by Inda Herwood
“Tell me, what does sunshine smell like?” Leigha asks him, trying to hide a snicker behind her fist.
“I don’t know. Warmth with a touch of sunblock maybe,” Catch answers. “Hey, where’d all the cereal go?”
CHAPTER 8
Blaire
Walking around downtown, I hold my jacket front together with my hands, the cotton fabric hood doing little to keep me safe from the rain. The forecast had said it was only supposed to be cloudy today. They didn’t mention anything about rain. Cold, stupid, blasphemous rain.
Running into the closest store as it starts to pick up, I shake off the chill and some droplets from my half-soaked hair, already dreading the lecture I’ll get from Nan when I walk in the door, dripping wet. She told me to take an umbrella because, “You never know.” It’s one of her favorite sayings, along with, “Expect the worst, that way you won’t be disappointed,” and “Colds can still kill, you know.”
Taking in my surroundings, I’m delighted to see that I made it to my desired location after all. Sitting in the house, bored and without anything to do, I figured I’d drive to town and visit the bookstore. Since the weather report said it’d be a rainy week starting tomorrow (emphasis on tomorrow), I wanted to have something to occupy my time with. You know, other than art, because at the moment, the whole process has kind of been ruined for me, all because of Beckham freaking Lyons.
I should have known better than to loan the kid my book without even looking to see that it was the one with Beckham’s portrait in it. I shouldn’t have assumed that Leigha and her cousins were still out on the skis when I decided to jam out to Whitney Houston in my room, the window open to let in a nice breeze. And I most definitely should not have written notes back and forth with the eldest Lyons brother, no matter if the juvenile act felt fun and totally out of character for me.
Trying to ignore the recurring image of his grinning face in the window, I take off my hood and look around the quaint shop, the tall ceilings making the narrow space feel bigger than it really is. Countless bookshelves line the walls, towering over me in a sea of colorful spines. I inhale a deep breath and enjoy the scent of paper and ink, which is almost as satisfying as the art store’s cozy apple smell. I’m surprised only a few people are walking around, perusing the large selection.
It doesn’t take me long before I’m joining them, immersed in reading the back covers to any book with a whimsical name; my hands reaching out to pull down one after the other from the shelves. The store has both secondhand and new releases, giving me a wide variety to choose from. I come across a very well-loved copy of Little Women, the pretty flowered cover and the fact that it was a favorite of mine as a kid giving me no other choice but to buy it. And at only three dollars, it’s practically a steal.
The rain continues to pound the roof as I look around, my feet taking me to a large table in the middle of the store that has new releases on display. Immediately, one in particular catches my eye – a crown in swirls of black and blue on the cover, the sides of the pages dipped in black ink. I instantly fall in love with the gothic Victorian look of it, not even really caring what the story is about. All I know is that I want it on my bookshelf.
“How did you happen to find one of my favorite books?” The smooth, teasing voice startles me, and I nearly drop the book back onto the pile. I could almost swear I felt his breath on my neck as he said it.
Turning around, I see Beckham standing there, hands behind his back, smile laughing at me while one of his curls tries to reach his eyes. Looking him up and down, wondering how he appeared out of nowhere, I see he’s wearing a similar color scheme to the book I currently have in my hand; his black overcoat and dark blue T-shirt making him blend in with the shadows of the store.
A bad seed of suspicion starts to set in the longer he looks at me like that. “You’ve been standing there for a while, haven’t you?”
He shrugs. “Maybe ten minutes or so.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Another shrug.
“You’re full of answers today,” I mutter, going back to admire the crown book some more.
“That really is a good book. But I have a feeling it was your artsy side that made you pick it rather than the synopsis,” he says, standing just as close as before. If I moved just an inch, I’d feel my shoulder bump into his chest.
“Yes, but since you endorse it, I’ll actually have to read it now.” Putting the gorgeous book into the tote bag generously given to me by the store owner, I move to another table, this one advertising young adult romance. Feeling him join me, I ask, “Did you run into me on purpose, or is this just a weird coincidence?”
“Coincidence, believe it or not. Though I was going to look for you once I got home,” he says, but he looks like he wishes he hadn’t.
I quirk a brow at him over my shoulder, helpless but to point out, “This is coming from the guy that told me to keep my distance from him?”
He sighs, running a hand over his face, his smile more like a grimace. “Yes, I know. But I was actually going to apologize to you for that. I shouldn’t have exploded on you like I did that day by the pool, or made you feel bad about looking out your window, or –”
“Let’s just say you shouldn’t have acted like you,” I tell him, knowing that’s a long list he would have been spouting off otherwise.
“Touché.” He calls defeat, eyes focused on the table when his hand picks up a bright yellow hardcover with a golden finch on the front. “Here, I think you’d like this one.”
I take it from him, confused. “You think you know me enough to recommend a book to me?”
“Maybe not. But the heroine is an artist. And she’s short. You two should relate well to one another.”
Without thought, I smack him in the chest with the book, saying, “Worst apology ever.”
“Ow,” he grumbles, though his smile makes me believe it didn’t hurt at all.
