Ryan: Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.
Justin: Okay, I’m totally uncool.
It was great to hear her so lighthearted and he hoped like hell that if scars were left on her face, they wouldn’t take that away from her.
Justin: How’s the lip?
Ryan: Messed up. I’m going to the doctor tomorrow morning. I won’t be in school until after lunch.
Justin: Want to go to the art gallery with me after I get out of practice tomorrow?
Ryan: We have an art gallery?
Justin: Spring Creek does. It’s only twenty minutes from here.
Ryan: You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me?
Justin: I should ask you that question.
Ryan: Yes, I’m horribly embarrassed for people to see my messed-up self with you.
Justin: That’s not what I meant.
Ryan: I know. Yes. I’ll go with you to the art gallery.
Justin: Great. I’m out by five.
Ryan: Pick me up at the feed store. I gotta go.
Justin: Bye.
He closed Facebook and sighed. Yes! He had a date with Ryan Quinn. And no, he wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with her.
Besides, hardly anybody he knew ever went to the tiny gallery in Spring Creek.
Ryan tried not to pace while she waited for Justin. Why had she agreed to go the gallery with him? It had been a horrible day, her face hurt almost as bad as it had the first day, and now it had gooey ointment smeared all over it. If she didn’t scare him off at the door, it would be a small miracle.
She looked toward the back of the store. Her parents discussed rearranging the horse section while Mackenzie and Kelsey unloaded feed sacks onto the racks. She manned the cash register—which meant she’d rung up exactly two transactions since school ended.
Justin’s black truck pulled into the parking lot and she called to her mom, “My ride is here. I’ll see you later.”
She almost made it to the door before she was stopped. “Wait a minute,” Mom called. “Let me give you some money.”
“That’s okay. I have some.” Ryan moved closer to the door.
“Who are you going with again?”
“I told you, a friend from schoo—” Which was as far as she got before Justin came through the door.
Crap.
Her parents moved to the front of the store together, and her dad spoke. “Hello, Justin.”
“Mr. Quinn.” He stuck out his hand.
Her dad shook his hand, but it was obvious he was not happy. He turned to Ryan and said, “Can I see you in the back room?”
She nodded and followed her parents to the makeshift kitchen in the back of the store. Her dad leaned against the counter. “I’m not opposed to you going to a gallery with a date…”
“He’s not a date.”
Please don’t make this a big deal.
Her dad straightened. “Whatever it is, I don’t like that you didn’t tell your mother or me.”
“It’s not like I lied. I said I was going with a friend. Justin is a friend who happens to be a boy.”
And the only friend I have, by the way.
Her mom looked at her dad. “Let it go, Tom. She needs an evening away from all that’s happened.”
Her dad pulled a twenty from his billfold and handed it to her. “Home by ten, not one minute later.”
“Yes, sir.” She took the twenty and hurried out, but as soon as she stepped from the back room, she could feel the tension in the air.
Kelsey stood close to Justin by the cash register. Her arms were crossed and whatever she was saying to him, her expression told Ryan it wasn’t nice.
Ryan glared at her sister. “What’s going on?”
Kelsey turned to Ryan. “I was just giving Justin a little advice.” The tone of her sister’s voice pegged the pissed-off meter.
“You’re unbelievable.” She grabbed Justin’s hand and blew out a breath. “FYI, Kels—next time you want to get all sanctimonious, you might want to hide that big honking hickey first.”
Her sister pressed her collar against her neck and flushed.
Ryan didn’t stick around to see her recovery. She dragged Justin out the door and down the rickety wooden steps. “God, I can’t stand it when she gets like that. What did she say, anyway?”
“That if I hurt you, she’d clip my balls with a butter knife.”
Ryan slid to a stop in the gravel driveway and dropped his hand. “She
what?
”
He put his palms up. “Honest to God. That’s what she said.”
Ryan couldn’t help the slow smile that crossed her face or the heat that accompanied it. “That’s awkward.”
“Tell me about it.” He put his hand on the back of her neck and walked her the rest of the way to his truck.
Once they were on the road to Spring Creek, he asked the question she’d been expecting. “How’d the doctor’s appointment go?”
“Well, I guess you probably noticed my new look.” She flashed him a fake grin. “He cleansed my face, and by
cleansed
I mean
scrubbed
. It was brutal. Then they spread this gross antibiotic gel all over. On the upside, it doesn’t hurt my mouth to talk now. He looked at my lip. When every thing else heals, he wants to see it again.” She studied her hands and refused to give in to the tears that struggled for release. “I might have to have cosmetic repair done to my mouth. I’ll have scars, but he won’t know how bad until I heal.”
