Painted Boots (3 page)

6

IT’S A DREAM
to step onto the running board, take hold of the steering wheel and pull myself into the cab of Kyle’s truck.  The interior is small, more like a compact car, and spotless.  The cream-colored leather seat makes a scrunchy sound as I sit.  I lift my bag strap over my head then set my bag in the passenger foot well.

Kyle climbs in,
closes the door then turns to face me, resting one arm along the back of the seat.  I’ve never been this close to him.  His hand is
right there
, an inch from my shoulder.  I want to fix his collar and adjust the way his Levi jacket lays against his chest.  I want to feel his warmth coming up through his clothes.  I wish I could brush his bangs away from his two-toned blue eyes.  They’re darker than usual—the colors of a winter sea—maybe because it’s cloudy.

“Great truck,” I say.

“Thanks.  It was my granddad’s.”  Kyle runs his hand along the black-stitched leather of his steering wheel then tugs his fingers through his hair.  “My dad and I restored it.  You likely noticed, but people around here don’t give up on their vehicles.”

“
Yeah.  Private junkyards are everywhere.”

Kyle
laughs and his eyes grow brighter.  “You want to play a game?” he asks.

I’m suddenly too warm, like I’m sitting
on coals, and I tug my scarf away from my throat.  “I guess.  I don’t know.  What kind of game?”

“
A revelation game.  Like I say, ‘My name is Kyle Thacker.’  Then you say your version.  ‘My name is
. . . .’”

“
Aspen Brand.”

Kyle extends his
left hand and I take it in mine.  “Pleased to meet you, Aspen Brand.  I’m from Gillette, bred and born.”

“
The pleasure’s mine, Kyle Thacker.  I come from Portland, Oregon.”

“Oregon, huh?”
He glances toward the school then smiles, just enough that his dimple pops into being.  His backwards handshake turns less formal.  More like a hand-hold.  “I live outside town, on Grand View Drive.”

“I’m on Pinehurst,” I say.

“Our family trains horses for a living.”

“My dad is a geologist.”

“I love Wyoming’s wide open spaces.”

“
Frankly, I can’t get used to so much sky.”

Kyle laughs
, again.  “I play guitar,” he says.  “Acoustic.”

“I do
, too!”

He rubs his thumb along the knuckles of my hand. 
“I don’t tell people much, but I have stuff on YouTube, under KDT.”

“I have one post,
called ABcings
. 
Sings is spelled with a ‘c.’”

“I’ll look you up.”

“I’ll look
you
up.”

We stare at each other
, and a few moments pass in silence.  He says, “I noticed you, Aspen Brand, our first day of school.”

“
I noticed you that day too, and at lunch.”

“I think you’re gorgeous.”

“I think you’re hot.”  I bite my lip.  I can’t believe I said that out loud.

Kyle
grins, wide and genuine, and a smile spreads across my face.  It feels almost foreign, a rude stretching of the muscles under my skin.

“I’ve never seen you smile before
.”

I shrug my shoulders. 
“I guess I don’t smile much.”

“
Seems a shame,” he says.  “You have a beautiful mouth.  Truth is I study that mouth of yours, sometimes.”  He glances to the school.  His hand warms in mine.  “You being here, sitting in my truck and smiling, makes me wish more than anything I could kiss you.”

I smile again.  I can’t help it
.  I’ve never kissed anyone on a first date, let alone a first meeting.  Weird, how I don’t care about that now.  I want to kiss him.  A lot.  But suddenly, my unexpected happiness feels like a betrayal.  My hold on his hand relaxes.  Then I let go.  Mom loved my smile.  She used to tell me so all the time.

“Did I say something wrong?”
Kyle asks.