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess, your cousin made you say you’re fake sorry.”
He shakes his head. “No. Parents, actually.”
I’m ready to hit him with the book again, only wishing it was thicker to make a bigger impact, but he holds up his hands in surrender. “They asked me to, but I agreed. I’ve been rude to you for no reason, and I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m protective of my family.”
What a complete understatement. Facing him, I ask the question I’ve been wanting to know the answer to for a while now. “But why did you think I would hurt them? Do I look like the kind of person that would intentionally inflict pain on someone?”
“No,” he says after a minute, “but that’s the issue. You’re too…” When he can’t find the words, he motions to me up and down, as though that explains anything.
“I’m what?”
He lets out a breath through his nose, looking over my head when he admits, “You’re too nice. Too sweet. Too kind. Name any characteristic about a puppy, and that’s you. But in my world, no one is actually a puppy. They may look like a puppy, but it’s just a disguise. Most of the time there’s a wolf hiding underneath it.”
Looking at him, seeing the past hurt on his face that I doubt he even realizes he’s showing, I slowly start to understand.
He thought I was a Rochelle.
Someone who looked sweet and harmless on the surface, but turned out to be someone totally different underneath. It makes sense. And now that I know where he’s coming from, I can’t really blame him. Well, not totally.
“I get it,” I tell him, hoping he believes me when I say, “I’ve met them before. But I’m not secretly a wolf. I have nothing to gain from your family but friendship.”
The hurt behind his eyes slowly starts to fade away, replaced by a small smile that makes the ice blue of his irises intensify. “I’m starting to see that.”
Now that the truth is out, a sort of peace settles between us, and for once I feel like I can take a full, deep breath in his presence. It’s a strange feeli
ng, unfamiliar, but nice. A lot better than the tension we had before.
Holding out my hand, I ask him, voice hopeful, “Truce?”
He looks down at it, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh by the way he bites his lip, nearly turning it white. Taking it, he says, “Sure, truce.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, we remain quiet for a while, just staring at one another. But when it starts to turn awkward, and I can feel my skin heat, I decide to go back to shopping, assuming he’ll go his own way as well. But surprising me, Beckham follows along, browsing the shelves with me in silence. Once in a while he suggests a cover to me like he had with the finch book, making me wonder, “Do you have an obsession with books like you do with music?”
“It’s a close second.” He flips open the cover to a classic, Pride and Prejudice. The spine is worn down, the gold script barely legible on the front. “Why do you ask?”
“It just seems like you know a lot about them.” I doubt someone that isn’t much of a reader could suggest so many titles and authors to me. “And I saw you reading in your room the day you were watching me and Theo on the beach.”
He huffs a small laugh, causing his shoulder to bump my arm. “You realize that wasn’t a question so much as stating facts, right?” He puts the weathered book back on the shelf and looks at another, this one a title I don’t recognize. While he’s busy inspecting it, I let my fingers trail over the dark blue spine of P and P. The color is almost the exact same blue as the flowers on my Little Women copy. It’d be a pretty match on my shelves.
“Okay, what I meant to ask is what got you into reading?”
“I don’t know. What got you into art?” he counters, bringing back his deflective personality.
“If you give me your answer, I’ll tell you mine,” I compromise, deciding whether or not I should add this classic to the other books in my tote.
“Fine,” he sighs next to me, acting as if I’m physically pulling the answer out of him. “I got into reading because of my mother’s father. He used to own a bookstore before he passed away. Your turn.” He leans against the tall shelf opposite me, arms and ankles crossed, looking at me expectantly.
“Art was, is, my outlet for stress. I don’t focus on anything negative while I create.” There, I said it. Now all I have to do is wait for the inevitable jokes to start…
But they don’t come. I wait, and I wait, and I wait some more, but his mouth remains closed.
Knowing pity is probably the next emotion to come, I look away from him, letting my hand fall away from the inscribed name of Jane Austen.
“Do you have a lot of negativity in your life?” he asks, and I’m surprised by the quietness of his voice. It sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with my wet coat.
“Before I moved here I did. And you certainly haven’t been a ray of sunshine.” I say it with a mocking smile, hoping he knows that his apology changed that for me today. “But I don’t have to worry about that anymore. So I would say no.”
He nods his head, keeping his eyes averted when he says, “Good.”
A little while later, we end our impromptu shopping trip, and Beckham is nice enough to let me be the first to check out my two books; the owner of the store gifting me a beautiful wooden bookmark for my first visit. When I thank her for it, she says, “Anything for a friend of Beckham’s. The boy practically keeps me in business.” She winks at him over my shoulder, making me chuckle when he instantly starts to protest.
While he purchases his books, I head to the front of the store, looking out the window onto the marina across the street. The many boats bob back and forth with the wind and rain, creating a gray backdrop of the ocean. When I spot a couple of sailboats near the far end, it makes me curious about which one belongs to the Lyons’.
“Meteorologists have it so easy,” Beckham drawls, coming to stand next to me by the window, his eyes on the storm. “They can be wrong all day long, and yet they still don’t get fired.”
