Page 14 of What Is Love
The entire ride to my house, I’d prayed that I wouldn’t get in trouble for that lie. It hadn’t been until we’d pulled up my driveway that I’d rolled my eyes at the energy I’d wasted doing that. I didn’t have faith in anything, and if there was any deity worth believing in, they’d ignored me all my life.
I’d come to the conclusion that what would happen would happen. Leaving things up to chance was terrifying, but what choice did I have?
So far, nothing had bitten me in the ass yet. He had texted me last night asking me out today. I had left the house a little early this morning. Mother was home going through her closet withPrue to decide what last-minute things she would take on her trip to Milan in a few days. It was the fall/winter showcase and Mother never missed Fashion Week. After that, she’d bounce all over Europe for a few more weeks visiting friends, and during that time, Clay would join her. I couldn’t wait for them to be gone.
I pulled my focus back to what I had been doing. I stared at my computer screen as I scrolled, taking in art depicting love. The pieces were beautiful—remarkable, even. I just didn’t feel anything or get inspired.
Love was depicted everywhere. In movies. In books. I couldn’t walk the halls at Kendry without hearing someone talking about loving something or someone. Love was made out to be this magical thing that almost everyone would do anything for.
I didn’t get it.
I understood passion and sex. Maybe people were confusing orgasms for love. An orgasm could be pretty magical. Or maybe they were lonely; they wanted someone to walk through life with them, and sex was just a bonus. I understood loneliness.
But all that didn’t explain family love.
Was that magical, too? If it was, I’d never felt it. If I had and hadn’t realized it, I was giving it zero out of five stars. I would not recommend.
All jokes aside, I knew Mother didn’t love me. There had been a time when I used to think she had, or at least, what I’d thought was love. When I had been younger, I used to cling to any moment she would be kind. There had been so much useless hope in my innocent heart back then. I had seen other mothers with their children in public. Other mothers had been so gentle and caring. I had been so desperate for that kindness.
I didn’t like looking back. It made me angry—angry that it had taken so long and so many times for me to realize thatshe was only ever nice to gain something, or she was bored and wanted to see how pathetic I could get. I’d learned, though. There had been so much hurt and disappointment. But I’d learned.
I wondered if my father had loved me. I had been six when he had been killed. I didn’t remember much about him. Just his smile and how it had always reached his sky-blue eyes, and the tailored suits he’d wear. Whenever I pictured him, he was always in a suit. What little else I remembered was too upsetting to think about.
That was why I was so reluctant to open what his lawyer had sent me. Inside the big mailing envelope had been a note from Jayden Johnson, my late father’s lawyer, and another envelope, but letter-sized, with my name handwritten across the front. The note from the lawyer was short, to the point, and left me feeling uneasy.
Dear Charlotte,
With this note you will find a letter written to you from your father, Noah Kendry. He asked that if he were to pass, I was to give it to you when you turned eighteen. After you read it, please reach out to me. There is something I need to discuss with you and I’m sure you will have many questions.
J.J.
On the bottomof the note was a number to reach him by and the address to his legal office. I was pretty sure I’d stared at my name on my father’s letter for nearly an hour. It had kept pulling my mind to terrible memories of him. It had made me want to cry and the guilt those memories conjured was overwhelming,nearly to the point of making me vomit. So I’d put the letter back in my textbook.
I shook my head to pull myself out of my thoughts and focused back on my computer. I took in the famous oil painting calledThe Kissby Gustav Klimt on the screen. It was incredible, but as I stared at it, my mind wandered to Friday night and how Brandon had kept kissing my cheek. I let out a frustrated groan before quickly closing the tab and pulling up a search engine. Pathetically, I typed, “What is love?” and hit search. The top thing that showed up was lyrics for a famous song.
I sort of hated Ms. Clark right then.
I supposed I could just draw a couple kissing or embracing. It wasn’t original or anything spectacular and would most definitely lack depth, which absolutely annoyed me, but my technique and skill might get me a passing grade.
That isn’t enough.
Just passing work wouldn’t get me enough votes at Stewart’s. Ezra Beckett and his oil pastels were going to beat me this year for sure.
I put my elbow up on the table and rested my chin on my fist as I stared out the large café window. There was a motorcycle parked out front. It was mostly all chrome apart from the grips, tires, and leather seats. I had never seen such a flashy motorcycle before and there were a lot on this side of town. The itch to draw it took over me. I snatched up my pencil and pulled out my new blank notebook that I had brought to jot down notes or ideas.
I got to work quickly, dragging my pencil across the lined paper. A no. 2 pencil wasn’t the best to draw with, but I made do as I looked back and forth from the motorcycle outside to my notebook.
I was really focused on drawing the details of the engine when I felt a presence approach my table.
“It’s a Fat Boy Gray Ghost, in case you wanted to know what you were drawing.”
I froze, pencil mid-stroke, before glancing up.
Monroe.
He was standing next to my table, staring down at my notebook. His eyes shifted as he took in the details I’d been able to draw before he’d showed up. “Have a thing for motorcycles?” he asked as his gaze moved to me.
“They scare me,” I answered honestly.