“
No.  Not really.  I mean, I think about kissing you pretty much every time I see you.”  I press my hand to my face.  I’m bursting with heat.  “I guess it’s okay to tell you that, since you want to kiss me, too.  But if we’re talking about wishes, especially one above everything else, mine would be that my mom was still alive.”  Tears sting my eyes.  “Sorry I ruined our game,” I say to my hands.  They lie folded in my lap, one over the other, my thumbs entwined.  I don’t know why I told him.  I haven’t told anyone yet.  Not even Gwen.  He’ll do something awkward now, like my friends in Portland did.

Kyle
moves close and wraps his arm around my shoulders.  “I’m sorry you lost your mom,” he whispers into my hair.

I
look across the parking lot.  Unwanted tears blur my view into a kaleidoscope of gray and black, red and white.  I don’t want to cry over Mom.  I mean, it doesn’t change anything.  It won’t bring her back.  But something, maybe Kyle’s closeness or the cozy silence of his truck, amplifies my feelings.

A choking sob escapes me
.

K
yle rests his head against mine.  He works his fingers between my hands until we’re holding hands, again.  But my thoughts are far from him now, in Portland, taking me down the stairs and into our kitchen.

W
here was I, in the rush of that morning, when Mom called out
I’ll drop you, I need the car
?  She joked with Dad as I buttered my toast—I remember that.  She poured herself coffee as I gulped down my juice.  She set her mug, full and steaming, on the counter then followed me to the car. 
I’ll add the cream and sugar when I get back,
she’d said.

On the way to school we had
talked about the summer road trip I’d planned with my friends.  Mom had launched into her lecture on safe sex and birth control and the burden of incurable disease.

I’d answered
her with eye-rolls.  I already knew about that stuff and that morning, for some reason, I didn’t want to hear it again.  I wanted out.  I wanted my day!  I wanted it so much that as we neared the school building I had opened my car door.  Mom braked hard; the tires skidded; she yelled
Don’t do that, sweet!
  But I was already in motion—grabbing my purse and books and jumping to the curb.  I shut the door as she said,
Love you, baby.  See you at three
.  I don’t remember what I was thinking at that moment.

I hope it was
Love you, too
.

M
y day had just begun when Dad appeared—his face like ash—and pulled me from second period calc.  At Portland Providence they put us in a little room, one with a view.  Time had no meaning as Dad and I sat there, staring at nothing, holding hands and listening to hospital sounds.  When the doctor came in I jumped.  He said, “The crash killed her instantly.”  He said, “She’s too badly burned for you to see.”  He said, “I’m very sorry.”  He touched my head; he shook Dad’s hand.  He left a thin packet of papers on a chair seat.  Then he was gone.

I pull
free of Kyle, rest my elbows on my knees, and rake my fingers through my hair.  That day!  There’s a lot I don’t recall about coming home from the hospital. I mean, I took a sleeping pill.  But I remember Mom’s coffee.  It was there, still on the counter, cold and black.  That coffee will wait for her forever in my dreams.

I wrap my arms around my bo
dy and rock myself.

Kyle
takes hold of my shoulders, twisting me until he’s got me cradled against his chest.  I let him hold me while I out-of-control sob.  He rubs my back and whispers, “I’ve got you, girl.  I’ve got you.”

I cry even harder.
  Kyle pulls a green bandana from somewhere, a pocket, maybe, and lays it across my thigh.

If anyone had told me,
five short months ago when Mom was still alive, that I’d be huddled in a vintage Chevy and taking comfort from a teenaged cowboy I hardly know, I would have rolled my eyes.  It would have seemed absurd.  But nothing feels strange about this moment.  The truck shudders in a gust of wind and Kyle smoothes the tears from my cheek.  Dry leaves dance into the sky and I work my arm behind his back, just to be closer.  The world keeps right on spinning, same as ever.  Except now Kyle and I are clinging to each other as though we were the only two people left to notice.

“I was late
for school,” I say after a while, my voice high and nasally.  “I missed my ride and Mom drove me.  She needed the car.”

Kyle’s hold on me tightens. 
I hug him in return.  “You’ve been blamin’ yourself,” he says gently.

All I can do is nod.

