by Inda Herwood
I give him a high five, deciding it’s going to be our thing.
“That is an excellent painting of a landscape, Theo. You should show that to your family later. I bet they’ll love it.”
His eyes give a hopeful sparkle, looking over the painting again to see what I see, but from a new perspective.
“How about mine?” I ask him, wiggling the painted version of Beckham’s portrait.
He looks it over with that careful eye of his, his fingers moving over the crystal blue eyes I tried to fix. He gives me a thumbs up.
“I fixed them alright?”
Another nod.
“Good. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s ever going to see it to notice, but still.” It’s nice to know from someone else that it came out right. Giving him a conspiratorial look, I say, “I don’t have to ask you to keep this a secret between you and me, do I?” It didn’t even occur to me until now that he might go back to his house, get asked by his siblings what he was doing, and write it out on paper that he caught me drawing Beckham like a total stalker.
He adamantly shakes his head, giving me a small amount of comfort.
I let out the breath I was holding, smiling at him. “Good.” Looking around, I tell him, “I think it’s time for a snack, don’t you?”
Another happy nod.
“Okay, how do you like crackers?”
A shrug.
Hmm. “Well, I think I’ll have you changing your mind after you taste these.” I pull out the bag of sour cream and onion crackers that I packed in the basket, opening it up for him to try. “These are my favorite. I bet you’ll like ’em, too.”
He looks skeptical, but reaches his hand out to grab one anyway. Suddenly realizing something, I quickly pull the bag away from his fingers, asking, “You don’t have any food allergies, do you? Wheat, milk, onion?”
A shake of the head from right to left.
“Alright, I just didn’t want your mom to kill me in case your face swelled up.” I hold the bag out again and he takes a chip this time, putting it in his mouth and chewing a few times before deciding they’re acceptable. He even goes back for seconds.
“I told you they were good,” I say with a smug expression, making him laugh.
A loud squeal of “There you are!” has both Theo and I jumping, only to turn around and see Leigha stomping down the path, hands on her hips and her face a mask of red. Her hair looks ruffled on one side and flat on the other, which is quickly explained when she says, “I take a nap for an hour and you disappear. Not cool, dude.”
When she’s standing in front of us, still looking furious, Theo puts on his guiltiest expression, mouthing, “I’m sorry,” before offering the bag of chips to her in apology. I smirk at his strategy to get into her good graces again, using that Lyons charm to his advantage.
With a sigh, she says, “Fine, you’re forgiven,” and grabs a chip before joining us on the towel, Hawn moving to Theo’s lap to make room for her.
“I’m sorry, he told me Beckham knew where he was going. Wait,” I say, suddenly wondering, “how did he know where you were?”
Without hesitation, Theo points to Beckham’s window on the second floor. Leigha and I both turn to look at the same time, seeing Beckham sitting in a chair, a book in his hands. A few seconds later he looks up, seeing that we spotted him. He gives a slight nod before going back to his reading.
“Are you telling me he’s been watching us this whole time?” I ask him, voice a little too high to be considered normal.
His nod has me groaning.
“I guess that’s one way to babysit,” Leigha chuckles, ruffling Theo on the head, causing him to pull away from her. “So what were you guys doing anyway?” She looks around at our little setup, brows pulled together.
“I was drawing and he decided to join me. Why don’t you show her your picture, Theo?” I nod encouragingly to the paper still in his lap.
He holds it up for her to see with a big, happy grin. Leigha takes it from him with an awed expression. “This is beautiful! We’re going to have to put this up on the fridge,” she informs him, and he practically beams with pride. I give him an I told you so wink.
“I didn’t know you were an artist,” she says to me, looking at all of the sketchbooks I have scattered about. “I knew my uncle said you came into the store the other day, but I figured it was just to look around or something.”
Without warning, Theo places one of my books in her hands, motioning for her to open it. She does as he says, my heart doing a little jig in my chest as her eyes scan the first page. Having an eight-year-old look at your art is one thing, but having a teenager do it is another. And that’s because the teenager actually knows what she’s looking at. Ergo, making my palms sweat the longer she stays silent, her hand flipping through the pages wordlessly.
After a while she says, “This…this is absolutely amazing, Blaire. I love your portraits.” She lands on the one of my mom that I drew a few months ago. She had been hunched over the dining table, writing a letter to a friend that lived out of state; her expression of concentration making me want to draw it.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward with the praise. “I hope one day I can be as good as your uncle. His oil paintings are amazing.”
“Yeah, I agree. They’re stunning. But there’s something about your style that really shows the essence of the person. It’s like I know who they are just by the lines you used, whether they’re clean or messy, or if you used light colors rather than dark. It’s really cool,” she says, still looking through the sketchbook.
“Wow,” I say, impressed by her expert-like assessment. “You know a lot about art.”
She smirks down at the page she’s looking at, saying, “You don’t grow up in an artistic household without learning a thing or two.”
As I’m about to ask the question, she says, “My dad works at a gallery, my uncle is a classically trained painter, and my mom does photography for National Geographic. It’s weird if one of us doesn’t attain some kind of great artistic talent.”
