Wanderlove (28 page)

“It doesn’t matter.” I shrug. “So what? I’m the neurotic one. They’re a bunch of stupid drawings. Why should I care if people look at my art? Isn’t that the point of it?”

“I don’t think there has to be a point.” I shrug again. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who made it into a big deal. I’m the one who gave up art in the first place. I didn’t have to. No one made me.”

“But you draw all the time.”

“Not in the same way. I used to be serious about it. It was my whole life. I mean it—I’ve never cared about
anything
as much as I cared about art. And then . . .” I wave my hands through the air like a melodramatic orchestra conductor. “I stopped. I let it go.”

Rowan’s still leaning against the door, and it’s making me feel self-conscious. I pound the seat of the adjacent chair. He sits, careful not to touch me.

“Can’t you just . . . take it seriously again?”

“You don’t get it, Rowan. With art, it’s different. You have to work your ass off nonstop to get good. The competition out there’s staggering. And I’m not even going to art school. I’m not . . .”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m crying again.

“Don’t,” I say, even though he hasn’t said anything. “It’s stupid. It’s my fault. I believed Toby when he said we’d go to art school together, no matter what.”

“Toby . . . your boyfriend.”

“Yep. Surprise! He was real—just past tense, not present.” I wipe my eyes. “He was an artist too. And he was really good.

Like prodigy good. You’ll have to take my word for it. His father was a professional artist, and it made him obsessively disciplined. Before I met him, all I did was doodle.” That’s what Toby called it, at least. Wistfully, I recall my fairies, my woodland creatures, my cherubs looped with ivy.

My sea monsters.

“I hate to admit it, but Toby made me good. Made me serious. He’s the reason I started to study art. And maybe I never cracked the whip like he did, but I saw my drawings get better. Until I could hardly believe what came out of my pencil.”

“So what happened?”

“He was jealous. I know that now. I got into Southern California Art Academy’s fast-track program, and he didn’t.

The plan was
who cares who makes the program: we’ll both go to
SCAA anyway
. I was naïve enough to believe him. But after months of doing this stupid secretive dance, where we both kept avoiding the subject, he informed me he was going to the Art Institute of Chicago. He’d known for ages, but didn’t tell me until it was too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“For me to apply to other art schools.”

“But what about the art academy? Can’t you still go?”

“Nope! I never sent in my acceptance.” I shake my head, laughing through my tears. Rowan probably thinks I’ve gone mental. “I told my parents that they were right, it was too expensive, and that I wanted the flexibility of one of my state school fallbacks. And they barely even questioned it! I swear, they didn’t even notice when I stopped drawing. Like they thought it was a passing phase the whole time. I didn’t want to think about art until I decided to take this trip. At the time . . . well, it sounds really, really screwed up, but it was easier to let it go.”

“I get it,” Rowan says after a pause.

“What do you get?”

“How it’s possible to give up something you love.” I can’t speak, so I tear off a strip of rattan and crumple it in my palm.

“Because I know what it’s like,” he says. “To throw away all the good things you’ve got going for you.
Nothing
makes you hate yourself more than that.” He reaches over and takes the crumpled strip of rattan from my hands. “I’ve come to realize that sometimes, what you love the most is what you have to fight the hardest to keep.”

“Isn’t it the opposite? If you love something, set it free, or whatever.”

“I don’t think it’s the opposite, necessarily. If you really, truly love it, it’ll find you again, no matter what.” He shakes his head. “I mean, look at you! I’ve never seen anyone draw so much. Isn’t that your second sketchbook that Emily stole?”

“It’s my third,” I admit. Then, inexplicably, I find myself laughing again. “You know what’s crazy? My dad bought me the anatomy coloring book in the first place—”

“Stop right there,” Rowan says. “Did you say ‘anatomy coloring book’?”

“I did,” I say.

“For coloring? Like, with crayons? When you were a kid?”

“A little more recently than that.”

“Why in the world?”