“Maybe you’re convinced you should have seen beyond the moment you were in.  But you couldn’t.  Stuff happens, girl.  It just does.  Doesn’t make it your fault.”

Kyle
strokes my hair, his fingers playing through its length.  Maybe he’s looking out across the parking lot toward the school, again.  But I let go of that thought.  I have to.  The rhythm of his heart is all around me—in his chest and shoulder, echoing softly in my ear.  It’s an unborn baby’s sound, where a heartbeat is everything.

I press his bandana
to my eyes, soaking up my tears.  Then I draw a long, shaking breath and curl myself against Kyle’s warmth.  His heartbeat quickens, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

It’s like we are
each other’s everything.

7

KYLE STARTS HIS
truck and eases the gear stick into drive.  The lunch bell rings as he maneuvers the parking lot.  I keep cuddled to his chest, lost in his warmth and the rhythm of his heart.  I don’t care where we’re going—only that his arm is tight around me.  I want the moment to last, but once we’re on the main highway he says, “Up you go, girl.”

I obey, fastening
my lap belt before I wipe away my remnant tears.  Kyle takes an underpass beneath the freeway then makes a right turn onto the frontage road.  From there it’s short-cuts—driving the hard-packed dirt dividing one stretch of land from another.  When we hit pavement again we’re on the street leading into my neighborhood.

“This is where I live
!”

“Yeah.
  I thought to bring you home.  I figured you’ve been crying and the day’s half gone and, well.  Lindsey and Em are friends.  Sometimes.  Maybe you want to put that particular piece of glitter away.  For now, I mean.”

I’d forgotten
all about Em.  “Is she . . . is Em your girlfriend?”

Kyle runs his fingers through his hair. 
“She likes to think so.”

I point out my
house and he pulls into the drive, parking next to the fir trees that line the pavement.  He hops out and reaches for me, helping me climb down from his truck.  I sling my bag to my shoulder but he’s quick to take it, carrying the strap in his fist as we walk toward the front door.  He lays my bag on the little iron porch bench Dad bought when we moved in.

“You got a key, right?”

“I do.”

We stand there for a
while, looking at each other.  He rubs the back of his hand.  “I’m glad we finally met,” he says, and leans toward me.  I move toward him, too, wondering if I’m brave enough to kiss Em’s boyfriend.  But Kyle doesn’t kiss me.  He takes my waist like we’re brother and sister, holding me in a hug that I’m sure resembles the letter A.  It feels so strange to stand apart, after sharing my deepest secret with him, that I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself against his body.

He
freezes for the briefest second, like he’s cast in stone.  Then he gathers me up, his hands warm on my back, his arms lifting me until my toes barely touch the ground.  He buries his face in my hair.  His skin smells good, like sun-dried laundry.

“
Thanks for saving me,” I whisper.

“Anytime,” he
whispers in return.

When he
releases me his eyes are bright.  “I want to stay.  You should know that.  I want to spend the day and talk to you more and hold you, like we just did.  I’d be happy to have that chance again, if you’ll give it.  For now though, there’s something I’ve gotta do.  So if you’re okay, I’ll be going.  But I’ll see you soon.”

“
I’ll be all right,” I say.

He shoves one hand in
to his pocket and grins wide enough to dimple his cheek.  “I like you, Aspen Brand.  Being round you has me feeling different.  Like my world is finally spinning right.”

I
give him my best smile, then watch him walk away.  The wind is strong now, tugging his hair with chilly fingers and rippling like water across his shirt.  I shiver and wrap my arms around my body, but when he backs his truck into the street and waves, I wave too.  Then I sit on our cold iron bench, pull my bag onto my lap and dig my house key from the little zipper pocket where I keep my phone.

It’s
only then that I wonder what Kyle’s gone to do, and what it is about his world that’s been spinning wrong.

“Greer Environmental, how may I direct your call?”

