and jogs back to me. I’m ready for him.
“So,” I say, as he comes to my side, “I assume you write poetry
to help convince ditzy blonds that you’re deep and interesting,
and then they’ll want to sleep with you.”
Lawrence presses a hand over his heart. “She strikes to kill!”
“I’m calling it as I see it.”
“Well, in this case, you happen to be wrong.”
“I don’t think I am. I’ve got you pegged.”
“Not quite.” The corners of Lawrence’s smile fade. That
distant, pensive look returns. “Actually, I’ve never shared my
poetry with anyone else. Other than my father. And he made it
quite clear how useless he thought it was.”
This slows my pace. If Lawrence is playing me, 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?”