The Art of Falling in Love

  I nod. “I guess we were more tired than we thought.”

  He sits up and rubs his eyes, and I sit back down on the edge of the couch next to him. “What time is it?” His voice is husky and groggy and adorable.

  I glance at my phone, noting I have a handful of texts from a worried Carolina. “It’s only seven.” The Florida summer sun rises early.

  Foster drops his head, eyes closed. I laugh. When he doesn’t open his eyes, I drape the blanket back over his legs as his soft snores fill the room again. I guess he wasn't pretending to sleep.

  I’m never going to be able to fall asleep again after the surprise of waking up next to him, so I leave Foster and make myself some hot chocolate. I save half of the hot water I boil in case he wants something to drink, too. Bright sunshine glares through the windows of the kitchen and makes rainbows on the silver spoon I’m using to stir my chocolate. I’ve always loved mornings, and this morning in particular is one I’ll remember, I’m sure of it. I smile to myself as Foster’s snoring escalates, echoing through the entire house. One minute, he can be the best at driving me crazy, and the next, I’m obsessing over the way he sleeps.

  Foster's eyes are still closed by the time I drain my mug. I’m drowsy and warm as I crawl back into bed with him. As soon as my butt hits the cushions, Foster reaches around me and pulls me against him, like a baby with a teddy bear. He snuggles his head against mine, and seconds later, he’s breathing deeply yet again. Short puffs of air tickle my neck, lulling me to sleep along with him.

  When my eyes crack open next, the spot beside me is cold. My hand grapples through a sleepy haze to find Foster, but he's sitting on the end of the sofa out of reach. His head is ducked and cradled in his hands.

  I crawl to him, still wearing the T-shirt and cheeky shorts I changed into before the movie last night. Before this morning's happy accident. He seems closed off though…and it’s starting to worry me. My chest is tight and heavy. I raise a hand to his back but let it hover before dropping it by my side. My voice falls quietly through the thick air.

  “Hey. What's wrong?"

  Foster sighs and rubs his thumbs across his temples. He's still facing away from me, his shoulders tight. Whatever he wants to say to me is hurting him, but I can’t imagine it’s worse than what he’s doing to me by shutting me out.

  “I have to go.”

  The words hang in the bright morning air before they bounce against my reluctant ears and slam into my heart. I shake my head like I can’t hear him.

  "Go? Do you mean because of my parents' rule?" Words rush out of me like maybe the faster I talk the quicker I can fix whatever's bothering him. "Don't worry about that. I can go to Carolina's now and come back later. It was just an accident, anyway. We're fine."

  “That's not what I mean. I'm leaving Florida."

  A sharp breath escapes me, pulled from somewhere deep in my chest.

  Foster exhales into his fist, turning to look at me. “Someone at Child Protective Services found out I don’t have a guardian. They got in touch with Johnny and then with me. We’re going to Alabama, just like he wanted.”

  This cannot be happening. The yo-yoing on my heart is stretching it to the point of breaking.

  “We’re supposed to win the sculpture contest together.” It’s a dumb thing to say. Why would I think he’d still be interested in doing the contest even if he were staying? He's leaving me, which means he doesn't care.

  But I say it anyway. Anything to try to get him to listen. “What about the finals?” My voice is as small as I feel. It’s not about the contest anymore, and we both know it.

  “I can’t think about that.” He shifts his feet and lifts his shoulders one at a time. “There was this mediation appointment where me and Johnny met with this lady. I didn't tell you about it because living with Johnny is something I've been running from for so long. And I didn't think anything would come of it."

  I inhale a squeaky breath. "But something did?"

  "Yeah. We talked a lot. He remembered stories about my mom I hadn't thought about since I was a little kid." He holds up his phone, a short text message from Johnny filling the screen. "And it's all settled now, just like she wanted from the beginning."

  "I know you miss your mom." I smile weakly.

  "I do.” He's quiet.

