by Inda Herwood
The Weeknd. Hanz Zimmer. Elton John. My Chemical Romance.
“Wow,” I breathe out, not having expected those. “You have an eclectic taste.”
“Maybe,” he says, coming to stand next to me. He easily reaches some of the top shelves with his long arms, bringing down a few records for me to see. Whitney continues to serenade us in the background when he says, “A few of my favorites, as requested.” I take the small stack from him, leaning towards the window to see them better.
“I don’t think I know any of these,” I admit, but still, my mind attempts to place them.
“They’re mostly obscure movie tracks. Here, I’ll play you one I found not too long ago.” He takes the top record on the stack from me and goes over to a different record player, but only after taking the needle off of Whitney. He then places the new player’s needle down on the soundtrack he was talking about. A few chords start to play out, and though it’s not something I would normally listen to, I like the soft melody as it drifts through the room. It’s calming, but impactful at the same time.
“It’s beautiful. What’s it called?” I ask, moving to sit on the fancy leather chair near his window. I’ll be able to see when Mom, Dad, or Nana gets home that way.
“‘Wait’ by M83. It has a really strong ending,” he says, pulling up his desk chair next to me and the window, giving us a view of my house and corresponding window. He really can see everything in my room, just like I can see his. The thought doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.
“Do you have certain albums you listen to that go along with your book collection?” I ask, thinking maybe he likes to mix the two loves together.
“No,” he says, dropping the bag of frozen (is that corn?) onto the floor. “I like silence when I read, but that would be a cool idea. Put the soundtrack from the movie to the book when you read it.” Looking at me, his hair all disheveled and way too cute, he asks, “What about you? Do you listen to music when you paint?”
“Yeah, every time.” Pulling my feet up into my lap, I grow more comfortable the longer we sit here, entertained by the rain and the hazy music taking up the room. “Though I have nowhere near as big a collection as yours. Or that many headphones. Seriously, do you collect those, too?”
This makes him laugh, the sound slightly muffled with his cold. “You could probably say so. Certain headphones go better with certain types of music. I have headphones for noise cancellation, and some for bass, and others for clarity. It all depends on what I listen to.”
“That’s kind of impressive,” I tell him, almost hating to throw him a compliment that’s only going to make his head bigger than it already is.
“How?” he asks, eyes trying hard to focus on me in the growing dark. I’m not sure how much time has passed since I got here, but it feels like minutes have gone by, while other times it feels like hours.
“I never would have thought to do that. You make the most out of every song you listen to. You must have a good ear for it.”
He shrugs, going back to staring at my house, but I don’t miss the small smile that tugs at his lips. “Is that a compliment I’m hearing, Cromwell?”
“Why do you do that?” I can’t help but wonder aloud.
“Do what?”
“You’ve called me Cromwell since day one. Is that a thing of yours?”
His brows fold inward, still looking into my window across the driveway. “I don’t know. I guess I just saw how it annoyed you and thought it was funny.”
“How male of you,” I deadpan, shaking my head.
“Now that I’m not trying to make you go away, I guess I should call you something else.” He leans his elbow on the arm of his chair, letting his chin rest in his palm as he looks at me with a focused eye. It’s both cute and intimidating at the same time.
“You can’t just call me Blaire like everyone else?”
He subtly nods his head no. “Nope. You need a nickname. How about Shorty?”
Cue glare. “No.”
“Short Stack?”
“No.”
“Sugar Lips?”
“Oh, my gosh, what is wrong with you?” I ask, a burst of laughter coming out of me at his bizarre choices.
“What? You have nice lips. But I see your point. Maybe it’s a little old fashioned.” He continues to think, and I feel my stomach tighten, waiting to see what ridiculous thing he comes up with next. “I have it.”
I flinch, hating to ask, “What is it?”
He smiles, and it’s more than a little pompous when he says, “Rapunzel.”
