My Favorite Mistake (My Favorite Mistake #1)(18)
Author: Chelsea M. Cameron

“It’s called blow painting,” I said, taking the straw out of my mouth. At the word blow his eyebrows migrated farther up his forehead.

“Is that so?” He dropped his bag and came to examine my work. He turned his head from side to side, as if he was trying to figure out what it was.

“It’s not supposed to be anything,” I said.

“Oh.”

“I just do it sometimes.” Suddenly, I wanted to hide my picture. It wasn’t like it was anything special. Picasso, I was not, but it was a personal thing I did and I didn’t share it with a lot of people.

Hunter looked at it again, after rubbing his tattoo. One, two, three. Someday he was going to rub it off.

“Got another straw?” I handed him one, and he paused over the paint. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, go ahead.” At least he’d asked.

He dipped the straw in the dark blue paint, making sure he had a decent amount before dropping it on the page and puffing up his cheeks and blowing the drop of paint as far as it would go. The drop split out into several drops, and he separated each one with a blast of air, making the paint look like it was exploding. He took the straw out of his mouth and examined it.

“I think you need a little more of the dark blue here,” he said, pointing to a corner I hadn’t gotten to yet. He turned his head, and our noses almost touched. He laughed a little, his breath moving the little wisps of hair that had escaped my ponytail.

“Go ahead,” I said. He looked shocked for a second. “The paint. Go ahead.” My brain seemed to be only capable of firing a few words at a time.

His mouth opened just a little, and my eyes zoned in on his lips. They were very nice lips. Full, for a guy, but they looked like he slathered them with Chapstick. For all I knew, he kept it in his pocket and only applied it when he was by himself. It seemed like something he’d do.

He slowly drew the straw to his lips. Funny, he didn’t seem to have a snappy comeback, but then again, neither did I.

He was the first to break eye contact, and I felt like all my air had been sucked out when he did. I grabbed my straw and stuck it in the green paint. I did one corner and he did the other, and somehow our paints met. Without hesitation, we put our heads together and went crazy on the paint until we couldn’t get it to go any farther. Our heads knocked together, and we both dropped our straws.

“Ow,” I said, rubbing the spot.

“Sorry, Missy. You okay?” Jesus, it was just a little bump.

“Yeah, no big,” I said, looking back down at our masterpiece.

“You sure?” He raised his hands, as if he wanted to check and make sure, but didn’t want to touch me for fear I might freak out. He knew me too well.

“Yeah.”

“More blue?”

“You can never have enough blue,” I said, picking up my straw again.

By the time Renee got back from the library, we’d done another painting, this one in autumn tones.

“I think that one’s a keeper. That should go on the back of the door. I can get a frame if you want.”

“It’s not that great, Hunter.”

“What’s not great?” she called after coming back from the kitchen with a banana, a spoon and a jar of peanut butter. Ugh. I hated bananas with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

“We made you a picture,” I said in pretend kid-voice. “Here’s me, and here’s you, and that’s Darah and Mase and Hunter.”

“It’s beautiful, darling. That one’s going on the fridge right next to the A you got on your spelling test,” she said, playing along.

Hunter was looking at me like I’d grown an extra head.

“What?” I said.

“You are so odd sometimes.”

“Says the boy who has a vendetta against werewolves.”

“Hey, they can’t control themselves during the full moon. They’re completely unpredictable.”

“Hey, they look way better shirtless. Also, they still have beating hearts. Having sex with a vamp is like hav**g s*x with a corpse. I’m not into that,” Renee said, wiping a glob of peanut butter on the end of the banana. She saw me watching her. “Want some? Oh, right, I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“Tay hates bananas.”

“Oh, really?” Here we go. The boy I’d done a blow painting with a second before was gone and the boy who was always trying to get in my pants was back.

I didn’t respond, but started picking up the painting stuff. I didn’t like doing it with a lot of people around. It was a personal thing. Hunter was the first person I’d actually done one with, but he didn’t know that.

“I’m sorry, but you walked right into that one,” he said.

“You don’t have to make everything into an innuendo, Hunter. Not everything is about sex.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to go eat this somewhere else. See yah,” Renee said, skittering away to her room.

She must have sensed that I was close to another blow up. I hadn’t had one for at least a week. That must be some kind of record.

I gathered the brushes and water cup and threw them in the sink. I didn’t want him to know I was hurt, but it was too late. I turned on the water and started vigorously washing the brushes. I could feel Hunter leaning against the counter. I hated how aware of him I was. If he was in a room, it was like I had radar that went off and tracked his every movement.

“Taylor, I’m sorry. You should know by now that I’m an ass most of the time.”

