The Art of Falling in Love

by Haleigh Wenger

  Foster meets my eyes and starts to whisper again, his mouth barely moving as he forms the words. He might be equally as afraid of waking my parents up as he is of whatever else is bothering him. “I don’t want you to be scared or anything, but Johnny isn't going to stop. I just don’t want to risk running into him until he has time to cool down. He's not a morning person, so we’ll be safe if we go early."

  “Hold on.” I hold up a finger. He takes a step back as I shut my door with a gentle push. Still dizzy with sleep, I turn around my room until I find a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from the discarded pile of clothes near my bed. When I come out a minute later, Foster is leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, soft snores sounding from his nose.

  “You don’t have to be dramatic,” I tell him. “I got dressed faster than it took you to pretend to be asleep.”

  Foster runs his eyes down my wrinkled Guava Guava T-shirt and my tiny cotton shorts with a grin. He wraps an arm around my waist as we tiptoe through the house and down the driveway to my car.

  We drive in groggy silence for a few minutes before my head is clear enough for conversation. Foster stares out the window, his chin resting on his hand. It’s like he’s somewhere else. After the emotions of last night, I don't blame him. I try to bring him back by asking the question that’s been picking at me since the fight with Johnny.

  “Why does your brother care where you sleep anyway?”

  I keep my head forward, eyes focused on the road, but I catch him frowning in my peripheral vision.

  “It’s complicated.”

  People always say that, but it’s rarely true. He has a faraway look as he tangles his fingers in his hair, brushing it to the side.

  “Can you just try to explain it? No pressure or anything, but I did almost give my parents a heart attack so you could steer clear of him.” I’m not trying to be snarky, but my words come out shrill and quick before I can call them back. I have Foster’s full attention. We’re at the beach now, so I pull into a far space in the parking lot so we can talk. Getting information out of Foster is like pulling teeth, but I've got to try to understand.

  “You’re right,” he says, “I owe you the whole story. I know you’ve put a lot of trust in me.”

  I wait.

  “Before, when I was supposed to stay with him but he took my money and left, he still wanted me, I guess. I didn’t know what to believe, and I didn’t want to go with him after what he did. So, I just figured I’d be better off on my own. But he reported it to CPS as me being the one who ran away. So, they’ve kind of been looking for me ever since.”

  Foster rubs the back of his neck with one hand and reaches for mine with the other one. I hook a finger around his pinky, but I don’t move my gaze. I put pressure on his hand, slowly.

  “What do you mean looking for you? Who is? Like the police? I—I don’t understand.” I’m trying to keep the mind-blown tone out of my voice. I can’t believe Foster kept this from me, even for a day. He should have said something.

  He nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just wanted to protect you.”

  His words are the final flame to my already-smoking fuse. The one that’s been trailing our relationship ever since it began. It was founded on secrecy, and there are still things I don’t know.

  “Protect me? Are. You. Joking? You told me you had no other choice. You lied to me about something important.”

  Foster looks away. Maybe he has nothing to say. Then he rubs his chin and nods. “I know. I told you he ran away, and that was true. But he came back at the beginning of the summer. He's not the best guardian, but family is important to him. He says we're all we have left and that we should be together in Alabama, where he lives. Since I wouldn't go, he’s threatening to report where I am to CPS. They might make me go with him, so I’ve been avoiding him for the past few weeks. Until he found me at the beach.”

  I bury my face in my knees. Everything feels so twisted and messy and out of control.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I finally say. It’s stupid, but I have to say something because even though I’m angry, he’s looking to me for some sort of support. “Is there anything else I don’t know?” Please, please, please say no.

  “Well, there’s something about your sister.”

  I grip the steering wheel and raise an eyebrow at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Foster squints like he’s weighing his answer. I’m not even sure I want to hear it if it involves Livvy, but it’s too late now. “Livvy told me she’s only dating Evan to get on your family's nerves."

  My mouth drops open. My first reaction is to slap his knee, hard. “Tell the truth!”

