Painted Boots (15 page)

26

I STEP FROM
my bathroom to the rumbling sound of Kyle’s black Chevy. His truck!  I thought his dad had made it off-limits.  I bolt for the stairs, so excited to see him I trip over myself—I have to grip the rail to keep from tumbling down.  But the engine sound weakens.  Then it’s gone entirely.

The silence
makes me angry.

Yesterday, after my stitches came out, Dad announced we’d be spending the day at home, quiet and together, just us two. 
It’s not like he had specific plans.  We didn’t talk about anything special.  We watched a movie.  That was it.  When Kyle came round after school Dad met him at the door, took my homework and politely told him it was a daddy-daughter day.  I didn’t even get to say hello.

And now Dad’s blown Kyle off again
.

In my imagination
I run down the stairs like a crazed Tasmanian devil and let Dad have it.  In reality I’m still feeling my ribs a bit, so I take each step carefully.

I find Dad
in the kitchen with Jesse.  She’s helping him fix scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.  She wasn’t here when I went to bed last night.  When did she show up?  Three grapefruits are on the table, and three place-settings.  Coffee, milk, the makings for tea.  I stare at a bouquet of white roses lying near my plate.  They’re bursting from a plain brown paper wrapper, like too much ice cream tumbling from a sugar cone.  A white envelope sits next to them.  “A,” it says.

“Why’d you send him away?” I ask.

Dad doesn’t turn from the eggs.  “He’ll be back.”

“Morning, Aspen,” Jesse chirps.

“He could have eaten with us!  I haven’t seen him since Thursday night.”

“
You’ll survive it.”  Dad scrapes the eggs onto a platter, adding the bacon on the side.  “It’s rough, I know, hanging with your old man.”

“You mean my
old man and Jesse.”

Dad
smiles at me as he walks to the table.  It’s like he won’t see how mad I am, and that only makes me madder.  “Put your flowers in a vase,” he says.  “Then let’s eat.”

I pull
my white hobnail vase, the one Kyle gave me when I was in the hospital, from the cupboard above the fridge.  Then I untie the thin jute cord securing the paper around the roses.  After filling the vase with lukewarm water, I trim the stems.  The flowers fill the vase entirely, and they’re wonderfully fragrant.  I set the vase on the table, turn it until the best part of the arrangement faces toward me, then sit down.  Dad waits for Jesse to settle in before he plops into his chair.  He rests his elbows on his place mat.  His fingers form a steeple over his plate.

“Aren’t you going to read
Kyle’s note?”

“When I’m in private,” I say.

“You nut.”  Dad laughs.  “So Jesse’s eating with us this morning.”

“I see that.”

“I thought she could help me talk to you.  About.  Ah.  You know.”

I dump a spoonful of eggs onto my plate
.  “I know you’re making zero sense.”

Dad stares at me. 
“Right.  Well.  You’re almost eighteen.  I’m drawing on some assumptions here, but I’d prefer you wait until you’re, uh, out of high school to be, you know, intimate with Kyle.  Though I’ll admit you’re doing better than your mother and I did.  We were barely sixteen.”

I butter my toast
.  “We’re.  In.  Public.  Dad.”

Dad snorts out a laugh. 
“Jesse isn’t public, honey.  She’s, uh.  We’re, well.  I need to.  Ah.”  Dad blushes.  “I guess I’m trying to ask if you’ve had a conversation about birth control?  And protection?”

I roll my eyes.  “
Is this for real?  We’re talking about this right now?  In front of a stranger?”

“Jesse’s my girlfriend, honey.”

“At least that’s cleared up.”  I grab my napkin from my lap and set it on the table. “And since you mentioned it, Mom gave me her sex lecture about ten thousand times before I even turned twelve.  Who knows how many times after?  So don’t worry.  I probably know more about it than you do.”

Dad glances at Jesse, then his
meal.  His eggs become unusually interesting.

Jesse says,
“He means have you discussed it with Kyle.”

I stare
at Jesse until her eggs become interesting, too.