I feel my brows rise, not having expected such a random choice. “Rapunzel? You do realize that’s harder to say than Blaire, right?”
“So what? I like it. You live high up in a mansion and you have long blonde hair that I never get to see down. I don’t think we could find a more accurate name for you.”
I roll my eyes, telling myself I shouldn’t be surprised that: “I remind you of a damsel that needs a man to save her. What an original concept.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think that. I think you’re more than capable of saving yourself. But you’re right. I could come up with something better. In that case, I’ll give you my second favorite choice.”
“I don’t even want to ask,” I admit on a sigh.
“Trust me, I think you’ll like this one.” He takes a long, dramatic pause, and then says, “Kahlo.” He smiles, looking all proud of himself about this one.
“Kahlo, as in Frida?” I say, shocked he knows about the famous Mexican painter.
“Yeah, I think it fits.” He looks me over, as if searching for similarities to justify his choice. “You’re both powerful female painters. Though I gotta admit, I’m glad you don’t have her unibrow.”
I laugh, short and hard before saying sarcastically, “Why, because it’d take away from the staggering beauty I have now?”
Something changes in his eyes when he looks at me this time, a softening of sorts. It stops my lingering laughter even before he says, “I think you’d still be gorgeous either way.”
I’m trying to figure out if it’s his fever talking, or the actual Beckham who told me I’m gorgeous when I see Dad’s new Chevy truck pull in the driveway. And when I say new, I mean it’s actually from the 1970’s, but his plan is to restore it to look brand-new. Mom got it for him last week as a surprise anniversary present.
I’m sad and relieved at the same time.
Looks like it’s time to go home.
As if he read my thoughts, Beckham says, sounding a little disappointed when he sees my dad step out, “I guess it’s safe to go home now.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, turning back to look at him. When he gives me a small, reluctant smile, I’m reminded of what Mom said in the kitchen earlier. It would be the perfect excuse to have another moment like this with him.
“Would you guys be interested in coming over for a barbeque sometime?”
Beckham
“Do you have the kale salad?” Leigha asks me while she runs around the kitchen like a blur, making sure we have everything before we go over to the Cromwell’s for a barbeque lunch. She and Mom have been like this all day, cooking and preparing and generally acting like we’re about to go visit the royal family.
I hold up the giant covered bowl in my hands in answer.
“Theo, did I give you the orange dressing, or is it still in the fridge?” Mom asks, about to check for herself before Theo holds up the small container full of orange goo, looking at me with exasperation. I chuckle under my breath. Same, buddy. Same.
“Before you ask, yes, I have the macaroni salad. Now can we go?” Catcher asks impatiently, standing next to Theo, Dad, and I at the door. We’ve been waiting for half an hour as the two women make sure we don’t forget to bring the kitchen sink.
“I think we’re good,” my cousin says, nodding her head to herself.
“And if not, you live approximately fifty feet away and can run back over and get whate
ver it is you forgot,” Dad says with a laugh when Mom and Leigha finally join us in the foyer, still looking around to make sure they have everything.
“You’re right. I’m being silly,” Mom agrees, looking at the five of us with a smile. “Let’s go have a nice barbeque then.”
***
Stepping into the Cromwell’s backyard, we see Mr. Cromwell first, standing in front of a massive grill. The outdoor kitchen wraps around the large patio, an array of food already set out on the granite countertops. When he hears us approach, he turns around and smiles, his booming voice saying, “Welcome, welcome! Glad you could make it.” Wiping his hands on the front of his rather old looking apron, he holds out his hand to Dad. “I’m Herald Cromwell. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
“Same here,” Dad says, smiling. “This is my wife, Elise.” The two of them shake hands as well, Mom beaming.
“We’re so glad your family moved in. It’s been such a wonderful treat for the kids.” Reminding herself that yes, we’re still here, she says, “These are our boys, Beckham, Catcher, and Theo. And this is our niece, Leigha.”
