Read Online The Artist and Me by Hannah; Kay - Free Book Online

breathed, massaging my shampoo into the soaked roots of my hair. My fingers tangled in the sponge of red, carefully tugging the strands so that they wouldn’t tear from my scalp. Water tumbled down my shoulders, creating a tsunami over my spine.
     
    * * * *
     
    The sun was beginning to set. I’d opened the windows in the living room, bathing the room in an other-worldly glow and setting my mosaic ablaze with evening fire. Soon the stars would arrive, but for now it was merely this beautiful thing—the wonderful end of day afterglow.
    I was on the couch, legs sprawled over the end and hair in disarray but I didn’t mind. The TV was on across from me, playing reruns of a by-now-forgotten sitcom, but I wasn’t watching. Instead I was peering across the room at the wall, the heart I’d etched onto the surface until otherwise disposed of.
    Footsteps reached me, thumping across hard wood with the consistency of a wild stallion across the deserts of Montana. Dad was home. For a moment, my mind lingered on the question of whether Lucas had told my dad about our date Friday night, but the thought blistered away quickly enough. I wasn’t particularly worried about my father’s reaction. He’d yet to show any overprotective nature and this kid worked for him. It couldn’t be that bad.
    “Juliet, you in here?”
    I kicked my legs up, righting myself on the couch and stretching my arms over my head. “I’m in here, Dad,” I called as I straightened my body once more, then crossed my legs Indian-style.
    He popped around the corner with a smile. “Hey, sweetheart.” He stood in the doorway, looking me over, then turned to the wall I’d painted. “That looks nice. Lucas mentioned you were painting.”
    I nodded, smiling at the wall. “Yeah, he watched me for a while.”
    He stood awkwardly for a moment, shifting his feet. His eyes drifted over the wall for a minute, studying the color or design or both. Then his eyes cut up at me again. “I like that boy.” A comment that positively affirmed my wonder as to whether Lucas had told my dad about our plans. “He’s smart. Got a good head on his shoulders.”
    Inwardly, I shook my head. Yes, Dad, that’s exactly what teenage girls look for in a boy , I thought, but simply smiled at my dad. “I like him too.” My voice came out quieter than I’d planned it.
    He nodded then walked to the back of the house.
     
    * * * *
     
    I gripped the steering wheel. It was a clear Tuesday morning, trees and bushes overly green like on those college campuses up in the north. The air smelled like salt, moist from the rain shower we’d experienced overnight, but today was clear. The sun burned against the hood of my Volvo and I drove on to the Diner where I was meeting Krista for lunch. She’d sent up a flare—kidding, she texted me—this morning.
    At the Diner, I hopped from the car, smoothing the skirt of my coat and exhaling calmly to allow my long legs to carry me inside. Upon opening the door, a wave of cold air hit me and I smiled at the temperature. It was blazing outside. The weather man on the news claimed it was unseasonably warm here in Carltonville, Georgia, and Dad backed up his statement over breakfast that morning. “It’s supposed to hit ninety-five this week. I haven’t seen ninety-five degree weather yet this summer.” That’s right, because Dad never left Carltonville. He left for four years between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, came back with a degree in journalism and business—not to mention a wild ginger for a wife—set up the Gazette and hadn’t stepped foot out from the city limits since. Guess that’s part of why they got divorced. Mom was never a small town girl, though she’d grown up in one. She craved the speed and excitement of a big city like a moth to flame. In the end, Dad’s near obsession with the paper and her claustrophobia had gotten the better of the marriage.
    Krista was sitting in her booth, blonde hair tucked behind her