Dad
rests his fork on his plate.  His lips pull into a slight frown.  “This is something two responsible people heading into the deeper waters of a relationship talk about, Aspen.  You don’t want to end up with a disease.  Or a baby.”

“
I think Kyle’s a virgin, Dad.  I know I am.”  I fold my arms across my chest but for a second, I have to look away.  Since the shower thing, Kyle and I are as close to being non-virgins as two virgins can get.

“
That’s welcome news,” Dad says, “but if you’re planning on unprotected sex I’m here to tell you.  Virgins get pregnant all the time.  And the only way either of you know you’re disease-free is by seeing a doctor.  I’ve made an appointment for you with a gynecologist.  If you want it.  For whatever kind of, um, well.  Ah.  Birth control you choose.”

“Can this get more awkward?” 
I stare from Dad to Jesse.  Jesse shrugs.

Dad crumbles
bacon into his eggs then stirs until everything is well mixed.  He gathers up a forkful then stops, the food hovering half-way to his mouth.  His eyes fix on mine.  “I’m not trying for awkward.  So I’ll just say it plain.  Making an appointment for you is what your mother would have wanted me to do.  So I did it.”

“
Guys can buy condoms in the grocery but I have to get your permission for the pill?”

“You don’
t need my permission, baby.  I was just trying to . . . to be here for you.  I’m just trying to help.  You’re free to see a doctor any time you want.  They’ll bill our insurance.  You have a card.  I thought . . . I don’t know.  Maybe you’ve already taken care of this?”

I roll my eyes
, again.

Dad takes his time chewing his eggs.  He sets his fork
on his plate and wipes at the corners of his mouth.  With his fingers, he taps the edge of the table.  His forehead scrunches a bit, like corrugated cardboard.

Jesse’s lips curl into a sympathy smile.  She
leans toward me.  She pats my hand.  “Gals buy condoms too,” she says softly.  “All the time.”  The faintest, happiest expression flickers over Dad’s face.  He shoots Jesse the kind of pukingly lovey-dovey look I wish I didn’t understand.  At.  All.

I shove
back my chair.  “I need to go upstairs,” I say, and walk from the room.

Dad call
s out, “Don’t you want to finish your eggs?”  But I don’t answer. I can’t.  There’s no way to explain.  It’s like I’m an island, like I’m the only family I have left.  He’s my dad, yeah, but he’s with Jesse now.  And they—together!—are trying to fit me, like some odd-sized third wheel, onto their bicycle built for two.

I’m shampooing my hair and fuming over my new family-unit sex-talk when I remember Kyle’s letter.  I left it unprotected, to use the vernacular of the day.  It’s still on the kitchen table.  I finish my hair, speed-dry then pull on lounge clothes—an old pair of sweats and a long-sleeved tee.  With my hair wrapped in a towel I hurry downstairs, though I guess I didn’t need to.  Kyle’s letter is right where I left it.  I rip it open.

Till I met you

Didn’t know what to do

Then your courage made me stronger

Now you’re lovin’ me

You’re all that I see

You’ve taken my soul and heart

Upon
your shoulders

What can I do

To set aside every trouble
and

Walk
to where I am with you

If you’ll let me hold you

I’d know
just what to do

to

Keep you here girl, in my world

Then no matter what might come my way

Yeah, no matter what

might come your way

W
e’ll be all right

We’ve found ways to say

W
hat’s been unspoken

Girl we’ve shed our

Isolation

Alone I’ve been lost

I’ve been
badly tossed

My best
is with you girl, together

Know
I need you

And when things get too rough, like

They sometimes do

I’ll fall back on my love girl for you

Yeah I already know

that you’ll always be there

Y
ou’re mine and I’m yours and we are

Forever

So please
let me hold you

‘
cause I know just what to do

to

Keep you here girl, in my world

Then no matter what might come my way

Yeah, no
matter what

might
come your way

We’ll
be all right

Oh
girl

We are
all right.

Aspen,

I’ll pick you up tonight at seven.  We’ll jam for the first time since our first date.  This is your song!  It’s done and I’ll be singing it, just for you.