  I bet Foster's mom was kind, like he is. As wild as she drives me, life without my mom is incomprehensible. Like suddenly waking up one day to find your right hand just disappeared and now you're expected to go on living life like everything is fine.

  The same way I feel without Opa.

  “But why would you trust him again?” I can’t comprehend giving another chance to a person like Johnny, relative or not. Even though my heart is shattering into sharp, pointy shards, I don’t want Foster hurt again.

  Foster shrugs. “I don’t trust him yet, but he’s family. I owe him another chance.” My fingers itch to touch him, squeeze his hand, and tell him how much I hope he’s right. But his words are a barrier, and they make it impossible for me to reach out, even though he's right next to me.

  "What if he doesn't deserve a second chance?" Sour words twist my mouth.

  His hands run across his neck and through his hair, tugging at wayward strands. "My mom always said family was important. It's something I heard her say all the time growing up. I can't just ignore that when Johnny's trying to make things right."

  I stare at him, and it’s like watching a stranger. My mind swirls with images of kissing him, and milkshakes, and the Alligator Zoo—it’s hard to believe how good everything was last night.

  For a moment, it looks like he might actually reach out to touch me. He raises a quivering hand but then drops it. I’m torn between an ache to show him how I feel and the need to erect a fence around my already raw heart. He’s leaving anyway, so there’s no point in trying to fix things now.

  “Johnny called this morning. He's waiting at his hotel. I just wanted to tell you before I leave. I know I owe you at least that much.”

  His voice breaks as he stands, hovering over the couch.

  “I’m sorry for how everything turned out. We tried, but this relationship just won’t work.”

  I shake my head, standing to follow him. “We could have tried harder.” He could try harder instead of giving up on us.

  He blinks at me but says nothing. And I can’t think of anything to say either. He goes to the guest room and shoves his things into his backpack, and I stand in the hall watching. Bitter bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it down until my stomach feels heavy with it.

  I'm running my arm along the beads of moisture collecting at the corners of my eyes when the front door swings open. Mom, Dad, and Livvy crowd in, talking and laughing until they come to the hall where we are. They look between Foster and I with raised eyebrows and come to some horrifying conclusion, apparently.

  “What is going on here?” Dad's glowering where he stands, his eyebrows raised so high that there are wrinkles past his hairline. Livvy scans the scene with an impressed smirk. Mom cocks one eyebrow, hand on her hip.

  My parents’ gazes take in my shorts and loose T-shirt. I have a feeling my choice of pajamas isn’t doing much to help my cause. Apparently, being comfortable is a crime now too.

  “I know this looks bad, but a little trust right now would be great.”

  Livvy makes a choking sound, silently laughing into her hands. Of course, she thinks this is hilarious. Mom and Dad ignore her and continue to stare between Foster and me. I guess they’re waiting for some mind-blowing explanation, but all I have is the truth.

  “We fell asleep last night watching a movie before Foster could take me to Carolina’s. This was a complete accident, and now—” I raise a shaky finger and jab it at Foster. "He's trying to run away again."

  Their heads turn to him, and he squares his shoulders and bows his head. "My brother and I worked things out. I think this will be good for us. But I'm glad I get the chance to say goodbye to you guy
s."

  Mom sucks on her bottom lip and slips an arm through mine. "Honey, it's his choice."

  I shake my head. “No.” Trying to win this argument is like climbing up a mountain of loose sand. It's pointless and exhausting. My heart pounds in my chest. I look around, hoping someone will take my side, but Dad and Livvy avoid my gaze. “No,” I repeat.

  Foster swings his backpack over one shoulder and tugs on the strap with his other hand. Then he looks at me. Really looks at me. For just a few seconds, it's like everything else fades away. My family disappears, and the beach house transforms, and we're back on the beach together with nothing but the sculpting contest before us. If I close my eyes, I'll smell the ocean and feel his arms around me, taste his lips burning against mine.

  With a slight jerk of his head, the moment ends, and all my delusions are shattered.

  He moves toward the door and nods at my parents. Mom hugs him and slips something into his hand, maybe money. "You've always got a place here, if you change your mind."

