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he actually
deserves serious props, because, holy crap, he’s convincing.
“It’s not useless,” I say softly. “What I heard wasn’t, anyway. I
mean…maybe the other stanzas suck.”
Lawrence doesn’t reply. I bite my lip. I don’t want the conversation to end. Not yet. I need to investigate more. Time to
lower the wall of sarcasm a bit.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think it’s pretty awesome that
you write.”
“Thanks,” he says, but he still seems distant.
A particularly large wave rushes up, the white foam lapping
our feet. I turn to dodge it and notice that the sun has slipped
behind the house and out of sight. The clouds burn red and
purple. It’s a hot, humid night, and the wind carries the scent
of sea and fresh-cut grass. As I breathe it in, a warm, buzzing
sense of well-being spreads over me. For the first time in a long
time, I feel the strongest urge to get out my canvas and brushes.
That sky represents everything that’s perfect about summer.
“Beautiful sunset,” Lawrence says, following my gaze.
“It’s flawless.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s something in his expression that
I can’t put my finger on. I get reckless when I’m happy, so I
decide to fish it out of him.
“So,” I start to walk again, “you say you’ve never let anyone
read your poetry.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why did you recite some to me?”
“A good question,” Lawrence says, nodding. “Why did I?”
“Do you not know, or are you trying to be cute?”
“I really don’t know,” he admits. “There’s something about
you…”
It’s the kind of line every artsy girl wants to hear. And as
clichéd as it might be, I melt a little inside. This guy is good.
We walk down closer to the shore. The cool water skims
against our toes. Lawrence bends to pick up a rock and gives it
a firm toss into the ocean.
“What is it?” he asks. “What is it that makes you so different?”
“I’ve always been weird. It’s kind of my thing.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s not every day you meet a girl
who knows poetry.”
I shrug. “I guess not, though I don’t know a ton. I’m more of
an artist. Painter.”
Lawrence stops, staring at me. “That so?”
“Yes, but I’m not the drunk kind either. Only during my
blue period.”
He nods, impressed.” I think that’s swell,” he says earnestly.
I laugh at his choice of words. “Yeah. It’s really swell.”
“What do you paint?” He seems genuinely interested.
“Well, I’d paint that sunset, for one thing.”
“Ah, yes. You do landscapes then?”
“Sometimes. I paint a little of everything. Whatever reaches
out and grabs me by the collar.”
Lawrence hasn’t taken his eyes off me. His smile of unmasked
admiration makes my heart blossom in my chest.
“I knew there was something different about you.”
“Oddly enough, I feel the same about you.” I’m getting dizzy
trying to figure this guy out. It’s exciting and puts me on alert
at the same time. “Can I ask you a random question? Were you
raised in a foreign country? Or maybe a hippie commune? A
friendly cult?”
Lawrence looks amused. “No. Why?”
I shake my head. “No reason.”
“We really are a pair of odd ducks, aren’t we, Cassandra?”
“The fact that you use the phrase ‘odd ducks’ illustrates
that perfectly.”
He looks at me again in that way of his. Bold, unassuming,
and curious, as if he’s taking me in and not afraid to show it.
“I want to know more about you,” he says. “If you’ll give me
the chance.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I might be open to that.”
“Why don’t you come in the house? Our cook can get you
some ice cream while I change. And then we can talk more.”
“You live close to here?” I ask.
Lawrence points toward my house. “I’d say it’s pretty close.”
I perk up. I thought all of the neighboring houses were
empty, their owners off in Europe or the Maldives or whatever
obscure, luxury vacation