I sound shy
as I say, “Graydon Brand, please.”  There’s a faint click.  Something by Mozart
begins to play—or maybe it’s Beethoven.  I don’t know.  I cradle the phone against my chin and shove two pieces of bread into the toaster.  I open the fridge door—it crashes against the counter as I pour myself a glass of milk.  I screw the green plastic lid onto the jug and put it back on the refrigerator shelf. With my foot, I push the door shut.  My toast pops.

“
Aspen?”

“Hey
, Dad.”

“
What happened?  Are you all right?  Why are you home?”  His questions tumble out too fast for me to answer.

“Um
.”

“
What’s wrong?” Dad asks.

“I
have a headache.  A friend gave me a ride.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay, but will you do me a favor and call the school?  I forgot to tell them I was leaving.  They’ll contact you because, you know.  Unexcused absence.”

“
Should I come home?  Do you need me?”

“
No.  I promise.  I’m going upstairs to sleep.  I locked the door and really, there isn’t anything for you to do.  It’s just a headache.”

“Take
aspirin.”

“I will.”

“I’ll call the school.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I do anything?”

“
No.  I just need sleep.”

“
I’ll be home by six.  I’ll cook tonight.  Get some rest.”

Dad and I say
“Bye” at the same time and out of nowhere, I smile.  Smiling makes me think of Kyle, which makes me think of Mom.  It doesn’t hurt as much to think about her as it did in the truck, and though my smile feels a little sad, it stays.

Upstairs, in my room, I set my milk and toast by my
laptop then kick off my shoes.  I remove my earrings and Lindsey’s aunt Carol’s pin, all while staring at my puffy, tear-drained reflection in the mirror.  I unwind my scarf from my neck and hang it on a hook inside my closet door.  Then I change into my pajamas.

My eyes
burn and I’m weary.  I really do want to nap.  But I’ll never sleep unless I check out KDT.  So I bring up YouTube and punch in the initials.  Twelve videos pop up.  I choose one called “Return to Me.”  It’s had over two hundred thousand views.

I
slowly check Kyle’s other videos.  Maybe he never mentions he has stuff on YouTube, but the word has gotten out.  Every one of his songs has been viewed into the hundreds of thousands of times.  Doing the math in my head makes me almost laugh.  I didn’t consider that someone in a place like Gillette would be popular with the world, but Kyle’s known.

I find that kind of cool.

After setting the image to full screen, I click the play arrow.  An ad begins for cameras, or maybe skydiving, and I watch it.  Then the screen goes dark.

I wait.

There’s a quiet snap, like the breaking of a twig, and a cone of light reveals Kyle sitting on a stool.  His head is bowed over an incredible acoustic guitar, one made of white-grained wood edged with flecks of ebony inlay.  Light softly traces the rim of his black cowboy hat; his white shirt almost glows.  I’ve never seen the black-stitched boots he’s wearing.  He’s never worn black jeans to school.  He begins playing, the chords expressed by a complicated pick.  He takes a breath, looks into the camera, and sings.

If I didn’t know I was
watching Kyle Thacker I’d wonder, unsure if it was him.  His eyes are amazingly blue, the only color in a video that at first seemed shot in black and white.  He has maybe two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin which makes him seem older, model-hot and vulnerable, all at once.  I’ve never heard the song he’s singing, but I don’t know why.  It’s beautiful—the melody and tender lyrics weaving round each other like a slow and loving dance.  The husky sound of his voice could melt an ice planet for how tenor and smooth it is.  As I watch I somehow know this is the way Kyle sees himself, deep inside.  And it’s weird, because I’d swear I’m looking into a mirror.  It’s like this guy has always been a part of me, and will always be.

I start another song called “Wander,” and lie down on my bed. 
The tune is gentle and sweet, and reminds me of summer.  Kyle’s voice drifts over me like fine mist, finding every small fissure my heart has been leaking through since the day Mom died.  As I listen, the melody fills cracks I didn’t even know were there, healing me with lyrics so personal it’s like they’re torn straight from my soul.  His song is a gift.

I’d swear it’s one
he’s giving, just to me.