She watched Justin squeeze the steering wheel until his knuckles were almost white. “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”
“I wish I’d never met them. But I did and what happened, happened.” She shrugged with more indifference than she felt. “So now I learn to live with a new face.”
“You have a perfect face.” He smiled and it even looked real. Her dad had said those exact words, but the sadness in his eyes betrayed his true feelings.
“I think the goo gives it an extra special glow.” She flashed one cheek and then the other at him.
“Definitely.”
*
This girl is amazing. After all she’s been through, she jokes. And she holds my hand.
Justin felt stupid over getting excited about that, but he was. She was unlike anybody he’d ever met and he didn’t want to screw it up.
Silence grew in the truck and even Eric Church singing about his hometown couldn’t dissipate the awkwardness. When they finally neared the gallery, he gave her a wink. “Are you ready for Spring Creek’s big gallery?”
“So, how did a town as small as Spring Creek end up with an art gallery?”
“It’s not exactly the Tate.”
“The Tate? You know it?”
Score one for small-town boy. “Well, I’ve never been to London, so I’ve never seen it. But I know it’s supposed to be pretty cool.”
“We went during spring break a couple of years ago. My parents don’t get modern art, but I thought it was fantastic. The first room we entered had this huge canvas, the size of a wall. The beauty was in the strokes, the color changes, and the texture. It was so deep, and rich, and big that it pulled you into it.” She closed her eyes for a couple of seconds and gave a deep sigh. “It was one of those pieces that you could just feel. Then Dad turned to Mom and said, ‘We can throw red paint on a wall and call it art.’ I was so embarrassed.”
“Yeah, don’t expect anything that spectacular here.” He parked against the curb in front of the gallery. Next to the door was a cat sculpted from car parts.
The gallery was narrow, maybe twenty feet across. Pottery was displayed on a three-tiered wooden shelf that stretched the length of the space. “These are cool.” She pointed to a row of jugs that had faces on them.
“Those are by an artist named Block. He’s a local guy.”
Some of the jug faces grimaced like gargoyles, while others grinned with an I’ve got a secret expression. The colors were bold, matching the attitude of the pieces. At the end of the row was a squat green-glazed pitcher covered in eyes. “This is awesome. The piece is studying the viewer. We become a part of the exhibit. I’d like to read his artist statement.”
A thin, gray-haired woman appeared from behind a curtain in the back of the gallery. “Hi, I thought I heard somebody come in.” Her eyes grew slightly larger when she saw Ryan, but she seemed more interested in Justin. She patted him on the shoulder. “It’s been too long, Justin.”
Ryan gave him a questioning look and he knew he’d have to explain his knowledge of art. But that would come later. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She turned to Ryan. “The artist once said he allowed the jugs to decide what to become. Welcome to our little gallery. Let me know if I can help with anything—I’m wrestling with a frame in the back.” She turned to Justin again, her face drawn, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “It’s good to see you.”
Justin mumbled, “Thanks.” The woman retreated to the room behind the curtain.
The atmosphere turned heavy. “So, who is this guy who frequents small-town galleries, knows about a gallery on the other side of the pond, yet won’t walk all the way to the art room?”
“It’s a long story.” And time to change the subject. “What do you think so far?”
“It’s interesting. I never expected to see these face jugs.” She turned toward the pictures hanging on the walls. Most of them were old renderings of the courthouse or the shops around the square. As she studied them, he watched. Her expression said they were good, but not unique. Then, she noticed a soft light illuminating a picture in a dark corner at the back of the gallery. As she moved toward it, dread built in him.
In that moment, he knew bringing her here had been a colossal mistake.
*
Ryan was mesmerized by the painting.
It was of three football players from the perspective of inside the huddle. They held hands with their heads bowed, and their pained expressions could be seen behind the facemasks. Mud and grass stains smeared their uniforms. The sky above them was dark and angry and the scoreboard behind them indicated the final score was seven to zero. Ryan waited for the rest of the story to unfold. Were the players the winners? The pain in their eyes seemed much deeper than anything caused by a losing score. Had they suffered injuries?
She turned to speak to Justin, but he’d walked to the other end of the gallery. The gray-haired woman came out of the back room and stood next to her. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? I moved it back here after the accident. It sort of keeps her with me.”
