He nods. “I’m very interested to hear.”
I take another big drink of my milkshake and grin. “Some people, like me, are chocolate. We’re sweet, kind of quirky, and we romanticize things.”
Foster thinks about it and then nods. “Okay. I guess I can buy that. What about vanilla people then?”
I smirk. I’m enjoying this too much. Maybe it’s wrong, but it’s kind of fun to watch Foster try to figure out what I think about him. “People who prefer vanilla milkshakes are sweet, smart, and unpredictable.” I turn to smile at him. “I knew you were a vanilla guy from day one.”
Foster throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the car's window panes. “So, vanilla is unpredictable, not boring?”
I nod. “Maybe people who don’t know you well enough think you’re boring. But I know you’re far from it.”
He leans over me and plants a kiss on my mouth. His lips are soft and cold. “Okay, then, what about strawberry?”
I wrinkle my nose. “If someone’s favorite milkshake is strawberry, they’re just weird.”
Foster rewards me with a laugh, and I blush. I’m not used to being the funny one. Weird on account of my obsession with art and reptiles, yes, but never the one people go to for a good joke. It’s a good feeling—even if I know he’s probably a little biased. Foster nibbles the edge of his burger, winces, and then sets it down, frowning to himself. I eat in silence, and we steal small smiles at each other in between me scarfing down my food. When I’m done and the last of the fries has been devoured, Foster points a finger at me. “Okay, so what do you want?”
I try my best to look offended. It’s hard to furrow my brows for too long when Foster’s pointing at me like that, though. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s good at reading people. “I have a plan.” I was hoping to wait until we got to my house to admit what I was planning, but I guess I have to tell him now. “Don’t say no yet—just listen.”
Foster crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’m listening, but I have a bad feeling about this already. If it’s bad enough to warrant a milkshake and a burger, it must be bad.”
I shrug. “A milkshake, burger, and fries,” I say. Foster grins. I stretch across the console and invade his seat. I finger the bruised and bloody patches on his chin. “You can’t sleep at the beach tonight.”
He holds up his hands in silent surrender.
“You agree with me?” I raise my eyes and bite my lip. I had an entire speech planned, but half my work is already done for me. The other—possibly tougher—half will be convincing my parents.
“I’m not stupid,” Foster says. “I know when I need to be careful. And after a fight with someone like Johnny, I know lying low is the only way to handle things. Plus, I can’t complain about you worrying about me. I kind of like it.”
I roll my eyes. I like it too. Even though I wish I didn’t have to worry about him.
“What about your parents?”
I start driving toward the beach house. I have a plan for convincing my parents, but I don’t say it out loud. It’s easier if I just let it happen without thinking it through too much. So I just shrug in response to his question. “They’re not evil, Foster. They won’t want you out there alone with Johnny anymore than I do.”
He doesn’t say anything, even if he secretly wants to contradict me. Maybe this will be a good chance for my parents to see why I like Foster so much.
We pull up to the house, and I make Foster wait in the car. He shoots me a look––all wrinkled nose and flighty eyes––that tells me he’s not thrilled about the idea, but I’m on a roll with being bossy so I just go with it. The door is unlocked, and I can hear my parents talking through it before I even go inside. For once this summer, they’re not fighting. It sounds like they’re actually getting along. Maybe even having fun. Mom is laughing loudly. She sounds suspiciously like Livvy, which I normally would not condone, but it’s hard to hate the obvious happiness. And Dad is laughing too, in between something that sounds dangerously close to singing. John Denver lyrics echo through the door, and I pause to take in the happy sounds. I know I’m interrupting something special, so I wait. Any other night, I would leave them alone. I’d be thrilled to just let my parents enjoy being together—however weird it is to think about. But Foster needs help tonight.
I knock loudly over the blaring music and then turn the knob. They’re sitting at the kitchen table with a tub of ice cream and two spoons between them. Their smiles fade as soon as I step inside, and I try to smile to ease their minds. Too many bad things have happened this summer, and we’re all on edge.
“Hey, you. Everything okay?” Mom’s out of her chair and in front of me within seconds. The giggling, ice-cream-devouring woman of the last minute alters before my eyes and is replaced by her familiar, more sensible alter-ego.
I nod. “Everything is fine—with me. But, Foster…” I lick my lips and try to think of the best way to say this. And then I just tell them the truth. That I was with Foster at the beach. That someone tried to pick a fight with us, and Foster tried to protect me. And then he got beat up because of it. It’s not at all like what I practiced in my head, but it is the story. And it’s practically the full truth, which leaves me with at least some sense of accomplishment.
Dad anticipates what I want before I can even formulate the question. He shakes his head as he puts a solid arm around Mom’s shoulders. “What can we do to help? Have you called his parents?"
I study him. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. The grey hairs jutting haphazardly out of his ears and his sideburns.
“Dad, he really needs somewhere safe to stay.”
My parents exchange confused looks. And I realize my mistake.
“Why won’t he be safe at his house?” Mom arches an eyebrow and frowns at me.
Clearly, I should have thought it through more. Telling my parents about how Foster has no guardian and no home could mean certain death to our already quasi-doomed relationship. But leaving him alone to try to hide on the beach or the streets downtown feels just as dangerous. I take a deep breath.
