The Art of My Life Page 10

  Missy stared out the passenger window. Her eyes crawled back to his, and she tore them away. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’ll sit at this light for a week if it takes that long for me to tell you what you want to know.”

  “I will.”

  The light turned green. A horn blasted behind them. He bit back a grin. He should thank her for a great idea.

  She wilted against the seat. “You win.”

  He mashed down the gas pedal and jerked through the intersection. He glanced at her.

  “You’re right. I should have talked this out with you years ago.” She faced him. “I didn’t want you to know how immature I really am. I’ve always wanted you to see me as close to your age. That was the problem.” She raked a curl toward her pony tail and it sprung back to where it had been dangling beside her ear. She looked down at her hands. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll be relieved to know.” He hung a left on First Street. “I really do hate it when you’re pissed—like the time Cal and I played keep-away with your diary. You were in middle school and didn’t speak to me for a week.” He pulled into the New Smyrna Beach Public Library lot, arced into a parking space, and killed the engine.

  Missy took a deep breath. “It was the day of my fifteenth birthday party, and I thought I was all that—finally mature enough that you’d look at me as a… woman.” She looked down at the bag she clutched to her chest, cheeks pinking.

  Her voice cracked through the mud of his memory, but he couldn’t quite remember the day she was talking about. How much the revelation was costing her and how her words felt like tiny Macy’s-wrapped gifts he desperately wanted—skidded together in his head.

  “You and Cal stopped by for your surf boards. I caught you alone by the garage and told you I wanted a kiss for my birthday. You looked me over, and I held my breath. But you called me jailbait and said I’d get my kiss for my eighteenth birthday.” Missy stared out the passenger window, and he strained to hear the words she pushed out with stops and starts.

  The day was coming into focus, but still filmy as though he viewed it through a thin curtain. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing the past or the picture Missy painted for him. If she’d wanted him to kiss her when she was fifteen, why wouldn’t she go out with him now?

  “So, I waited three birthdays. And… nothing. My eighteenth birthday came and went. The next time I ran into you was three weeks later. You had no clue when my birthday was, much less that you’d promised me a kiss.” She unsnapped her seatbelt.

  “July Fifth.” He pulled the date out of nowhere, surprised he had it filed somewhere on his hard drive.

  Her lush brows lifted as though he’d surprised her, too. Then they fell, as if his knowing her birthday didn’t matter now. “So, I slammed the Sean book shut.”

  He faced her, the depth of her wound—one he inflicted—twisting in his gut. No wonder she couldn’t let it go. “I’m sorry, Mis. I was an idiot. I would never intentionally hurt you. I was thoughtless.”

  She looked out the passenger window. “It’s okay.” Her fingers grasped the door handle. “I’ll see you—”

  He couldn’t let her get out of the truck until they resolved this thing. He reached across the seat and turned her chin toward him. “It’s not okay. Forgive me. Please. I had no idea.”

  Missy’s eyes met his and held. Her forehead puckered. He saw the battle going on inside her, glimpsed how deeply he’d wounded her.

  He’d never wanted to fix anything so badly in his life.

  She nodded, a tiny jerk of her head. Yes, she forgave him.

  Thank God. He lifted a palm to her cheek and leaned toward her to brush his lips across hers, a thank you for a recovered friendship, a fresh start.

  Missy shook her head and dislodged his hand, cutting off the kiss before it happened. “I know it’s stupid—my having a crush on you, like, my whole life. But you can relax now. It’s over. No payment of kisses necessary. And I won’t treat you pissy anymore.” She smiled, patted his face as though he were her toddler nephew, and climbed out of the truck. “Thanks for the lift.”

  He covered his jaw where she’d touched him. The caress cracked the barrier to the past her words had not. As he watched her walk through the front doors of the library, his mind skipped back to her fifteenth birthday. He’d been trying not to notice how pretty Missy had become for months, maybe even since she’d turned fourteen. A nineteen-year-old noticing a fourteen-year-old was plain creepy.

