When We Collided(7)

Leah selects as many paint bottles as her little hands will hold and then grabs two mugs. Apparently I, too, will be painting a mug. I dip a brush into some dark blue paint. Leah hunches over her mug, already committed to detail work. I swab a wide paintbrush against the mug again and again, methodically. When Vivi returns, she sets a roll of paper towels and a mason jar of clean water on the table. Then she sits down in the chair next to mine. I’m going to say something first this time. Maybe I’ll decrease my chances of being such a dumb ass. “So, what do you think of Verona Cove so far?”

“Um, basically I’m in love. I actually expected ginormous beach houses and towering hotels, but it’s so refreshing that nothing here is ostentatious or trying too hard or soulless. All the quaint houses and B and Bs. It’s charming.”

I shake my head, eyes on the mug. I’m filling the coarse porcelain with flat blue strokes. “Yeah, the city council won’t approve zoning ordinances for any new single-family residences over three thousand square feet. They won’t approve hotels either, just bed-and-breakfasts.”

She blinks, taking in that information. Oh God, I am such a jackass. It’s unbelievable. This girl probably speaks three languages. This girl probably has a cool older boyfriend or an acoustic rock EP. Or both. And I say the phrase zoning ordinances?

“That is fascinating.” Her eyelashes have slowed. They’re so dark, hovering over blue eyes. Wait, did she just say fascinating? Without a shred of sarcasm? “I’m so completely taken with the history of Verona Cove because it’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been, and I just want to know how it’s this way and why it’s that way. Know what I mean?”

I want to say yes. I want to say, Yes, beautiful girl, I know. I understand you to your very core. We are soul mates. Instead, because of the aforementioned jackassery, I shrug. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Well, take my word for it. You’re a lucky guy, like every-single-number-on-the-lottery’s-winning-ticket lucky. Not many people get to have their whole childhood in a place so beautiful. Or so small and kind that you tell people your name once and they actually commit it to memory.”

Holy hell, where does this girl live that people don’t remember her? New York, probably. “So where are you from?”

“I’ve lived a lot of places. Seattle, last. And most. I was born there, then we moved to Boulder but back to Seattle after a year. From there, we moved to Utah, then San Francisco for a bit before going back to Seattle. Been there a while. Until we came here.”

“Seattle. It rains there a lot.” Well, this is going great. Conversationalist of the Year. I’ll just continue to recite basic facts about US cities until she wants to go out with me.

To my surprise, she grins. “Yes, it does. It also doesn’t rain there a lot. They don’t tell you that part. That the rainy season is dreary, but the sunny days are more beautiful than anywhere.”

“So you’re on Los Flores? Which house?”

“The really modern one. Richard, the guy who owns it, is my mom’s number-one buyer, and he’s in China for the summer, so he offered it to us. He thought the seascape might inspire my mom, which it totally has.” She leans toward me, covering her mouth with one hand. “Plus he’s a bachelor, and between you and me, I think he’s got the hots for her.”

There’s a tug at my sleeve. I glance down at Leah’s mug, which she’s holding up for my inspection. Shakily painted hearts in every color. The in-between surfaces are filled with mint-green paint. “Looks great, Leah. Mom will love it.”

She smiles, but then Vivi starts in. “Oh wow. Are you an artist?”

Leah’s brow furrows. “No . . .”

“Well, you’re very talented, let me tell you. There are people much older than you who can’t paint nearly as well as you, and I know because my mom is a painter as her job, so I can tell when someone has a gift for painting. Jonah, for example, does not.”

This makes Leah giggle. Her cheeks are pink with pride. Mine are probably pink, too. I open my mouth to make excuses for my solid blue mug, but Leah gets there before me. “Your mom is a painter?”

The question startles me. At home, Leah will say what’s on her mind. But in public, even around her friends from school, she sits in the backseat of every conversation.

“Oh, yes. That’s why we’re here—so she can paint the sun and the ocean.”

Leah considers this. “So you don’t know anybody here except your mom?”

Vivi shrugs. “Well, I’ve met some people. Why? Do you have any good friend recommendations? Or fun things to do? Or the best places to eat?”

“My house,” Leah says. “That’s the best place to eat.”

“Your house?” Vivi grins.

Leah nods. “Jonah, can Vivi come over for dinner tonight?”

“Um . . .” Look, I’d love to go out to dinner with this girl. But not dinner at my house with my crazy family. They’re both looking at me. Shit, I honestly have no excuse. We don’t have any food? What a lie—I buy stuff in bulk to save money. The truth is too brutal: my mom is lost in a depressive episode, and I have five dysfunctional siblings. Vivi makes eye contact with me, and I mentally plead with her: Please don’t make me sit at our kitchen table and watch you take it all in. The bickering, the stark lack of a parent. “Sure. If you want to.”