“Well, it was really a medical reference, for med students . . . not as exciting as it sounds. I went on this field trip to visit art schools sophomore year, and it’s what I saw lots of students using. For memorizing anatomy. For art. Like kind of a hands-on approach . . .” Aware I am only embarrassing myself further, I shut my mouth.

“I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You would.”

“So do you know your anatomy?”

I pull off my bandana and run my hands through my wild hair. My face feels tight with dried tears. “I’m not sure if I like where this is going.”

“Innocent speculation, I swear. I almost took an anatomy class this summer. Online, of course. It’s always fascinated me.”

“I know it okay. Not as well as a doctor, or one of those Marvel Comics artists, but I’m decent. For someone my age.

For a girl artist.”

“A girl artist?”

“Well, guy artists who are into, like, superheroes tend to know it better. I just memorized enough to get by. It helps me draw from my head. Or finish a drawing when my reference is gone, so they don’t look like Muppets.”

“What’s this called?” He points at some indiscriminate place on his arm.

“That’s between the bicep and the tricep. You probably know those. But then there’s the deltoid. . . .” I reach out and touch his shoulder. “One of my favorite muscles. You’ve got to study not just the shape of it, but also the way it moves. It pulls up and out. Try it.”

He lifts his arm. I feel his muscle flex beneath my hand.

“The deltoid runs up against the trapezius. Stand up and I’ll show you.” When he stands, I slide my hand to the top of his back, behind his shoulder. “The trapezius runs down your spine, where your latissimus dorsi comes around. . . .”

“Latissi . . .” He stumbles.

I laugh. “Latissimus dorsi. That one’s a mouthful.”

“Here?” He touches my upper back.

“Lower.” I arch my back as his hand slides to my waist, the heat of his touch making me suck air through my teeth. We stay that way for a moment, our hands on each other’s backs.

If there was music, we’d be dancing. But instead, we’re just standing here awkwardly, in an anatomical half hug.

“Did I mention I love it when you talk about art?”

“You might have.” I pull away, clearing my throat.

“Well . . . big day tomorrow. And I’d like to be at least feigning sleep by the time Emily gets here, so I don’t punch her in the face.”

I follow Rowan to the door. He opens it, then hesitates.

“Bria . . . Damn it. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“That I’ve been so stupidly secretive with you. I didn’t know what you went through with that ex of yours, but that’s no excuse.”

“Come on. That was way different.”

“Close enough. And being embarrassed is no excuse either. I told you to trust me, but why would you? How could you, if you didn’t know the whole story?”

“Rowan, I—”

“But I need you to know that I’m not getting into anything with Jack. No drug deals. No deals of any sort, and not any kind of real friendship, either. I never planned to. I realize it might have come off like I was considering it, but I wasn’t.

I swear to you. I wouldn’t do that to you, or to myself.” Shit.
Shit
.

“And I’m pretty sure I talked him out of it too. From now on, you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer. Truthfully. In the name of overcoming the past. Sound good, Bria?” I smile weakly.

“If you’re lucky,” he adds, “I’ll even tell you my whale shark story.”

Now I grin. Because despite the plummeting sensation in my stomach, Rowan is irresistible when he’s like this. “I would
love
to hear your whale shark story.”

“Tomorrow.” He salutes me.

As soon as I close the door, I press my forehead against it, counting to one hundred just to be safe. Then I hurry back outside and back downstairs to the lobby, desperately hoping it’s not too late to call off my whole misguided espionage attempt before it blows up in my face.

Day 17, Morning

Suspended

Early the next morning, a vigorous knock wakes me from a stressful sleep. All night, I kept reliving my call to Starling. I thought she’d be relieved, but instead, she was annoyed.

She’d already booked a plane ticket and could get only a partial refund. It was all I could do to get off the phone.

I glance at the other girls. Emily’s sleeping backward, with her feet on her pillow. Ariel’s still wearing her shoes. Since the two of them aren’t about to resurrect themselves anytime soon, I shuffle out of bed.