“You don’t have to be an ass all of the time.” It wasn’t true. He could be sweet, and funny and charming, and… He could be so much more than a guy who was always talking about getting laid.

“You’re right. I’ll try. For you, I’ll try.”

I nodded and wiped the brushes on a paper towel and threw them in the sink drainer to dry. The counter was covered in our breakfast dishes.

“It’s my turn,” Hunter said, pointing to the chore chart on the fridge. It was my turn for dishes the next day.

“Many hands make light work,” I said, handing him a sponge. “If you promise to not make a pass at me for the rest of today, I will help you do the dishes. If you do, you have to do them tomorrow. Deal?”

“For real? God, Missy, you drive a hard bargain.”

“All I’m asking you to do is not be an ass for…” I looked at the clock. “Less than eight hours. You can do it. I believe in you.”

He looked at the dishes, including the several that were crusted with oatmeal.

“Deal.”

We shook on it and got started. The sink was small, and the counter made an L, so we were squished in close.

Hunter started humming a tune as I handed him a cup.

“What are you singing?”

“Well, to distract myself from being an ass, I’m writing another song. It’s called Doin’ Dirty… Dishes.”

“Clever.”

He started beating out a rhythm with his foot and I joined.

Soap and water and a pretty girl,

We turn on the water and watch it swirl,

We’re… doin’ dishes, we’re… doin’ dishes,

Oooh, oooh, ooohhh,

Scrub, scrub, scrub, yeah,

Scrub, scrub, scrub, yeah,

Scrubby, scrubby, scrubby, scrub, scrub, scruuubbb

He ended the song with a little flourish and a bow. I clapped my wet hands, spraying both of us with soapy water. He was such a dork sometimes. The song was pretty terrible.

“See what you can accomplish when you’re not being an ass?”

“I had more suggestive lyrics, but I decided not to use them. You know, because I’m not being an ass.”

“Right.”

“But I’ll save them and sing them to you at a later point when I’m allowed assery again.”

“Okay.”

That stupid little song got stuck in my head, and Hunter sang it again, with me providing sound effects with pots and a wooden spoon.

“What are you doing out here?” Renee said, emerging from her room with her “study” look: dazed expression, hair in a clip and her ratty old UMaine sweatpants.

“Hunter has decided he’s not going to be an ass today, isn’t that nice?” I said.

“Is that even possible? No offense, dude.”

“None taken. I am fully aware of my asshattery.”

“Oooh, I like that. Asshattery. I’m gonna use that now,” Renee said, going to the fridge for an energy drink.

“Late night?”

“I have a test on auto-immune diseases. Want to see a picture of dermatitis herpetiformis?”

She was always trying to get me to look at gross disease pictures.

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass. I don’t know how you can eat and do that stuff,” I said.

Renee shrugged.

Darah came home a minute later, towing Mase by the hand.

“Oh look, it’s the fearsome twosome.” Renee got a little bitter whenever she saw happy couples. I wished she’d just call Paul, forgive him, have some awesome make-up sex, and be done with it. I’d much rather have Paul around and have Renee happy than not have him around and have to deal with crabby Renee.

“Are you doing dishes?” Mase said, gaping at Hunter.

“Why yes, I am.”

Mase looked at me as if it was my fault.

“Hey, his name is on the chore chart,” I said.

“You have a chore chart?” Mase said.

“It was Darah’s idea,” I pointed out.

“So that no one gets stuck with doing everything, and we’re held accountable,” Darah said.

“Hey, anything that can get this guy to do dishes is okay by me. Good job, Dare,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. She smiled in satisfaction.

“What is it with you people and nicknames? Do you have one for me?” Renee said. Sometimes we called her Nene, because we’d heard her mom call her that once when she visited, and Paul was the only one allowed to use it without getting a glare from Renee.

“How about Re? As in, ray of sunshine?” Hunter said. Smooth. “Or Ne? That’s cute, too.”

She thought about it for a second.

“I’ll take it.”

“So I’m bringing Darah home with me this weekend to meet Mom and Dad, so we’re gonna go together.”

Darah looked at him with a giddy-nervous smile. Wow, meeting the family was big.

“Wow, meeting the Masons. Big step, Mase,” Hunter said.

“I know,” Mase said, winking at Darah. “She’s going to do great.”

I was painfully curious about Hunter’s family, especially how he hadn’t grown up with his parents. He’d said they were dead, but when had they died? How old was he? Did he miss them? The questions had been running through my mind since he’d first told me they were dead.

Any way you sliced it, he didn’t want to talk about it. I could respect that, seeing as how I had plenty of things I didn’t want to talk about.

“Got any advice for me, Hunter?” Darah said.

“Just talk to John about technology stocks, The New York Times crossword, real estate, or World War II and you’re good.”