Jeez. No pressure there or anything. “Do you? I mean, are you artistic?”
She grins. “Nope, not at all. My parents were insanely disappointed when I threw the paintbrush across the room when I was five, and then the same with the camera when I was ten. I’m more into numbers, like Aunt Elise. She’s a stock broker in the city. I’m hoping after school she can get me into the trade with her.”
Huh. “So that’s what she does?” That would explain the fabulous pantsuit she wore to the house the other day. And also the size of their house.
She nods. “Mm-hmm. It’s where she and my uncle met before he retired to run the store.”
Looking over at Theo while we talk, I see the bored expression on his face, petting Hawn behind his big floppy ears. Poor guy. He’s surrounded by older people all day, and I’m sure adult conversation makes him feel left out.
Grabbing my latest, half empty sketchbook, I hand it to him with a pencil. “Mind putting one of your drawings in my book? I’d love to have a Theo original,” I say with a smile, which he reciprocates.
With a nod, he begins to doodle on the page, focused on the task while Leigha comments next to me, “You’re really good with kids.”
“I used to babysit for my neighbor before we moved. She had two little boys about Theo’s age.” Timmy and Joey were mini devils, but they were a lot of fun. Being around Theo makes me miss them, even though he’s a total opposite to their crazy personalities.
“That would explain it,” she says, adding, “I’m actually glad that my little cousin led me here. I was going to ask if you’d want to go out on the jet skis later with us?”
“Jet skis, sailboats? How many water toys do you guys have?” I ask, only realizing too late that that must seem like an odd question to ask. Rich people would be used to other rich people having a lot of things. And here I am, making it sound like such excess is foreign to me, which it is, but I’m not supposed to make
it seem that way.
Pretending to be a life-long millionaire is more work than I had anticipated.
But to my relief, she just laughs. “Trust me, that’s the least of it. But until you and my little guy here are more experienced swimmers, I thought we’d stick to the above water stuff.”
“I doubt that offer would make your cousin very happy,” I say, my eyes going to Beckham’s window. He’s still sitting there, flipping pages. I half wonder if he’s a vampire or something. It seems like the only times he’s ever outside is when he’s there to berate me.
“Technically, we’d be in the water, not the house,” she says, checking on Theo’s progress with his drawing by peering over his shoulder.
“I meant that he’s probably going to be out there with us, right? You don’t think me and him in close proximity is a bad idea?” Because I do. I can’t be accountable if I not so accidentally throw him into the ocean when he inevitably says something snide.
“He’ll live,” Leigha says with a smile that gives me a bad feeling.
With a sigh, I say, “He doesn’t know you’re inviting me, does he?”
She bites her lip, pretending not to have heard the question when she stands up, telling Theo, “I think it’s time for lunch, buddy.”
His hand stops moving over the page, looking up at her with sad eyes. He points to the paper, silently telling her he’s not done yet.
“It’s alright. You can take it home with you if you like. Just let me know when you’re done with it, okay?” I tell him, standing as well, my legs having gone stiff with sitting cross-legged so long. I shake one out, feeling a bunch of tingles run through it.
To my surprise, Theo jumps up and hugs me around the waist, squishing his face into my stomach. Looking up, he mouths with a beautiful smile, “Thank you.”
Ah, jeez. My heart. “No problem,” I tell him with a smile and a slight ruffle of his curls. “I expect another drawing date sometime soon. I liked having company.”
He nods, looking all excited. And just like that, he’s zooming through the sand and up the path with my sketchbook in his hand and Hawn on his tail, running for the big blue house.
“I’ve never seen him take to someone new like he has with you,” Leigha admits, still watching where her cousin just left. “My bet is you’ll be the first person he talks to in over a year.”
I stare at her, shocked at the prediction that seemingly came out of nowhere. “But I’m a stranger, like you said. Why would he break his silence for me?”
“Because you don’t hold any expectation for him like his parents and brothers do. Any time they talk to him, they have this hopeful look in their eyes that this will be the day he says something, where he decides to come back to us. That’s a lot of pressure for a child, whether they mean to place it on him or not. But you don’t look at him like that, or treat him like that. You accept him as he is, and he appreciates it, I can tell.”
I never thought of it that way. But perhaps that’s why he came to visit me today. He saw me doing something normal and wanted to be normal, too. He knew I would have no expectation of him to talk, and that made him more comfortable around me.
Feeling my heart sink, I ask her, “Do you really think he’ll ever speak again?”
“We have hope he will,” she says, her smile still sad when she decides to switch the subject. “So, are you in for the jet skis, or are we going to let my cousin steal all our fun?”
Shaking my head, I tell her, “I think I’m going to sit this one out. And no,” I say when she starts to protest, “it isn’t because of Beckham. Last night I promised my mom I’d help her unload a few of the last boxes.”
She pouts at this, but says anyway, “Alright. But if you change your mind, we’re going down to the marina after dinner.”