“Foster’s mom died last year. He doesn’t have a set home right now. He’s been sleeping...different places...until he finds something permanent. But I’m afraid his brother, Johnny, will find him if he stays at one of the usual places. He already found him today, and Foster's okay, but his face looks bad."
I swallow back bile at the image of Foster broken on the ground.
Mom covers her mouth with her hand, and a small whimper escapes her. When Dad speaks, it’s in a whisper fierce enough to match his flaming cheeks.
"No teenage boys are sleeping in the same house as my daughters. It just won't work. We can give him money or some other help, but that's it."
"He's a kid, Aaron. We can't just throw money at him and ignore the fact he needs help."
Dad's forehead creases with explosive lines. "I'm sorry, Claire. I really do like him. He's a good kid." He looks between Mom and I, eyebrows furrowed before walking into the hall.
My parents' bedroom door clicks closed. The echo of it hangs in the air seconds after he's out of sight.
Eyes brimming, I turn to Mom. I hate making my parents angry, but I made a promise to Foster. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to protect him, whether he thinks he needs protection or not.
“He’s not some random homeless person, Mom. He’s only seventeen, and he’s kind of my boyfriend. He's alone, and he needs our help.”
My voice wavers, but I bite it back.
It’s the first time I’ve used the word boyfriend around my family, and it doesn’t escape Mom. Her mouth drops open, and she rubs a hand across her temples when I say it.
"Who’s supposed to be taking care of him?”
“It’s a long story, but he really doesn’t have anyone he can count on,” I tell her. Stupid, warm hope bubbles in my chest.
She nods and claps her hands together. “Don’t bring him in yet. Let me talk
to your dad. I don’t want to do anything we don’t agree on, but I think I can convince him it will be okay. Tell Foster he's welcome to stay here for as long as he needs.”
My arms wrap around Mom's back, squeezing. I inhale against her hair before letting go. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. And we're going to need to hear that story, however long, very soon, okay?"
I go back to the car where Foster is waiting. I expect to find him worried or bored or some combination of the two. I’ve been gone much longer than I anticipated. But what I find is way worse than anything I could have imagined. Foster is still where I left him, lounging in the passenger seat of my car. And next to him in the driver’s seat is Livvy, who appears to be talking his ear off. I stomp over to them and glare at her through the window.
I pound on the glass until she opens the door a crack. “Leave him alone, Liv.”
She laughs and looks at Foster. He sees my dagger eyes and doesn’t join in. “We were just talking,” she says. The sparkle in her eyes tells me that whatever she was talking about was not as innocent as she’d want me to believe. “So, what are you two up to tonight?” Livvy bobs her bouncy ponytail between Foster and me, grin still in place.
I ignore her and focus on Foster. “They said yes. You can stay here tonight. We just need to give my dad a few more minutes to stop freaking out.” In a few minutes, he’ll probably still be just as nervous, but I omit that. Livvy makes a choking sound anyway. I roll my eyes at her as she clutches her hand to her mouth and closes her eyes, heaving with silent laughter. Everything’s a joke to her.
“Seriously?” Foster lets out a long breath. A hint of a smile plays on his lips.
Livvy suddenly stops laughing and turns her head to scowl at me. “Wait. They really said your boyfriend could sleep over? But they won’t even let Evan in the house!”
I shrug. “Foster needs somewhere to stay. Plus, he hasn’t been arrested twice for selling drugs.”
Her face turns bright red, and she shoves me out of the way as she marches up the driveway.
“She’s not that bad,” Foster says.
I roll my eyes and say nothing. Livvy is good at fooling people, but I’m not in the mood to hash it out with Foster.
After ten minutes of random music on the radio and nervous silence, I fling open my car door. “Ready to go in?” He follows me, his gait stiff. I walk up the driveway with Foster’s hand in mine. Here we go, into the fire.
Twenty-Three
Family dinners with Foster are a lot like family dinners without Foster.
The first few nights he was here, everyone sat up straighter, made more eye contact. And we all talked more, too. The first night we all ate together ended with Mom spilling an entire pitcher of grape juice over her fancy white tablecloth—the one with the white flowers stitched into the corners. She stood up, bright red juice dripping over everything, grasped the wad of paper towels Dad had dashed to get, surveyed the catastrophic mess, and cracked a smile. She actually smiled. Opa's ghost was probably hovering around the table in the kitchen, his pearly white head rolling with laughter at the scene.
If the same thing happened today, she'd probably scream at all of us for more towels and bleach now—Foster included.
He's standing at the counter, cutting potatoes for Mom on a beat-up old wooden cutting board while I set the table when Dad walks in. The shop has needed a lot of attention lately since the new hires are still being trained, and Dad's been gone for far more hours than he likes during the summer. This is the first time he's made it home in time for dinner this entire week. He tugs his tennis shoes off at the front door, kisses Mom in the kitchen, and then turns to Foster.