“Hey, kids. Happy you could make it.” Mr. Cromwell shakes all of our hands, bending down on his knee to be at Theo’s height when it’s his turn. “That’s a beautiful dog you have there,” he says, smiling at Hawn who is attached to Theo like double-sided tape. He does it whenever he senses my brother’s nervousness.
In answer, Theo pets Hawn’s head, focusing his attention on him. With how Blaire’s father is acting, it makes me wonder if she told him about Theo’s condition. My guess would be no.
“This is Hawn,” I say, speaking on my baby brother’s behalf. “We hope you don’t mind if we brought him.”
“Of course not!” Mr. Cromwell says, standing back up to look at us all, smile still perfectly in place. He has a weathered face, a perpetual tan staining his skin, and small wrinkles around his eyes; looking like he’s spent more of his time outside than in. He definitely doesn’t look like a man of industry, even if he weren’t wearing a normal T-shirt and worn green cargo shorts. He looks nothing like my dad in his blue polo and Italian loafers that are shinier than most people’s futures. But that’s kind of refreshing. Mr. Lyons looks like the capable sort, his kind smile reminding me of his daughter’s. “Please, everyone make yourself at home. The girls are in the kitchen if you’d like to take anything in to the fridge,” he says, seeing our hands full of food.
“I’ll go,” Leigha is quick to volunteer, somehow managing to grab the bowls of food from Theo, Catcher, and me and stack them on top of each other like an impromptu game of Jenga. As she walks through the open sliding glass doors, Catcher gives me a disbelieving look.
“What was the point of us carrying all of that over here if she has secret octopus arms?”
I say nothing, though secretly disappointed that I didn’t get the job myself. I haven’t seen Blaire since last week when she came to visit me with her huge pot of soup. Leigha has been over here a few times to see her, and I think Catcher hung out with her on the beach the other day, but I’ve been stuck in my room trying to get over my stupid cold, which only just let up a couple days ago. Yes, I talked to her on the phone a few times, but it’s not the same thing. I think it’s my turn to have a moment with her since everyone else has been stealing her away from me…
I’m starting to think that that cold didn’t just mess up my sinuses, but it also re-scrambled my brain as well, because after that day she brought me soup, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind since.
As if they’ve known each other their entire lives, my dad and Mr. Cromwell head over to the grill while Blaire’s dad continues flipping burgers, talking about everything and anything, once in a while laughing at a story one or the other tells. It gets boring for both Catcher and Theo pretty quick, and the two decide to go down to the shoreline to look for shells.
I, on the other hand, wait for my moment, which comes sooner than I thought it would.
Leigha, Mom, and who I assume is Mrs. Cromwell walk out of the house together, laughing and smiling; carrying a bunch of dishes that seem far bigger than what is necessary for a size of this gathering. They place everything down on the large dining table, continuing to talk while I slip past them and into the kitchen, looking for a certain blondie.
It doesn’t take long for me to spot her at the sink in the kitchen, washing what looks like an array of fruit. She wears a bright pink apron with little white frills on the edges, and a pair of jean shorts that are short enough that I can drink in the length of her legs. What has me stopping in my tracks, though, is the fact that her honey blonde hair isn’t in a knot on the top of her head today. It cascades down the middle of her back in a long, thick waterfall. The sun shining through the window makes it look glossy, like spun gold.
The compulsion to touch it is too tempting. I find myself standing behind her, my fingers wrapping around a strand that falls through them like sand. “Beautiful,” I whisper, not having meant to say it out loud. But just like that, my presence is no longer a secret, and a blood curdling scream goes flying out of her mouth. She spins around faster than I thought possible, nearly stabbing me with the knife I didn’t see in her hands. I back up to avoid it, forcing my hip into the side of the island. I bend over with a groan at the quick burst of pain. Gah, that hurt.
She gasps for breath, a hand held to her chest as she looks at me incredulously. “How did you sneak up on me like that? I almost had a heart attack!” She finds the closest thing to her, which happens to be a towel, and flings it at my face. It ends up hitting my shoulder harmlessly before falling to the floor.