“Who is it?”

“Your knight in shining armor.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I open the door. “Rowan, what . . .”

When I see him, I cover my face with my hands. He’s wearing a wet suit, half peeled, like a black banana. I try to shut the door before my loopy brain starts cataloguing his stomach muscles, but he catches the knob.

“This is your last chance. Devon offered to take us out on the boat, but we have to go now. Lobsterfest kicks off just after noon, and we’ll probably want to be back in time to shower.”

“You know I don’t swim.”

“Won’t swim. You used to swim at your beach all the time—you told me. And I think it’s exactly what you need.

It’ll be a rite of passage.”

“Like your bracelets? Which you still haven’t removed.”

“Give me one good reason why you won’t dive.” I scowl at him. The problem is I don’t have a good reason, and both of us know it.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with that guy, does it?” Rowan touches my hand. “Come on, Bria—do you really want to give him that kind of power over you?” My mouth hangs open so wide a frigate bird could fly inside it. I back into the room and sit on my bed. Ariel mumbles something incomprehensible.

“Wait.” Rowan sits beside me. The cheap mattress almost touches the floor. “Look. I know that’s hitting below the belt.

But isn’t he the reason you’re holding back? I hate that fucker having any influence on you, especially when it comes to something I think you’ll love. You see so much, Bria. . . . It’s like traveling with a little kid.”

“What?” I screech.

Rowan laughs. “I just mean . . . everything seems new through you. I don’t know if it’s your being an artist, but you see things in a way I haven’t for a long time. If ever.”

My anesthetized heart twitches feebly.

“So will you come?”

I shake my head. “It’s not just Toby. I’m scared.”

“You said you used to love to swim!”

I suppose I did. “It’s not that I’m scared of swimming, exactly. Anymore. But . . . I’m scared of scuba diving—of being underwater. What if something happens?”

“That’s my job,” Rowan says. “Literally. It’s my job. I’ll be with you the whole time, right beside you, and I’ll talk you through it all before we go under.”

“But you can’t prevent everything. What about, I don’t know, nitrogen narcosis? Or what if I get the bends?”

“You read the dive book!”

“I did,” I confess. I read it cover to cover.

“We won’t go deep enough for you to worry about all that.

Twenty, thirty feet, tops. You could rocket to the surface at that depth and nothing would happen.”

“I might
rocket to the surface
?” Rowan sighs. I sigh. We sigh together.

“Damn you,” I say. “
Fine
. I’ll dive!” He leans over and hugs me.

Rowan has never hugged me before. And I’ve never hugged him. But instead of hugging back, I just sit there like a Bria-shaped rag doll, cursing that stupid silly thrill in my chest.

“You should draw me in my wet suit,” Rowan shouts over the roar of the engine. We’re sitting on the dive boat, on our way to the Hol Chan Marine Reserve. I can tell he’s trying to calm me by changing the subject. But he’s not picking the right one.

“That would be beyond lame,” I tell him.

“Really? You don’t think this is a good look for me?” I can’t help laughing. “I don’t think wet suits are a good look for anyone. And anyway, I know you remember what I said. I don’t draw friends.”

“You drew Emily and Ariel.”

“Not friends! And anyway, they weren’t supposed to see.”

“What about Starling?”

“Same.”

“We’re getting close,” Devon shouts back at us. She’s wearing a skimpy black bikini, the better for showing off her baseball glove skin.

“Well, what if you drew—”

“Shut up and talk about diving.”

“But we’ve already gone over everything! And you’ve read the book.”

“I want you to tell me what you love about it.” He grins. “Well . . . I love moving in extra dimensions.

Not just backwards and forwards, but up and down and around. And fins. I love swimming with fins—human feet are practically useless underwater. I love all the unique things you see on each dive. Millions of little aquatic soap operas playing out between all the creatures. And the silence. Well, it’s not really silent down there, but the roar of bubbles blocks any other sound. . . .”