I love you, girl.  I love you.

K

27

I’VE ALMOST REACHED the top of the ladder when Kyle takes my hands, like he did the first time I visited the Jam, and lifts me past the final few rungs.  As he closes the heavy trap door I watch him, feeling a goofy smile spread across my face.  He’s gorgeous tonight, in a white western dress shirt, a cool obsidian-bird bolo tie I’d love to wear, indigo jeans, a black stitched belt and cowboy boots.  Perfectly trimmed short stubble covers his cheeks and chin.  It’s his KDT look.  A million girls love him for it.  His views on YouTube are proof of that.

My smile melts into a little pout
.  Maybe it’s just because of Dad and Jesse, but I don’t like the idea of all those girls lusting after my guy.  Or maybe I feel pouty because the Jam is nothing like I remember it.  I’ve been dreaming all day about kissing.  I’ve been fantasizing about rolling around on the Jam’s pillowed floor.  I’m basically desperate to enjoy and be enjoyed.

B
ut the pillows are stacked in a teetering crescent along a section of wall.  I’m standing on sanded and sealed OSB.  Cords run everywhere: to a tripod and camera occupying the center of the room, to a lot of blinking equipment and a computer sitting in an open cupboard, to a microphone dangling from the ceiling.  Facing the camera and stationed near a black curtain is a tall, black stool.

“
So . . . what’s going on?” I ask.

Kyle
scoops his black felt hat from where it sits atop the nearest pillow stack.  Fixing it onto his head he says, “We’re recording your song.”

“You’re posting it? 
Tonight?  On YouTube?”

“
Unless you mind.  I haven’t posted for a while and your song?  It’s the best I’ve done, so far.”  He lifts his black and white guitar from its hanger then settles on the stool, fastening the guitar strap round his shoulder.  “Stand behind the camera, ‘kay?  We’re sharing your song with the planet, but what I’ve really done is written my heart into music for you, girl. Let me sing it to you.”

M
y face creeps with blush, which seems silly. I mean, I’ve been naked with him twice.

Kyle warms
his fingers with a few chords.  Without looking at me he says, “Go ahead now.  Press the red button.”

The lights
dim gradually, like they do in movie theaters.  Soon the Jam is inky dark—Kyle’s trademark beginning to every post he has on YouTube.  As he starts to play I stare through the skylight, searching out a few flickering stars.  I’m starting to feel anxious when from behind me a single spot blinks into being, drenching Kyle in a tilted cone of light.  He plays the intro with his head bowed.  Just before he sings he looks up with eyes bright and blue and for me alone.

The instrumental
seems slightly different from the way he played it a month ago, that first time I sat listening to him in the Jam.  There’s more harmony now.  The pick is more complex.  But the real change is Kyle’s voice.  It’s like I’d forgotten how incredible he sounds.  I know the words to all his songs by heart, this one especially.  I mean, I’ve spent so much of today memorizing this song the words are practically part of my DNA.  But now the words roll over me, fresh and raw, and I can’t help it.  My eyes brim with tears.

M
aybe Kyle sees my emotion, because his face deepens in color.  A crease forms across his forehead.  His eyes shift from carefree blue to something mystic, more like the stillness of a mountain lake.  A tear catches in his lashes and glitters there, a captive star.  Another draws a shining trail along the side of his cheek.

His music
is beautiful.  He’s beautiful.

When
he finishes he sits there, as breathless and fixed on me as I am on him.  “I love you, Aspen,” he says quietly.

Love seems like such a small word for what I’m feeling.  I mean, it’s like Kyle
has built a whole new universe inside my heart.  I look at him, wishing English had a deeper way for me to tell him, “I love you, too.”

He
unfastens his guitar strap and stands, balancing the instrument across the stool before he walks the few steps between us.  He turns the camera off then wraps his arms around my shoulders.  I drop my hands into his back pockets, pulling his body to mine.

“
The Jam’s my house,” he whispers.  “Like I once told you.  But god, girl.  I can’t be without you.  You’re my home.”