  Dad slaps him on the back. "Good luck to you, Foster. Make sure you call us if you need anything, alright?"

  Foster’s eyes go squinty and red as he passes through the front door. “Thank you. I'll miss your family a lot.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut so I can pretend he's talking to me and only me.

  Dad shuts the door behind him. The click hangs in the silence.

  My legs propel me past them to follow Foster, but Mom catches my arm as I’m grabbing the doorknob. “Maybe it's for the best if we let him go. He deserves a chance at family again."

  I tilt my head. She doesn't get it. None of them do.

  "We were his family, Mom. We're still supposed to be."

  My head swivels as they each avoid my drawn mouth and wide eyes. Don't they see the mistake they're making? I claw at the door again, and Dad grabs me this time. Time freezes as I pull away from the door and push past Livvy and Dad toward my bedroom. My feet are lead as I fall onto my bed, crashing facedown into the cool fabric of my pillowcase. Dad follows me, planting himself in my doorway, his forehead deeply furrowed. I stare past him until he’s replaced by empty space, and then I lie in bed and pretend none of it happened.

  Thirty-Two

  To whom it may concern on the Flagler admittance board:

  This summer, my grandfather died. He was my first and biggest cheerleader when it came to my art. It’s because of him that I first became interested in enrolling at Flagler College. I’ve always been inspired by artists who break the rules, use new mediums, and turn the definition of art on its head. Thanks to my grandfather, I was able to step outside of my safe version of art and become immersed in something new: sand-sculpting.

  At first when my grandfather left me with an application for the sand-sculpting contest, I was nervous about such an unconventional medium. I’ve always seen myself as a sketch artist, maybe a painter, but sculpting never crossed my radar. Almost as soon as I began working with sand, I started to feel like a true artist for the first time.

  This summer has changed me in more ways than one, but most importantly, it’s proven to me that art can be found anywhere, in many different forms. I hope to pursue sculpting as a future career, thanks to my experience with sculpting sand. I would be honored to study at Flagler College and continue to learn in the place where I first dreamt of being an artist.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Claire Haynes

  * * *

  Mom tries to talk to me after a few days, but I still can’t bring myself to say anything about what happened. She and Dad take turns hovering in my open doorway, their mouths pinched as I type away at my essay and prepare for my interview.

  Today, her shadow covers the floor as I work. “Claire, baby, we’re here to talk if you need to vent. I know you’re upset, but we're here for you. We love you.”

  I glance up, and she offers me a smile. I look away again. Tap. Tap. Tap. I'll wear out the keys on my computer before I talk to my parents about what happened. Venting is for people who are mostly happy. People who have hope. I don't have anything except another scar from someone I love abandoning me.

  “Are you going to keep ignoring me?"

  Mom’s hands are on her hips now, and her tone is no longer sweet and pleading. I didn’t sign up for another fight, so I shrug. She stares me down until I feel compelled to say something to end the harassment.

  I drop my hands. “Mom, I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Please. Just give me time to be upset.” My voice is scratchy from underuse.

  She lowers her gaze and moves like she might walk away. But instead, she marches over to my bed and sits beside me. It’s impossible to squirm away when she puts her soft hands over mine like some sort of gentle trap. I sigh and give into her gesture.

  “I’m your mom. I can’t just let you be upset. I need to feel like I’m helping you.” She gazes at me while continuing to pat my hand. It’s ridiculous, but I can already feel some of the weight I’ve hung on to slip away.

  “Foster’s in trouble.”

  Her eyebrows raise, and she moves her hand in a circular motion in the air, gesturing that I should keep talking. I close my eyes and tilt my head back. I’m trying to think of the right words to describe how I’m feeling without breaking down and letting her see how I really am doing. Letting my mom in a little bit is okay, but letting her in completely just can’t happen.

  “His brother is just going to hurt him again, but I guess Foster wants to give him another chance. He basically chose him over me, and that makes me feel…” I can’t finish the sentence without getting throaty and red-eyed. Thankfully, Mom doesn’t push it and nods her way through the silence of my unfinished sentence. “I understand.”