  He takes in my wide eyes and laughs hesitantly, rubbing the spot of impact. “She told me last night in the car that she thought she was in love with him for about a week at the beginning of the summer. But that wore off pretty quickly. I guess she hasn’t told your parents yet because she’s afraid they’ll make her stop seeing Evan if they know he’s not going to be their future son-in-law."

  I shake my head and let out a low sigh. I’m torn between an odd sensation of relief and jealousy. Livvy told Foster her biggest secret. Just last year, I would have been the one she’d go to first. Before Opa's death inexplicably tore us apart, before she dove headfirst into life with Evan and I found Foster.

  “Foster, let’s promise to be honest with each other from now on, okay? I can’t take much more drama. And I’ve never been someone who enjoys surprises.”

  He smirks. “Deal. But you never know—I bet I could pull off a good surprise.”

  I hold up a palm. “No. No surprises, please.”

  All I want is for the rest of the summer to go as I planned.

  Now that we have decided on a sketch for our sand sculpture, we need to focus on making sure we have all of the right tools. One of my favorite things about sand sculpting is that artists of all different backgrounds are drawn to it. We all bring our favorite tools and make good use of them. Some people even bring random things like furniture pads and oven mitts to smooth and pack the sand. Foster and I pool our resources and come out with a few chisels, two paint spatulas, half a dozen buckets, and four shovels. We’ve decided to do a trial run of our complete sculpture to make sure there’s nothing else we might need on the actual day of the competition.

  While we start shoveling enough sand for the base of our sculpture in the pink and yellow morning light, the beach starts to fill up more quickly than we anticipated. Carolina wanders past us and then stops and calls my name. I almost don’t turn because I’m concentrating so hard on wetting the sand.

  “Are you spying on us?” I raise an eyebrow and wave my shovel in her direction playfully. She plants her hands on her hips and rolls her eyes.

  “I’m just at the beach for the Food Festival, like everyone else.”

  I shrug. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “It’s new this year. All of the best food trucks in Florida are supposed to be here. They’re going to park right on the beach at eleven.” She taps her phone and grins at the crowd of people gathering where she pointed. “But while I’m here, I figured a little recon on my competition would be a good way to pass the time.”

  I like to win, no matter the stakes. Probably another thing I’ve inherited from Mom. So, when the signs start rolling out for the different food trucks, I can’t resist setting down my bucket and chisel. “How about a warm-up competition, then?” I point to a red-white-and-blue plastic sign hanging on the side of the truck nearest us. Ice Cream Eating Contest. $50 Prize and free T-shirt.

  Carolina sizes me up and then shrugs. “I’ll win, but sure. Why not?”

  Foster watches us warily. I tend to err on the impulsive, jump-in-headfirst side. He’s more the wait-and-see type. Carolina and I line up with a surprisingly small group—for free ice cream I’d have thought there would be a longer line—and start tucking into the assorted flavors. The goal of the contest is to eat a small cu
p of each of their twenty flavors without throwing up. If there’s a tie, both contestants have to eat a large sundae of their choosing. I’m already mentally picking out my sundae flavor when I notice Carolina plowing past me in the flavor lineup.

  I hear someone chanting my name, and I look up at the gathered crowd to see Foster, who’s evidently left his post at our sculpture to cheer me on. I grin and throw down my spoon to start shoveling ice cream into my mouth with my hands instead. I scoop it out of my individual cups with my fingers and slurp it into my mouth, causing the people closest to me to make gagging sounds. I should be embarrassed, but all I can muster is a small shrug. Five minutes later, Carolina and I are both staring down at an enormous sundae with all of the works. We agreed that to keep the playing field completely level, we would order the exact same thing: a cookies-and-cream sundae with fudge sauce, cookie chunks, three maraschino cherries, and a whipped cream mountain the size of my face.

  As soon as the crowd-led countdown reaches zero, we’re both a flurry of ice-cream-filled spoons, passing from the bowls to our mouths over and over. Five minutes in, I sneak a glance at Carolina, who’s slowly licking the end of her metal spoon like a sick puppy. I swirl my spoon around my bowl and shove one last enormous bite of sweetness into my mouth with a painful and icy gulp down my throat.