  When Missy asked for a kiss, he’d been shocked by the power of his reaction. And sickened. It had taken every fiber of his self-control not to kiss her.

  He’d avoided her after that and taught himself to look through her and not at her. Evidently, he’d been successful—till that night on the dock.

  One thing he knew for certain. It would take a lot more work than he’d anticipated, but he’d give her that kiss.

  Cal lay on his stomach examining the bow repair. They hadn’t pulled the boat out of the water for the repairs, so he didn’t have the opportunity to repaint Aly’s figurehead. He considered painting from the dinghy or the dock, but the bounce of the Escape would distort his rendering. He sighed. The figurehead had been a whim. It shouldn’t matter so much that Aly had never seen it.

  Last week he’d stayed at Henna’s till one a.m. three nights painting Aly in her glasses. It was like some switch inside him turned on, and he couldn’t slow it down. He had to rebuild trust with her, make the wariness in her eyes disappear. That would take time. But there was no reason he couldn’t rebuild trust and make out with her at the same time. He pushed himself to a squat and glanced down the pier.

  Aly walked toward him in jeans and a sweatshirt, finally done with the bank. They’d be together all day every day. Today’s agenda: get close to Aly.

  Two boats down Fish greeted a customer in a hat covered in fishing lures. “Hey, Aly, how about a ride on a real boat today? One with customers.”

  Aly planted her fists on her hips. “What’s with you? You’re not usually mean.”

  “True. I was really nice last night.”

  “You wish.” This coming onto her act was getting old. Aly crossed the Escape’s gangplank. Her gaze smacked into Cal. “What?”

  Cal pressed his lips into a thin line. “Nothing.”

  Aly nailed him to the deck with a look. “Tell me.”

  “Fish can’t wait to get his hands on you.”

  Aly sat on the cabin. “It’s all talk. I don’t know why he’s acting so weird.”

  “He’s trying to piss me off.”

  “Then, don’t get mad.”

  “Obviously, too late.”

  “Do you see me hanging out with Fish? I don’t care if he’s proposing marriage and eight kids, I’m not going out with him. I’m not going out with anybody. Ever.”

  “Ever?” The absurdity of Aly’s statement made him laugh. “That would be a waste.”

  Fish jogged over to the Escape. “I have something for you.” He handed Aly a rolled up Wall Street Journal. “I read it. Stop by after work and we’ll talk.” He shot her a grin.

  “I’m done with men.”

  “What? Not me. I never did anything to you.”

  “Especially you.”

  “You’re killing me. Read the article about health care reform.” Fish jogged back to his boat, revved the engine, and yelled to his guests to cast off the mooring lines.

  Aly tossed the newspaper through the open hatch and slumped, her elbows propped on her knees on the edge of the cabin. “You still see me as Aly-the-slut who will go out with anybody who asks.” Tears sheened her eyes when she looked up at him. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Gar and the pregnancy scare.” She rubbed her eyes with the balls of her hands. “Even you are disgusted with me.”

  Van Gogh licked her face. Aly pulled away from his tongue and petted his head absentmindedly.

  Cal squatted dow
n in front of her. “Aly, I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself a slut. Yeah, you had sex with your boyfriends, five or six spread over a lot of years. Most people wouldn’t think it was a big deal. You’ve never disgusted me. Sure, I hated those guys for using you. I hurt when they hurt you. I cared about you. I didn’t blame you.”

  “They didn’t mean anything to me. You meant everything. You were my friend.” She stared at the dock.

  Cal lifted her chin with his palm. “I’m still your friend.”

  “I feel so dirty deep inside. I begged God to forgive me, but I don’t think it took.”

  “God’s forgiveness is easy.” Cal gave a dry laugh and glanced at Fish’s empty slip. “It’s people who don’t forgive.”

  “Easy? How can you say that? Didn’t you feel guilty about… Evie?”

  Shame forced his gaze away from hers. He didn’t want to answer, but Aly needed to hear. “Every… time.” He barely forced the words out.

  Two giant tears rolled down her cheeks. “I want…. Help me, Cal.”