Accident?
“Who’s the artist?”
“Oh, I assumed you knew. See here.” She pointed to the signature:
C. Hayes
. “Chelsea. Justin’s sister.”
“Sister?” She heard the door rattle and watched him step outside. Her heart beat a little faster. “The one who was killed in the car wreck?”
“Oh, it was terrible. Our precious Chelsea was the driver.”
The appreciation he had for art—the emotion she’d seen in his eyes when he talked about it—all came from his sister. Why hadn’t he told her? She was bound to find out somehow. If he hadn’t wanted her to know, why had he brought her to the gallery?
The woman wrung her hands and looked at Ryan. “The family hasn’t been the same since. Poor Justin. He and Chelsea were thick as thieves. He’s been a little lost without his sister, full of anger… but he’s a good kid.”
Why are you telling me this? I’m just a friend. I don’t need to know these things. I don’t need to know his secrets.
Ryan looked toward the door. “I’d better go…”
The woman followed her. “I hope you come back. It would be nice if you could bring Justin.”
“Thanks. I’ll try.” She had to get outside. Had to find him.
She didn’t have to look far. He sat on a metal bench that had been bolted to the sidewalk halfway between the gallery and the store next to it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
So, now what? God, this is so awkward.
She practically tiptoed to the bench. He didn’t move a muscle—even his eyes seemed fixed. She took a shaky breath and sat next to him. She hugged her purse to her, swallowed, and waited for him to speak.
Nothing. He didn’t move.
She should say something. What? She released the hold she had on her purse and rested her hand on the seat of the bench. She practiced in her head what she could say.
I’m sorry about your sister. Do you want to talk about it?
No. If he had wanted to talk about it, he would’ve.
I’m sorry about your sister. She was such a good artist—and now she’s dead.
No! You idiot. How about:
Would you freaking talk to me? You’re the one who suggested we come. You’re the one who brought me here.
She looked at him and looked away. She tried to form words in her throat, but it felt a little like it was collapsing.
He broke the silence with a deep sigh and leaned back. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his jeans and then grabbed Ryan’s hand. He curled his fingers around hers, drew it across his lap, and cupped it with his other hand. It didn’t feel like a flirty move, or a prelude to a kiss.
He was holding on for dear life.
At first, her muscles tensed, numbing her to the feel of his skin next to hers. But then, something crazy happened.
Warmth from his hand beckoned her to relax. And as it radiated into hers, she let go. Her fingers and palm melted into his. Her chest filled with grief, sorrow, anger, and all the horrible unspoken emotions that a human can endure. But they weren’t his emotions.
They were all hers.
Shame for the embarrassment and hurt she’d caused her family. Self-loathing for what she’d done. Anger at the girls who’d attacked her. They poured from her heart, and it was okay, because she had a lifeline too.
They sat on the bench, not speaking, hanging on to the world, their souls connecting through clasped hands until the sky slowly turned pink.
Finally, he looked at her and said, “Are you ready?”
She nodded and together they stood, their hands still clasped. He didn’t acknowledge her tears, nor she his.
He hesitated before he opened the passenger door of his truck, and looked into her eyes. Any other time, she would have expected a kiss. But he wouldn’t kiss her. Not now, maybe never. But what had passed between them was way bigger than a kiss. They were lost and broken, neither really knowing the other’s story. Where that left their friendship was bound to be as bizarre as what had blossomed there on the bench.
*
He wiped the remnants of his tears away with his forearm and pretended not to notice her fish a Kleenex out of her purse to wipe her eyes. If Mrs. Walters hadn’t walked up, he’d have probably been okay. But as soon as she started telling Ryan about that painting, he’d had to get out of there.
Just leaving the gallery wasn’t enough. The pain and sorrow threatened to pull him into that dark place that held his mom. He needed to feel something alive to remind him not to go there. So he’d done the only thing he could—he’d held Ryan’s hand and fought his way back. He hadn’t expected the emotions that passed between them. She had hung on to him, too. Her tears weren’t for him; she carried her own set of mental luggage.
He watched her dab hopelessly at the mascara under her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Do you?”
“No.” Thank God she didn’t want to talk. Whatever the hell that had been, it was way bigger than saving her from the fountain. The last thing he wanted to do was analyze it. “Wanna get a coke?”
“Yeah.”
He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Neither spoke as he made his way to the drive-in. He angled into a slot and shifted into Park. “What do you want to drink?”