  Victory.

  I hug Carolina afterward, and she pretends to be bummed, but she’s laughing. “Text me later and let me know how bad your stomach hurts after this, okay?” she demands.

  Foster and I celebrate the entire drive home by jacking the radio up and head-banging at every red light. I slip my prize T-shirt over my head, even though it's two sizes too large and hangs to my knees. By the time we walk into the beach house, we’re laughing hysterically at this radio show that prank calls locals and convinces them they're the grand prize winner of a one-cent gift card. It’s not even funny, but laughing with him is contagious. I’m delirious from the sun and sugar, and I accidentally elbow a bowl from the long table near the front door and it crashes to the ground with a sharp clang. Mom and Dad run into the living room from their bedroom. They spot Foster and me, and the happiness is zapped from the room.

  Mom doesn’t yell, but her voice bites, even though her face is streaked with dry tears. “First you disappear this morning without even bothering to let us know. And then some man came here looking for you and Foster and scared us half to death.”

  I bite my lip to stop the trembling. Don’t cry. Not now.

  Twenty-Five

  Foster freezes.

  "Johnny? He was here?"

  My eyes go to Mom's thinly set mouth. Dad's arm settled around her waist, and the two of them pull close together.

  Dad nods his head. "He was here. We told him he wasn't welcome, and he left pretty quickly."

  Mom tugs at the end of her frazzled ponytail. "After how he hit you, Foster, we were so worried when you two disappeared this morning. We thought he'd left here and found you and Claire."

  Dad's frown deepens. "We were just about to call the police."

  I swallow as goose bumps trail along my arms and neck. "We had no idea, I swear. We were just at the beach. And I didn't have my phone."

  Mom nods. "We saw it on your bed. Claire—we were terrified."

  I step forward and let her wrap her arms around me. Her squeeze is like a boa constrictor intent on breaking my ribs.

  Dad places a palm on my back and pats. "It's alright now, but I think I'll still go visit Opa's old police buddy and let them know about Johnny. Just to be safe."

  Foster's still blinking dazedly, his hands limp by his sides. He's just watching us, like he's some stranger who just happened to wander in on this scene and now he's too frozen to walk away.

  I edge back toward him with my hand outstretched for his, but he pulls away, running his hands through his hair instead. He stares at my parents.

  "I'll get my stuff and go." There's no catch in his voice, no hesitation.

  Dad crosses his arms in front of his chest, his mouth drawn tightly. Mom's lips pull downward.

  "No one was suggesting that it's your fault. We just want to take the necessary steps to make sure we're safe. All of us." She sweeps her arm around the room.

  At my side, Foster shifts. "You've been great. And I really appreciate you taking me in, but I can't stay here. Not when Johnny's threatening your family."

  He finally looks at me, and I step back, almost tripping on my own feet in the process. Why is he doing this?

  Dad runs a thumb along his chin. "We'd love for you to stay. You're still welcome to a room as long as you need, just like we promised you." But he seems to know something I don't because he and Foster jerk their chins at each other across the room in some silent understanding.

  Hands on her hips, Mom narrows her eyes. "We're worried about you just as much as we are Claire and Livvy. We're not going to let you leave here, knowing you could be in danger."

  Foster nods. "I know. Thank you. But I'll be okay. I have a friend I can stay with. He just got back into town."

  My mouth drops. He's lying. Why is he lying like this?

  Mom walks to him to wrap her arms around his neck, and then Dad shakes his hand. He looks at me for a beat while I'm still too slack-jawed to stop him, and then he goes down the hall to the guest bedroom.

  My feet start working again, and I run down the hall too. Dad stops Mom from following me, his arm a barrier. “Let them say goodbye,” he says from behind me. I stifle another sob.

  I close the door behind me and lean against it, crumpling at the knees and letting my body slide to the floor.

  I suck in a shallow breath. “Please stop.”