  He wiped them off with his thumbs. “I’ve got a thousand Bible verses crammed in my head like songs you never forget. One of them says that if you admit what you did was wrong, you’re forgiven, clean.”

  “You believe that?”

  “How can I afford not to?”

  Aly sucked in a strangled breath. Tears streamed down her face. She slid off the cabin into his chest.

  He reached a hand behind him on the deck to keep from losing his balance.

  Aly knelt on the deck in the circle of his arm, sobs racking her body.

  Van Gogh hovered around them, licking at Aly’s elbow, hair, the back of her hand.

  She sat back on her heels and dug in her pocket.

  Morning breeze cooled the space between them. His sweatshirt felt damp against his skin. He watched Aly blow her nose, warm him with a hopeful smile through bloodshot eyes. She’d never looked more beautiful.

  Van Gogh nosed his head under her chin until she pushed him away and laughed. “I feel sort of like the tears washed away my mistakes.”

  Cal boosted himself onto the cabin and shook the sleep out of his legs. “That’s what forgiveness feels like.”

  Aly scooted onto the cabin beside him and slid her hand into his. “Thanks.”

  He’d never measured up to Raine’s spiritual ruler, but for Aly, he was enough—even in his dubious spiritual state of mind. He touched his lips to Aly’s, a benediction on what had transpired. “I still… care.”

  When he opened his eyes, Evie stood on the dock glaring at them.

  Aly mumbled something about having work to do. Her face blanched beneath the tear tracks, and she tugged her hand out of his.

  Chapter 12

  November 10

  Sometimes a friend has the one answer you desperately need to fix the cracked mosaic of your life. Now, you’re free to become who you were originally supposed to be. Happy becoming!

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal sprayed Van Gogh with the hose, one hand clamped around his collar. He glanced up at Mom where she sat on the dock box, wondering why she stopped by. It wasn’t like her to just shoot the breeze. He squirted doggie soap onto Van Gogh’s coat and lathered his front legs and chest. “That’s a good boy. Now see if you can stay out of the river for a few days, champ.”

  Starr picked up their conversation. “Do you see why I’m so excited about being told my childhood was sad and lonely?”

  “Yeah, I get it. Kind of a you-figured-it-right-all-along moment.” He scrubbed Van Gogh’s back.

  A seventy-degree breeze blew across the dock.

  Mom cleared her throat. “Sometimes I think you understand me in a way your siblings can’t—because you’ve lived in the world I grew up in….”

  He cupped his hand over the pressure sprayer and dribbled water onto Van Gogh’s face. Part of him warmed at her words, but another part wanted her to understand how differently he viewed his grandparents. His gaze settled back on her. “Funny. Henna’s has always been my happy place where no one expected me to be perfect. I could be myself. I could have a pet. I could get dirty. Henna has always loved me just the way I was.”

  “Wow. I sure didn’t get that from my mother.” The bitterness in her voice said more than the words. “There must be something to grandparenting that gives you a second chance at getting it right.”

  Cal soaped the dog’s hind legs. “I was a preacher’s kid. You expected me to be perfect, live up to the role—like Jesse. And Missy was so dang cute, that was all that was required of her. At home you wanted me to be the ideal kid, too. Nothing I did was ever good enough.” He narrowed his eyes, watching for her reaction.

  For a moment her eyes looked misty, then she swallowed. “I wanted you to fit into New Smyrna Beach because I didn’t. In my school photos, braids stuck out of my head at odd angles because my parents were always passed out when I left for school. Look at Henna—she didn’t even buy a bra till she got her AARP card. Kids called me hippie girl. I wanted better for you.”

  “I could have used some acceptance. Answer this: Have I ever done anything that satisfied you?”

  Soap bubbles pooled around Van Gogh’s paws in the silence.

  “How can you even ask after I watched you smoke a joint?”

  He felt the familiar knife thrust to his gut and stood, shaking his head. “Do you even get that you’re doing to me what Leaf’s father did to him?”

