” I don’t want to say these words, because I fear that they are like when he told me he wasn’t trying to insinuate that I was stalking him. I don’t want him to even consider that he is somehow responsible for this night, yet I see it. I hear it. Being that it’s King, I can even feel his guilt. It makes me nearly loathe them.

  “Has he always been…”

  I don’t wait for him to discern which adjective to use. Rude, mean, offensive … there are so many words and expletives to fill the awkward blank, and none of them would be appropriate alone, and I have no desire to discuss them. I fought hard to never lower myself to my brother’s level and return the hurtful things he so often delivered, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t scar.

  “An asshole?” My fingers stretch—constantly tight—and I shrug. “I think he blames me for our mom leaving. Well, clearly he does…” I shrug again, uncomfortable for talking to him when I intended to avoid this subject at all costs. “I mean, I get it. She was overwhelmed—”

  “Of course she was overwhelmed! Kash was a fucking head case when they brought Mercedes home! Let me tell you, that attitude you’ve seen, it started at birth. She came out screaming.” King’s brown eyes are wide, looking as dark as my charcoals with the setting sun. “Her leaving had nothing to do with anyone but her. And that’s fine. Maybe it was for the better.” King’s words make my breath hitch. Better? I’ve never had anyone say that, and while there is likely logic behind his words, emotion drowns reason out and all I hear is that it was better for her to leave. “But it doesn’t matter if she left or not. These are your decisions to make, and regardless of what you choose, you deserve nothing except their support.”

  I shift in my seat, hating that his words have made my nose and eyes burn with tears. Long ago I concluded I wouldn’t cry for them.

  “Babe, tell me how I can help. I hate this.”

  I brush my cheek with the back of my hand in an attempt to make my tears go unseen and release a slightly garbled laugh because my throat is tight with the need to cry. “I just want to go to my apartment, eat something, and go to bed.”

  He nods, blowing a long sigh out of his nose as he reaches forward and starts the truck. We ride in silence. It’s not even raining tonight to create a soft distraction, leaving me to repeat the ugly evening again and again in my head.

  King pulls into an empty spot and slides out of the truck, not waiting for me to give him permission to see me in. I appreciate it because I think we both know I wouldn’t have tonight. He doesn’t stop at my door when I turn ever so slightly to say goodnight either. He walks past me, straight into our small studio apartment, and flips on the lights. It’s messy as it usually is. The only way this place could ever truly look clean would be for us to get rid of half of our belongings. King doesn’t comment though. He moves into the kitchen as though he’s comfortable in the space and opens the fridge.

  I lock the front door, curious about his intentions, but still wallowing in too much self-pity to safely ask without exposing how thin my façade is. I sit on our single couch and watch as he rifles through the fridge and freezer, already knowing he won’t find much.

  Not once does he ask for direction or for my approval on what he’s making. He simply sets to work, opening drawers and cupboards that he digs through, rarely showing any emotion. It helps to watch him. The focus in his eyes and tightly sealed lips, the speed of his hands as he dices and cuts, and the movements he makes between the stove and his workspace all remind me of watching him in the shop. There’s an intensity when King sets his mind to something, an impenetrable focus that I respect and admire because I understand it so intimately. I wonder if this is what I look like when I work. I hope it is.

  It’s not long before he delivers a plate to me with scrambled eggs filled with sautéed onions, a pepper I didn’t know we had, sun-dried tomatoes, and cheese. I never would have even considered adding the tomatoes, but they, like King, are unexpectedly my favorite part.

  Once our plates are cleaned, I give King a shy thank-you, grab a pair of pajamas from my dresser, and close myself in the bathroom—the only area of space in the entire studio apartment that has four walls and a door.

  I stand under the stream of the water and think of the show, recalling my steps, the sway of my hips, the weight on the balls of my feet, how tall I stood. It all filled me with a confidence I never knew I could possess. A beauty and power that somehow felt tangible even if I was the only one who truly saw it. I hold the memories through shampooing and conditioning my hair, and then think of the mural I recently finished at Sonar, the large painting of Kash riding on the wall of the shop and how I’d like to add all of the others beside him. I think of the first sketch I ever drew with charcoal, and receiving my acceptance letter to college.

  The power I felt while on stage was exhilarating, fun, fresh, new, but in comparison to the feelings I experience when I complete a piece of art, they all pale.

  Why can’t my family see that?

  My hair is still wet, pulled up into a bun when I make my way back out to the apartment. I had wanted to be alone, yet now all I want to do is lie down beside King. Thankfully, he knew not to leave me and without me asking, he steps forward and pulls me into a hug, holding me so close to him I can feel each of his breaths and every beat of his heart.

  “LO!” I hesitate before turning around to face him, knowing he’s going to have accusation and pain in his brown eyes as well as frustration. “Why are you avoiding me?” He isn’t supposed to be here, I know. I heard him working through his schedule with Parker after he let me cry on his chest. His phone rang and went to voicemail four times before he reluctantly answered.

  I recognize the anger in his stance first, quickly followed by the accusation as his fists move to his hips just like Mercedes. “I’m not. I’ve just had to get stuff done this week.”

  “You’ve left early every day this week.”

  “You’ve gotten home late,” I reply.

  “I’m busy. Things are crazy with PR and all of the last-minute shoots and interviews.”

  I nod, hoping I look understanding rather than unhappy.

  “I’ve been thinking about Italy,” King continues.

  “So have I.”

  He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. “What are you thinking?”

  “I think we should take a break while I’m gone.” Narrowing his eyes, he flexes his jaw, makin
g me continue even faster. “We’re going to be busy. You’re going to be on a different schedule and traveling, and—”

  “Why in the hell do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “I’m trying to explain that to you.”

  “We’ve talked about this shit. We both know it’s going to be difficult. Do you think I’m looking forward to having to see your face over a computer screen for three months? Not hearing your voice from beside me, but two countries and an ocean away? Do you think I don’t know how much this is going to fucking suck?”

  “All of my life I’ve waited for others. I waited until my dad wasn’t too busy, or my mom wasn’t distracted by some new boyfriend. Whenever it suited them, I was their daughter. This whole art thing has always been a hobby to my mom and a crazy obsession according to my dad. He still hasn’t even taken the time to look at my portfolio. He has no idea if I suck. I doubt he’ll ever know because he doesn’t care.

  “We aren’t going to be able to be there for each other. I can’t be there to support you … You’re getting ready to unfold some of your biggest dreams, King, and I am too, and we’re going to miss every single moment of it for the other, and I think it will tarnish our own successes.”

  King shakes his head dismissively. “Loving someone doesn’t mean you have to give up on your dreams. Whenever I’m able to attend things, I will, just like you will for me.”

  “Conveniences build pain and resentment. Love is only made to bend so far.”

  “Dude, come on! We’re late!” Parker calls from the front door.

  “You need to go,” I tell him.

  “I need you to stop thinking of me like your family. That’s them, not us.” King sweeps a hand across the room, his forearms flexing and his eyes bright with anger.