Effortless With You (18 page)

I can’t handle her anymore.

 A few cars sit scattered in the urgent care parking lot. I blot the wetness from under my eyes. I guess it doesn’t really matter what I look like anymore. When I enter the building, a nurse glances up from her desk, drops her pen and rushes to my side.

I knew I looked horrendous.

 She directs me into a back room where I wait for the doctor. She probably misinterprets my crazed appearance as shock from my injury. The fluorescent lights hum above me and hurt my eyes. I swing my legs back and forth with my eyes closed.

This day needs to end.

The doctor examines my hand, remarking how beautifully the wounds have already been cleaned. He suggests stitches on the two deep cuts, leaving the decision up to me. He tells me I am going to scar either way, so I might want the scars to align.

After my day, the thought of someone sewing my flesh together doesn’t seem so bad. I shrug, handing him my palm as I grimace into my shoulder. He quickly sews me up before sending a nurse in to finish bandaging my palms. I leave urgent care with flexible and less glove-like bandages. I drive aimlessly, not yet ready to go home per Dad’s standards or my own.

Why does Mom always have to be so awkward? Why can’t she understand that she is socially inappropriate? I have tried approaching her calmly, with concern. I have tried ignoring her. I have tried yelling at her. She never gets it.

I pull the car into an empty parking lot. How can Dad expect me to find compassion for her? She doesn’t seem to have any for me. I lean my head against the steering wheel, remembering her hand on my leg the night before, my packed lunch in the fridge, and her look of worry as I walked through the door this evening.

I relent. I don’t have enough energy to rationalize against the truth any longer. Mom does care. I just chose to ignore it.

My new troll appearance stares back at me from the rearview mirror. Why can’t I just be nice to her? Why do her unintentional moments of humiliation outweigh her kind gestures? Why can’t she just sit down and talk to me? Or, even better, listen?

But why didn’t I know how to sit down and do the same?

I groan, hating my conscience. This isn’t my fault.

And, that’s when it dawns upon me. Just as our issues aren’t exclusively my fault, they aren’t hers either. We are both responsible for what we’ve become. I will try harder. I’ll start small, showing her compassion in the ways she showed me. I rub my cheeks as my eyes grow heavier. I can do that. I turn the key in the ignition. That will have to be enough for Dad. I’m not ready for a group share, but I can start being better.

***

I maintain a low profile at home that weekend. I sleep a lot between loads of laundry and trying to do small things for Mom. I organize the gardening magazines on her desk, walk Eric down the street to his friend’s house, and vacuum the stairs. I doubt Mom really understands what I am trying to do but it does seem to keep her out of my hair.

While I am folding laundry, our home phone rings. I usually ignore it but recognize Justin’s number on the caller ID. The white receiver is thick and foreign in my hand and the curled cord is so restraining. I won't be able to pace as we speak. I take a deep breath before answering.

“Hello?” My voice weakens at the end. Crap. I sound nervous. I sit down on the blue wingback chair, hoping it will help give my voice stability.

 “Lucy, why didn’t you call me back?” Justin’s voice, even in frustration, makes my heart pound.

I speak slowly, containing the rush of energy through my system. “Sorry. I didn’t know you called.”

“Was your cell broken?”

I’d purposely left my phone in my purse all weekend. That small—well, now large—part of me wanted Justin to call. I couldn’t have my phone taunting me. I didn’t want to be that girl hovering over her phone, waiting for a boy to call. I'm pathetic enough already.

“Nope, I just haven’t checked it. What’s up?” My legs itch. How do people talk without pacing? “Can you drive yourself to work tomorrow? I’ve got some errands I want you to run.” His words sting. I thought he was calling to check on me.

“Sure,” I say lightly.

“Great. I’ll text you all the info you’ll need for the morning.”

“Okay, sounds good.” I force the rhythm of my voice to sound upbeat.

“Alright. See you tomorrow afternoon.”

The phone clicks before I can say goodbye. I keep the receiver up to my ear, softly hitting it against my temple to the dial tone. I’m completely helpless to this stupid heartache. There is nothing I can do. I can’t flirt or dress my way into his attention. I wouldn’t even try. Justin has a wonderful relationship. I'm not like Marissa. I would never try to screw that up. I just need a distraction so I can move on.

I wander up to my room to check my phone. I have missed two calls from Justin and two texts. One’s from Matt.

Matt: Sorry about Zach. You’re better off. Please still come to my party, next Friday. Don’t forget, you promised me during pool at the restaurant!

I read the message but don’t respond. Crap. I did say I’d go. I’ll have to cancel. There’s no way I can handle being anywhere with Marissa and Zach making out.

I scroll to the next text.

Justin: At Rivervalley Library, please pick up books that I have on reserve. They are expecting you. Then stop at Target and pick up home design magazines and a notebook. I’ll pay you back. See you 9ish.

I fumble through my desk for a pen and post-it to make a clearer list. The bottom drawer is jammed. With a pen, I slide out the offender. My essay on
Pride and Prejudice
falls to the floor. The red C- seems larger than before.

C-. That sucks. I curl up on my window seat and scan the essay. The format is perfect but the content is absolutely laughable. It's obvious I haven’t read the book. A C- was generous. I can’t believe I wasted Mr. Taden’s time with this. On the last page, I discover a short note scribbled in red pen. “Lucy, you try to sell yourself short but your potential shows through. Please re-do before the last day of school.”

My gut sinks. I’d never taken the time to look past the grade.