  “There’s only one thing I want you to change. For your own good.”

  Her pleading tone, the anguish in her usually shuttered eyes, only twisted the knife inside him.

  He moved mechanically as he sprayed down the dog, then coiled the hose and hung it on its hook beside the dock box. “Yeah, well I’m an adult. I guess I get to choose how I live my life.” He walked down the finger pier, boarded the boat.

  Van Gogh shook and rattled his collar.

  Cal glanced up as he stepped on the top rung of the companionway ladder in time to see Mom sluice wetness off her arms. She shivered, and her face looked old and tired. She slid off the dock box. Van Gogh’s tongue slurped her knuckles. She started to wipe off the doggy spit on her jeans and halted, looked up and caught him watching.

  The naked pain looking back at him from her eyes felt too much like his own. He descended the ladder and shut the hatch overhead.

  He slung himself into the dining nook and spewed the whole conversation with his mother to Aly. “Mom’s judgment sprung down on me like the metal bar of the same mousetrap that’s been nailing me my whole life.”

  Aly shut her laptop. “At least you know she loves you and wants to be part of your life. That’s a whole lot more than my father is dishing.”

  “She loves some imaginary picture of who she wants me to be.”

  “She’s kept you in oils and canvas for years. She believes in your art.”

  “Only because she thinks I got the artistic gene from her. It’s all about her. A guy could kill himself trying to please her.”

  “Maybe you sabotage yourself to get back at her.”

  “Or maybe her everlasting criticism is a monkey I’ve never pried off my back.” He paced the cabin. “Thank God I didn’t marry Raine. She was Mom’s twin. I never measured up for her either.”

  “Raine—”

  “What?”

  “She has a baby now.”

  “Hard to imagine when she wouldn’t even let me kiss her. She probably spent an extra thirty minutes on her knees thanking God she didn’t get stuck with me when I went to jail.”

  Aly stood and got in his face. “You are a brilliant artist. Genius. Andrew Wyeth infused with Van Gogh’s color and texture; your own passion. The director of the Atlantic Center for the Arts bought one of your paintings. Do you have any idea how many artists pass through that place? And she bought yours. You have an incredible work ethic. You’re constantly sketching or painting. Your paintings are stuffed in every relative’s attic,
garage, the backroom of Starr’s studio.”

  Aly caught his face in her hands. Her palms pressed against his cheeks as though willing him to accept her words, pretty words, words he’d believe if he could.

  “You’re loyal. You’ve stuck by Starr regardless of how she’s treated you. You’re an excellent sailor and tattoo artist. Stoney hires you back every time you ask.”

  Her eyes seared into him with hazel fire. “You’re the kind of guy who makes friends for life. You’re… important to me. People bail on me. They don’t come back. You did.”

  Aly searched his eyes, and he felt like she could see the cocktail of belief and disbelief swirling in him. She leaned toward him in slow motion, her eyes welded to his until her lips branded the words into his spirit.

  He couldn’t consume enough. “Aly.” Her name came out with a groan, and he folded her against his chest. His lips returned to hers, thirsty, gulping great draughts of her confidence in him.

  Her arms twined around him. She tasted of Juicy Fruit gum and his future.

  For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt like a man instead of a poser. His fingers curled into her ribs, and her softness melted against him until their jeans and T-shirts felt tissue thin.

  Aly broke the kiss and stepped back, her hands still resting on his shoulders. Her chest moved in and out with shallow breaths. Her eyes looked unfocused. They wandered to her hand on his right shoulder, and she jerked back from him. “What about Evie?”

  “I don’t care what Evie thinks.”

  “She’s your girlfriend.”

  “What? We haven’t been out in seven months.”

  “But she acts like—”

  “Get back on the New Smyrna Beach gossip train.” He stared at her, incredulous. “You think I’m a cheater? If I wanted to cheat, I would have kissed you when I was seventeen, or eighteen, or pick a year.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’ve always had a boyfriend until now.”

  Aly’s eyes were huge, her cheeks blotching white and pink.