“Okay. Thanks for the invite. I appreciate it. But hey, can you do one thing for me?” I ask her before she starts to make her way back towards the house.
“Sure, what?”
“Try and splash your cousin for me.”
She smiles devilishly. “Which one?”
“You know which one,” I answer with a smirk.
She chuckles. “You got it, sister.”
CHAPTER 7
Beckham
I hear my little brother and Leigha come in downstairs, the double doors shutting with a bang. I can just make out her asking him what he’d like for lunch. A few minutes later, his running footsteps go by my door, probably to deposit his new present in his room.
I saw the whole exchange between Blaire and my brother on the beach. She must have gifted him the book, because he hugged her and then ran off like he got away with something big. I still don’t know why I allowed him to go down there. He had come into my room, looking bored out of his mind, and pointed to the window. I turned to see what it was and saw Blaire in that amazing bikini again, setting up what looked like a war zone down on the beach.
I gave him a questioning look, wondering why he pointed her out to me.
Taking his little notebook out of his back pocket, Theo wrote a quick note before holding it up to show me, asking, “Can I go see what she’s doing?”
I took the note from him with a sigh, feeling my back muscles tighten in response. He had been so upset last week after I yelled at everyone. He wouldn’t even look at me for a good two days. Him coming in my room was a surprise until I realized he only did it to ask for permission to see my arch enemy.
Okay, maybe arch enemy is a strong title. But considering she’s turning my family against me, it seems fitting.
But that’s when I remembered that I had intended to make up for my dickdom, and maybe this was where I could start.
I told him he could go as long as he stayed in my sight and didn’t interrupt whatever it was that she was doing. He was running out of my room before I could even finish the terms.
I watched him go down there, and I saw how easily she incorporated him into what she was doing. Before long I figured out that drawing was the task at hand, and then painting. She gave him some paper and showed him the supplies he could use. He looked so happy sitting with her, having her show him the ropes. My dad would have been thrilled to see him, not only engaging with another person, but with art itself. He’s never forced any of us into his love of painting, but I always knew he hoped one of us would pick it up. Theo was his last shot. He had tried a few times to get him involved, but he never seemed interested. Must be he needed a specific teacher to motivate him.
I pretended to read my book while I watched them, seeing the two laugh every so often. She’s really good with him, I thought, happy that he was comfortable with her, but also upset that he hasn’t been that way around us in a long time. Leigha explained to me once that she thinks we all pressure him too much to speak. And when you feel pressured to do something, it makes you want to do the opposite. I’m starting to see that now, what with the way he smiles so easily around her. You can tell he’s lighter, freer to be himself without the expectation to speak.
Watching her gather all of her things from the beach, I don’t even hear when my cousin steps into my room. That is until she says, “Spying isn’t very nice, Beckham.”
I nearly fall out of my chair, dropping the book I was holding. It tumbles to the ground as I turn to face her, arms crossed in my doorway. “I wasn’t spying.”
“Yes, you were. And it only proves my point.”
“And what point would that be?” I’m almost scared to ask.
“That you like her and think she’s cute, but you refuse to admit it.”
I pick up the fallen book, not looking at her when I put it back on the shelf. “You can find someone attractive and still not like them.”
“Attraction would explain why you were staring at her butt when I came in here, but it doesn’t explain the smile I saw you wear when she was painting with Theo.” She raises her dark eyebrows, waiting for me to challenge her.
“And how would you know this?”
; “Because I looked up at your window as I was walking down there.” She smiles, far too happy with herself. “Spying doesn’t feel so nice, does it?”
“I was smiling because I was happy to see Theo not look so miserable for once.” Jeez, am I always going to have to defend myself now when Blaire Cromwell is brought up? It’s starting to look like it.
Deciding she might get off my back if I bring up something positive about her friend, I say, “He really likes her, doesn’t he?”
She nods before leaning her head on the doorframe, sighing. “She was teaching him how to paint, it was adorable. He even hugged her when she gave him her sketchbook to doodle in.” She then suggests, “We should ask your dad to bring one home from the shop. I think it’d be a good outlet for him.”
I can only nod.
We stay silent for a few moments, Leigha looking at my wall of albums. While she’s distracted, I sneak a quick peek out the window, seeing that Blaire is no longer there. A strange surge of disappointment floods me.
“I invited her to go jet skiing with us later,” my cousin mentions out of the blue, but before I can say anything, another head is popping in my door.
“Invited who to go jet skiing?” Catcher asks.
“Blaire, but she said she was busy. I think she only said that, though, because of Mood Swings over here.” She nods at me, a look of exasperation passing over her face.
“Well that blows. I wouldn’t have minded her riding shotgun with me, if you know what I mean.” He grins wider than he should, making me want to throw something at him.
Leigha slaps him in the stomach, turning away from the door. “Men. You only have two brain cells, and you waste all their power by thinking about one thing.”
“That’s not true,” Catcher denies, looking insulted. “I also think about food.”
She rolls her eyes before saying, “Speaking of which, what do you two pigs want for lunch? Theo voted for a grilled cheese.”