“You’re right,” I say with a small laugh, never having thought of it. “And ours seem to be particularly bad at their jobs.”
He chuckles in agreement, looking down at me with a ghost of a smile. “I had a strangely nice time shopping with you, Cromwell.”
“Same here,” I agree, shocked when I realize I mean it. “You’ll have to let me know which one is your favorite.” I knock my tote into his very full one.
“Oh, I’ll have to, huh?”
Such a smart-ass. “Fine, I’ll rephrase that.” Trying to be as sarcastically polite as possible, I tell him, “Beckham, I would very much like to know which is your favorite when you are done, which should be some time next year.”
“I bet I’ll be done with these before you’re done with those.” He nods at my measly two books compared to his ridiculous stack.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Not at all.” He licks his lips in a very intentional way, and I hate to admit that my eyes go straight to them, remembering how satisfying the bottom one was to draw. Men rarely have full lips, meaning I don’t get to re-create them often. His will be imprinted in my memory each time I attempt to draw another pair that don’t live up to his beautifully plump ones.
“Whatever,” I say, clearing my suddenly dry throat. Looking back out the window so I won’t be tempted to stare at the details of his face again, I take notice of the rain starting to increase. “I think I better go before my car gets swept away.”
“Mine too,” he says on a sigh, eyes watching the same scene. “And I still have to go pick up pizza for movie night. It’s going to be destroyed before I even get to the car.”
I picture it playing out, Beckham swearing as he runs across the parking lot, using the pizza box as a shield for his hair. I start to laugh, but he doesn’t seem to think it’s so amusing when I tell him, “Good luck with that.”
Pushing open the door, the full sound of the rain hitting the pavement jolts me, the air filled with the smell of dew mixed with salt water. This is not going to be a fun walk to the car.
As I’m about to step out onto the sidewalk, I remember to ask Beckham, “Hey, would it be okay if I brought Leigha her swimsuit and towel over tomorrow?” I forgot to send it with her when she visited me on the beach yesterday.
“Missing me already?” He smirks, knowing it’ll tick me off in just the right way. I’m already starting to miss his quiet moody side. He didn’t talk as much when he hated me.
“Hardly.” I guffaw, causing the smirk to turn into a smug grin.
When I give him an expectant look to answer the question, the storm only growing worse the longer we stand here, he says, “Yeah, sure. I’ll let her know. I think Theo has something to give you as well.”
And just like that, the awkward topic of my sketchbook is out in the open, dangling between us just moments before I planned my escape. I should have known I wouldn’t get that lucky. And what’s worse, I can see it. I can see how badly he wants to bring up the whole me painting him thing, and rub it in my face. But I will never let that happen. Ever.
Making my decision, I run head first into the pelting rain just as he begins to open his mouth.
“Coward!” he yells at me over the rush of the rain, and I can hear the frustration in his voice, but also the amusement.
I laugh all the way to my car, soaking wet, but thrilled that I came away with a win for once.
***
Stepping into my room, I do the whole dog shake thing to get the rain water out of my hair, my soaking wet bun coming loose with it. I quickly shuck off my useless hoodie, about to remove my shirt as well when I remember the curtains to my window are open. Even with the heavy rain blocking most of the view, I still don’t want to risk it. Heaven knows my luck with it has been awful lately. Walking over to the window seat, I shut the curtains without looking across the way.
Removing all my wet clothes, I take a hot shower and step into my favorite PJ’s, hearing Mom cooking dinner downstairs, reminding
me that Beckham said tonight was movie night at his house. It’s nice that they do things like that as a family. The last time I tried watching a movie with Mom and Nana, they talked through the whole thing, driving Dad and I nuts.
Moving over to my bed where my tote bag sits, I decide to put my new books on their shelf, the one Dad installed for me the other day. It sits just over my bed like a headboard, a couple of unicorn bookends supporting the few spines I have resting there.
Opening the bag, I go to grab my new additions when I notice something strange. Instead of two wrapped books, there are three. Wondering how that could have happened, I grab the one on top and pull it out of the bag, slowly taking off the flowery tissue paper it’s wrapped in, just like the others. When I see the faded gold cursive writing, I feel another wave of confusion hit me.
Flipping open the cover, I see a small inscription on the left-hand side, the handwriting even prettier than the font welcoming me to read Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.
I saw you looking at it when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. Just think of it as a peace offering from your friendly neighborhood window peeper.
Sincerely sorry,
Beckham
Unable to help it, a smile stretches across my face, surprised he paid close enough attention to see that I liked it. I’m even more shocked that he bought it for me. It leads to another question, though – how did he get it in my bag without me noticing?
That’s when I remember him coming up behind me when I was looking out the window onto the marina. He must have written the inscription on it after he bought it at the counter, and then slipped it in my bag when I wasn’t looking.
Tracing his fancy letters, I marvel at how things changed so drastically between us today. In the mere course of an hour, he went from enemy number one to a semi-tolerable guy that happens to live next door. I’m not tricking myself into believing we’re friends just yet, though. You don’t lose all your reservations just because a truce was called. But maybe one day that will change. And perhaps this book is a symbol of that hope.