“What happened?” I hear my mom ask, she and the rest of the family running into the kitchen to see what the scream was about, minus Theo and Catcher.
Both Blaire and I’s faces go pink, looking at one another, wondering how to explain my fascination with her hair to them. Taking the burden for me, she says, still catching her breath with a forced smile, “N-nothing, he just scared me is all. We’re fine.”
“Beckham, why would you scare her?” Mom asks, voice full of accusation.
Before I can come to my own defense, Blaire’s dad says, “Oh, I’m sure it was just a prank. I played a few on her mom when we were their age, trying to get her to notice me.” He grins at Mrs. Cromwell, who shakes her head with a reluctant grin.
“That you did, you scoundrel. Always had me wondering what you’d do next.” She slaps his shoulder, and just like that, everyone chuckles and goes back out to the patio, shutting the door behind them.
Turning back to her fruit, Blaire says, “And here I thought my biggest worry today would be you meeting Nan.”
Standing next to her at the sink, I turn the opposite way so that my hands are resting on the edge of the counter behind me, able to see her face while she places one handful of fruit after another onto a cutting board. Once she’s done washing, she begins chopping away.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s just…” My eyes go back to her gorgeous hair, the golden strands containing a slight wave to them. I want to run my hands through it again.
“It’s just what?” she asks, not looking up from her chore.
“This caught me off guard.” I allow myself to pick up one small piece and wrap it around my finger in a loop. So soft…
Her expression loses its angry edge, a sigh escaping her. “It’s okay. Just don’t sneak up on me again. It wasn’t fun.”
I smirk, saying, “Just be glad it wasn’t Catcher. He would have been wearing a mask and holding a plastic knife to make sure he got the full effect.”
“Boys,” she mutters, giving me a small smile out of the corner of her mouth. “So, I take it you’re feeling better if you can tease me.”
“Much,” I agree. “I think your magic soup did the trick.”
“And here I thought it was my wonderful company that did it,” she mocks.
“That too. I also think that if it weren’t for your exper
t temperature taking, I’d still be chained to my bed.”
“I swear, you are such a –” she starts to say, but cuts herself off.
“What?” I ask, not knowing when I started to lean towards her, but now it’s super noticeable, especially when she turns her head to look at me, our faces only six or so inches apart. I take in a deep breath of surprise, catching her scent as I do.
“Nothing,” she says, her eyes gravitating to my lips before she stops herself, going back to chopping, and rather angrily, I might add.
I’ll admit, it makes me feel a little better about being in love with her hair since she seems to have the same feelings for my mouth; her eyes finding it almost every time we see each other.
I grin, and she glares, seeming to know where my thoughts had gone.
I continue to mess with a strand of her hair and she pretends she doesn’t notice. It stays like that for a good ten minutes before another voice breaks the trance.
“Just a friend, she says. Yeah right.”
We both look up, slightly startled to see an older woman standing near the island, her hair sitting in Marilyn Monroe style curls around her head, wearing a red dress from the sixties with small white dots all over it. She looks like a classic movie star, minus the dubious scowl on her face.
“Nana, I didn’t know you were up from your nap yet,” Blaire says, quickly wiping her hands on the towel she used to chuck at me. “Nan, this is Beckham Lyons. Beckham, this is my grandmother.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, though it comes out kind of strained with the way she’s glaring at me.
“I don’t know if I should say the same,” she says, her voice deep and kind of scratchy, like she’s been a longtime smoker.
“Nana,” Blaire hisses, her eyes telling her to play nice.
“Well I don’t. This boy has been playing havoc with your emotions, Blaire. One minute you say he hates you and vice versa, and the next thing I know, I walk in here and he’s playing with your hair like he’s your boyfriend, and you were wearing this ridiculously happy smile he obviously didn’t see –”