I pull
Pride and Prejudice
off the above bookshelf. Boring Victorian figures sit ghostly together on the cover. The binding has never been creased. I ruffle the pages, smelling them. I used to be able to pick a good book by its smell. This book smells old and flowery. It's worth the read.

I believe I’ve found my distraction.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The morning drive to work is an eternity without Justin bothering me. I double park him as punishment. The guys are on their breakfast break when I arrive, but I won’t allow my eyes to linger to pick Justin out from the group. But his dark hair and neck muscles are pretty hard not to notice. I give a quick wave in everyone’s general direction before fumbling with my keys. Crap. No pockets. I pull down the visor, pinning them to the garage door remote.

“You do know Luke likes to steal cars, right?” Alex teases, reaching in through the window and grabbing the keys off the visor. He slips them into his pocket before he opens my door. “I heard about your hands. That sucks, huh?” I step out of the car.

“Totally.”

“Can I see?”

I laugh. “Seriously?”

“Please?” he pretends to pout.

I shrug, carefully uncovering my palms. Alex holds the gauze for me so he can get the full picture. He whistles. “No fair. Those are gonna be wicked scars!”

“The doctor said something like that.”

“Sweet. And such an awesome story to go with them. Falling off the roof followed up with being run over by a tornado.” He whistles again.

“Now, don’t pity her too much, Alex.” Justin smiles, taking the gauze out of Alex’s hands. “You should probably keep these wrapped up if they’re going to heal, right?” He takes my left palm, holding it in his large hands, and starts pulling the gauze around it. My heart pounds violently against my chest.

This needs to stop.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’ve been doing it all weekend.” I pull my hand from his and finish the wrapping myself. He takes a step back, eyeing the backseat. “The stuff’s in the trunk,” I say. He nods, reaching in my car and flicking the trunk release switch. Three thick volumes about Victorian homes, the Target bag, and a few books on business economics sit in the trunk.

I pull my water bottle out of the car. “So, can I go work with Alex today?”

“No, not today.”

I secretly rejoice, knowing that after the accident he would want to be my partner.

“Oh, okay.” I act casual.

“Actually, I’m going to have you do some research.” He taps the volumes of books.

“Wait, I’m not painting?”

Justin raises his eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d let you paint like that?” he nods toward my hands.

“But I’m fine. I can move them without issues!” That's a lie. They sting like crazy when I bend them. But I don’t care. I need to paint; it's weirdly relaxing.

“Sorry. No way. It’s not happening.” He hands me the notebook from the plastic bag and the first volume about Victorian homes. “I need you to read this and take notes on anything pertaining to the exterior of Victorian homes, what materials they used, and what compounds were in the paint.”

I open the cover. A cloud of dust poofs in my face. “Seriously?”

He nods. “And when you’re done, I need you to read the other two.”

“And then I can paint?”

“Well, after you complete your art project.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Justin shrugs. “It’s a job that needs to be done.”

“What’s the art project?”

“Well,” he holds up the second volume and flips through it, “While you are reading, take time looking at the homes’ exterior colors and inside details. Flip through the magazines you bought and rip out any similar looks and colors. Save them for me.”

“Like a collage?” I say sarcastically.

I am unprepared for his chuckle so naturally my heart melts. Justin smiles at me. “Actually, that’s a good idea. That way they’d be all together.” He looks at the notebook. “Just put them in the back of the notebook for now. I’ll bring glue tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Of course. You don’t think you can finish this in a day, do you?”

I shrug, “I could if I wanted to.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Well, don’t. I’m hoping this will last you the week.” He nods toward the house. “Then you can paint.”

I look down at the volume in my hand. “You know this sucks, right?”

“Yup. That’s why you’re doing it and not me.” He pats me on the back as he walks away, calling out to Troy in the distance.

Settling myself under a large shady tree on Dad’s emergency blizzard blanket, I open up the first volume and balk at the faded print. My nose itches from the dust. Justin wasn’t kidding. This really may take all week.

The book is surprisingly interesting. Each chapter was dedicated to a Minneapolis or St. Paul historical home. I become engrossed in each home’s history, learning about the families that lived there, fires, new additions, and even a few murders. Occasionally I come across a line about siding or paint color and I force myself to stop and jot down some notes. At the end of each chapter, I rip out a few colors that match the photos, stuffing them into the back of the notebook for the collage.

I used to meticulously create collage book covers with Marissa at school. It was torture, but I never let on. It was something to do during study hall.

I rip out a photo of a dark red lamp, crumpling the edge a bit as I put it in the back of the notebook. It’s amazing how satisfying it is.

I really do hate crafts.

During my breaks, I spend a lot of time at the base of Alex’s ladder complaining. It takes all my strength to avoid Justin. A simple glimpse at his tan arms is enough to send me reeling. Everything feels so raw right now. I can’t be near him. My feelings would be too obvious.

Troy ends the day as I finish the first volume. I slam it closed, avoiding the dust. My butt aches from the grooves of the tree roots. Justin is crazy if he thinks I’ll do this a full week. Tomorrow, I’ll be more efficient, finishing both books so I can start painting again on Wednesday. And screw the collage. There’s no way I’m doing that. He can just sort through the photos himself.

Justin walks over to me as I pile the books in the trunk. He leans against my car, shifting uncomfortably. “So, listen,” he begins. “It probably doesn’t make sense for you to come out here super early tomorrow since you’re just reading and stuff.”

I hold up my notebook and flip through ten pages of perfectly outlined details, “You call this
just reading
?” Talk about under appreciation. All of the butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in my heart cringe in unison.

“You know what I mean, Lady.” Justin follows me to the front seat. I pull open the door, fumbling with the visor for the keys.