  He’s sitting on the bed tucking his few belongings back into his backpack. He crawls next to me on the floor against the door, and I lean my head onto his shoulder.

  “What if we found somewhere to stay together? You can’t stay at the beach anymore, and I could help you stay away from Johnny.” Part of me feels responsible for the way his brother slammed his fist into his face. I can’t let him leave without knowing he’ll be safe, even if it means I have to leave too. I look up at him with a spark of hope in this completely dark moment.

  He still won’t look at me. Instead, he sighs into my hair. I get a sinking feeling with every second he breathes over me and doesn’t answer. I try again.

  “It’s a crazy idea, I know, but it could work. There’s only another year until we graduate and then we can work full time, and we’d probably have enough money to live wherever we want. Maybe I can convince my parents to help still.” I edge out from under his arm and slide in front of him, so he can’t ignore me. Our feet touch.

  “What do you think? Talk to me.” I reach out and touch his knee. He stares at my hand and finally meets my eyes. His are steely.

  “No.”

  I pause a beat because I’m sure I heard him wrong. Or maybe he just doesn’t understand what I’m offering.

  Then more loudly, he says, “No, Claire. It’s not going to work.”

  He doesn’t have to say what he means anymore. I know without hearing the words, without making him explain, that he means ‘no’ to everything. No to finding an apartment together, no to me moving out, and no to us having a future. I pull my hand from his knee and focus on taking deep breaths. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I imagine this is what it feels like. My tight chest, the way everything around me blurs at the edges, the way my hands go to my head, itching to pull every strand of my hair out, but stop because I can't muster the energy to do more than take in ragged, uneven breaths

  His blue eyes are duller now. And they’re dry, while mine might never be again. I’m grasping to find meaning in anything right now. He stands up and takes his backpack off of the bed. I struggle to my feet too and stand by the closed door. I could use my body to block him from leaving. To push him back into the room and make him stay until he agrees to my plan. Instead, I step aside and let him open the door. He looks at
me from the doorway for a second. I can’t look at him anymore though. I want to disappear into the tacky blue-and-cream dolphin rug I’m standing on.

  “Claire, I’m so sorry. None of this is going to work, though. It’s not safe for you. I’m not good for you.”

  His voice falters, and it takes every ounce of paltry self-control I have left not to check if he’s crying. I don’t say anything, and he walks away from me and down the hall a second later. I go to my room and close the door behind me. I’m not crying, I’m just numb. Being swallowed up in this nothingness is scarier than I could have imagined.

  Twenty-Six

  “You’re the saddest person I’ve ever seen at the beach.”

  Carolina stands over me as I dig a gigantic trench in the sand. I ignore her. She kicks some sand into the hole, barely missing my head in the process. She's as sick of hearing about Foster as I am of talking about him.

  “I’m not sad. Just focused.” Focused and losing hope. I haven’t heard from Foster since he left the beach house. I’ve called, but every time, he's sent me straight to voicemail. With the first round of the competition looming closer and me reduced to half a team, I haven’t had time to sit around crying. Not that I haven’t cried, but it’s been less than it would have been if I weren’t so busy. I thought I was determined to win the sculpting contest before, but now it’s all I can think about. I even dream about how amazing it will feel to win and to get the scholarship, as I emerge victorious, on my way to becoming a real artist. Foster be damned.

  Carolina swings her legs over and hops into the hole with me. “It’s okay to be sad and focused at the same time. Just let what happened with Foster feed your artistic energy and channel it into your work.” She is a real artist no matter what, and she owns it.

  “Thanks.” I don’t move my eyes from my work.

  After she disappears to fine-tune the plans for her own sculpture, I pull out a notepad to add some more details to my new sketch. It’s still going to be great, just in a different way. A little sand crab worms its way out of a tiny hole in the sand and crawls past me. I close my eyes after it passes and soak in the heat on my skin. There's the shuffling-on-sand sound of someone walking up, but I take my time opening my eyes. It's probably Carolina, back to deliver another pep talk. But when I turn, it’s to see Livvy, her arms folded.