  And I don’t know if she really does, but it’s nice of her to say. Even better is the fact that she’s letting me talk without interjecting a helpful suggestion every other sentence.

  “Thanks for letting me vent.”

  “Sure.” Her eyebrows tug down. “I just wonder…”

  I should stop her. I'm not sure either of us want to know the answer to her question. But for some reason I let her keep musing.

  “I wonder how Child Protective Services knew where he was. It’s not like they’re the FBI. If it wasn't Johnny who told…”

  We stare across from each other for a beat before either of us speaks again. Now that the mystery has been planted in my head, I don’t know how to shake it out. And the more I think about it, the guilty party has to be someone close to home.

  Someone in my family told CPS where Foster was.

  Mom arrives at the same infuriating conclusion I do. Maybe we're thinking of the same person, because she won’t meet my eyes anymore.

  “Mom.”

  “Hm?” She’s tapping her fingers on the wooden footrest of my bed so quickly that I feel like we’re trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone just before the twist at the end. Before things turn awful.

  “Mom, look at me.” My voice is thick. She’s been staring at an empty spot on the wall, but she inches her face around toward me. I can’t handle the suspense any longer, so I burst the bubble in one fell swoop.

  “I’m sorry. But I deserve to know, Mom. Did either of you tip CPS off about Foster? Were you guys trying to get rid of him?”

  “The truth is, Claire, I don’t know about Dad, but it wasn’t me.”

  My stomach sinks. She wouldn’t lie to me, even if it were to protect Dad. I have to believe she’s telling the truth, which means I can’t heap blame on my parents just yet—no matter how badly I want to right now.

  Her moment of hesitation speaks just as clearly as her words do. “Your dad and I had a conversation after Johnny paid his first visit to the house. About how we could make sure everyone was safe. And Dad mentioned letting the authorities handle it, but we never made a final decision."

  I bite my lip and nod. I can picture it now. He pretended to be okay with Foster's past but he was secretly schemin
g. Dad has been the more reluctant one from the start when it came to Foster living here. I’d been too blissed out earlier this summer to notice anyone else’s doubts about Foster and me. In retrospect, maybe I should have listened. If I had, I wouldn’t be spending the rest of summer break weighed down in heartbreak. Mom sighs and throws her hands up in the air in front of her. They fall to her face and cradle it.

  “We both like Foster a whole lot. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Dad would go to questionable lengths to make sure you girls are safe. He’d do anything to protect you two, you know?”

  I narrow my eyes. Not out of anger anymore, but an aching wound. The deepest and rawest betrayal comes from those you trust the most. I know my dad wants the best for me, but can something that wounds this deeply really be the best thing?

  “He would risk Foster's safety and my trust just because of one measly visit from Johnny?”

  Mom leans against me, and her hands go around my neck. My arms hang limply at my sides. “I don’t know that. I shouldn’t have even said anything. We don't know anything for sure. But, if he did, try to understand where he’s coming from. Where we're both coming from.”

  I try to understand. I take the next few minutes of silence to work through the myriad of emotions this revelation brings. My parents' near stifling love. How Foster leaving was ultimately his choice. It all hurts. And I’m left with this hollow chest. A heart beating along as each day passes, but nothing to fill it.

  Carolina and I meet the next day for some serious research before the interviews with Flagler. Outside of the contest, we both have scheduled interviews as the next step in our application process. The second round is different from the qualifying round in that we won't have the chance to plan a project in advance. Instead, teams are assigned a project idea and are expected to come up with something creative in the given time frame. There’s a lot more pressure. And this time I'm doing it alone.

  When I get to Guava Guava for breakfast, Carolina is running late. I sit down and pull out a notebook to sketch with. When someone slides across from me in the booth, my eyes don't even lift to greet her as I furiously scribble the last of my idea. Carolina understands being lost in a creative moment, so I know she isn’t offended.