When Dad gets excited about an idea, he vibrates with it. His eyes light up a brilliant grey-blue, his hair sticks on end from running his hands over it, his hands wave in the air. As a younger kid, the excitement used to be so contagious that I'd get sucked into it every time. Now, I'm a little more wary. Especially when this new idea seems to involve Foster.
"I've got an offer for you."
Foster sets down his knife and handful of potatoes, looking cautious.
Dad pulls up tufts of hair and slaps his hands on the tabletop, mouth pulled into a grin. "How would you feel about putting some of your art in our shop?"
Foster's chin lifts, and the corners of his mouth curve. "That would be awesome."
Some tiny part of me beats its green chest, roaring against the hypocrisy of it all.
Here I've been all along, and no one's ever asked to put my art in the shop. The shop my family owns, to be exact. Sure, I may not have any pieces quite ready to part with at the moment. But it's the principle of the thing that matters, and the fact that no one's even thought to ask me, yet they ask Foster after he’s been living here for less than a week pricks at my pride.
I pull a stretched smile anyway, letting the stack of plastic plates in my hands clatter onto the table.
"Good idea," I say.
Foster's eyes watch my mouth, like he sees right through my forced happiness. Maybe he does, and the thought of him seeing the jealous monster raging underneath my bared teeth warms my neck.
Dad, oblivious to what either of us is feeling, nods around the kitchen.
"It'll be a good way for you to get your stuff out there and make a little extra money, hopefully. We can figure out the details later, but start organizing some of your work, and I'll take a look later this week."
"I really appreciate it. Thank you." Foster beams up at him before shooting me another look. His eyes go quiet despite the smile he's wearing.
* * *
After dinner, I clear my plate and head out the back door—alone.
The click of a door closing from behind me signals Foster's followed me anyway. He unfolds a second chair and sets it next to the camping chair I've dropped into. Instead of saying anything, I run the bottoms of my bare feet along the stubby blades of grass. The air in the backyard hums with such a varied chorus of bugs that my skin would probably be crawling if these weren't the sounds I cut my teeth on.
"I can tell your dad no, if you want."
I lift my head. "That isn't what I want."
If Foster could sell some of his work in the shop, he'd make more money than he is now. He needs money, and I don't. That's not what this is about at all. It's the consistent lack of belief in my talent from my parents that makes my head pound.
He leans his head back against the chair and sucks in his cheeks, giving him a hollow appearance that makes his big eyes look twice their normal size.
“No, I'm sorry. Seriously. I'm being dumb. I shouldn't have taken it out on you." I'm every bit the selfish brat I feel like.
One hand reaches back to massage his neck. "It's not a big deal. But try having a little more faith in yourself. You're good at what you do. You know that, right?"
"I'm not sure. But my parents have never seen me as an artist either, so it must run in my family." I swipe a dandelion from the grass at my feet and pinch delicate yellow petals off one at a time.
"What about your Opa? He was kind of like your muse, right?"
His eyes seep into me, deeper than they should. If he sees more than I'd like him to of my confused little soul, he doesn't say. The black tattoo on his arm glistens in the dusky light.
My lips curve, which was obviously his plan. I've told him about how Opa still is my muse in a lot of ways. But my eyes are still trained on his arm.
"Can I ask about your tattoo?"
My finger traces the ink on his wrist in soft strokes. The act is somehow just as intimate as all the kissing we've done combined. Ocean-blue eyes watch me, his head hung low over the tattoo and my hand and our mouths inches apart.
"Is it for your mom?"
Above his throat, his Adam's apple bobs. His lips part slightly as he inhales. "Her name was Scarlett." He taps the tattoo. "I got this the week she died. After Johnny and—everything. I was completely alone, and the first thing I did was blow what
money I did have on this."
His voice takes on an edge I've never heard from him, tapping into that well of unfair sorrows he's had to endure that he doesn't bother to acknowledge the rest of the time.
My fingers curl around his, squeezing. He ducks toward me, mouth close enough I can practically taste the soft texture of his lips.
"It's beautiful." I free my hand and run my fingers along the ink again. "I'm sure your mom loves it too."
Foster catches my hand in his and pulls it to his mouth. He presses his lips against the back of my hand, his kiss warm against my skin. Something hot and wet falls from his face. His eyes are red, lashes heavy with teardrops. I turn in my chair and throw both arms around his head, cradling it to my chest as he cries for a loss so big all the art in the world can't make up for it.
Twenty-Four
Before the sun is even up the next morning, there's a knock on my door. I slide out of bed and stumble to open it. If it’s Livvy, I’ll kill her for waking me up this early just to bug me. But it’s Foster standing there, not Livvy. He glances at my baggy striped pajamas and flashes a toothy smile. I blush. No one but my family and my girl friends have seen me in my pajamas. Definitely not a guy I'm dating.
“Do you want to head to the beach soon and do one more practice round?” His whisper is hard to catch, and I have to move my head even closer to hear him.
I nod. “Sure. But why so early?”
He shifts his eyes and looks away. I’ve never seen him look so uncomfortable. And if I wasn’t slightly annoyed to be woken up hours before I usually wake up in the summer, it might be cute.
“What is it?” I put a hand on his arm and lean my body against the doorframe to steady my wobbly legs.
The Art of Falling in Love Page 12