That Kind Of Girl. Kim Mckade

well, the light is dim. Of course, if it were a real window, the light would not be dim,” she said inanely. She flipped the light switch and moved to stand beside him, noting the way his hair, still damp from his shower, curled at the back of his neck.

      “This is incredible. You’ve caught it all, just as if there was a window here.” He reached up to trace a blunt finger over the telephone pole beside the dirt road, the tumbleweeds built up along the barbed-wire fence.

      “Thank you.”

      “It’s great.” He turned to face her. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

      “Shoot.”

      “If you were just going to paint what’s really there— I mean, it’s really good and everything—but if you were just going to paint what you would see if there was a window there, why not just put in a window?”

      “I turned out to be a lot handier with a paintbrush than I am with a saw.”

      “You could get someone else to do it. I’d do it, if you want. It’d take about half a day—”

      “I don’t want. Why would I want you to destroy my mural? It took me months to finish. And besides,” she said with a sniff, “this is far superior to an actual window. It never needs cleaning. It won’t let in dust, no matter how hard the wind blows. And if I ever get the urge to move, all I have to do is drag out the brushes and paints.”

      “But seriously, Becca, you could have the real thing.”

      “And look at this—” Ignoring him, she stepped up to point out the giant mulberry tree. “This is the tree that grows beside the elementary school. You remember that tree, out at the west edge of the playground?”

      “Sure, I remember. I stared at it all the way through the third grade, wishing I was out in that tree instead of inside trying to figure out fractions.”

      “I used to sit under it and read all through recess.”

      “I remember. You sat on this root right here, the big one that grew up through the sidewalk.”

      She looked at him and blinked. Told herself there was nothing touching or heartwarming about his remembering her in elementary school. They had, after all, been friends. Just friends. “Yes, well…” She scratched under her ear. “I wanted it in my window here. So I put it here.”

      “You could plant a mulberry tree, you know. You could have a real tree and a real window.”

      “Not a tree that’s thirty feet tall and has branches thick enough to swing from and roots big enough to sit on.”

      “Well, not for a while.”

      “Admit it. My window is superior.”

      Colt shook his head. “If you say so.” He looked up at the stand of mesquites that bordered the quarry in the distance. “But doesn’t it bother you that it’s just…just pretend?”

      She faced him and smiled. For the first time since he’d pulled up to his house, she didn’t have to tell herself she was glad to see her old friend. She didn’t have to remind herself that she cared for him as the person she’d grown up with, had once been close to. She didn’t have to remind herself, because she just was.

      “No,” she said simply. “It’s real enough for me.”

      “But I’m telling you, in a matter of hours—”

      “Still the same old Colt. Always ready to rip everything apart and put it back together again.”

      He rubbed his chin and nodded. “Well, I suppose I come by the urge to knock holes in things honestly enough. But you have no room to talk, you know. You haven’t changed that much, either.”

      She focused on the bird’s nest she’d added in the crutch of the telephone pole, and told herself she didn’t care. “I know,” she said quietly.

      “Oh, don’t get mad. I’m not talking about your looks. Sure, you look a lot better with your hair all—” He made a vague motion in the general direction of her head. “All up and out of your face. At least people can see how pretty your face is now. And you dress better, that’s for damn sure. But I’m talking about the way you always felt just fine living in your little fantasy world. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, you just pretended like you did. Or pretended like you didn’t want it.” He shook his head and stepped back. “That always confused the hell out of me.”

      Since she couldn’t have spoken coherently to save her soul, Becca just stared at him.

      “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the drawing on her easel. “Your idea of the perfect pretend couple?”

      Becca cleared her throat and blinked, moving around to face the easel. “Not hardly,” she said. “This is a drawing I’m doing for Dunleavy’s Department Store ads.” She picked up the graphite stick and fiddled a little with the guy’s tux. “They’re far from perfect.”

      Colt grunted. “The guy looks like a real wuss.”

      “Oh, he is.” She motioned to the bride with her chin. “She’s got him completely whipped.”

      “Probably reads his horoscope daily and has his remote controls color-coded. His chin is weak.”

      Becca grabbed her eraser. Within a few minutes the groom’s chin could have broken granite. “That’s better. But still, he’s not quite…” She picked up her thinner pencil and sharpened it. A few strokes later, the groom had a thin scar threading below his eye.

      “Bar fight?” Colt asked.

      “An unfortunate accident with the weed trimmer. He keeps an immaculate lawn, you know. Won an award from the neighborhood association.”

      She glanced at Colt and saw that he was grinning. A real grin—not the one he dragged out that was supposed to make people think everything was okay.

      She tapped the pencil against her chin. “I know what’s missing.” She stepped up to block Colt’s view and spent a few moments working on the groom’s hair. With a satisfied sigh she stepped back. “One lock of hair, falling rakishly over his forehead.”

      “Rakishly?”

      “It’s a word. There now. The perfect groom.”

      “And that’s the standard? Rakish hair?”

      “Of course. A lock of hair falling rakishly over the forehead signals the perfect balance of vulnerability and masculinity. Very sexy, don’t you think?”

      He shrugged. “Doesn’t really do anything for me. Sorry. What are we going to do about her?”

      Becca sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do, unfortunately. The dress is far too frou-frou my taste. But since the dress is the whole reason for the ad, it’s got to stay— I’m going to start dinner. Hungry?”

      “Always. What are we having?”

      “I’ll let you know as soon as I know. Your hesitation has cost you one of my world-famous lasagnas, I’m afraid. I don’t have time now. But I’ll dig up something.”

      “Are these yours, too?” He motioned to canvases stacked against the wall.

      She nodded.

      “Mind if I take a look?”

      Actually, the idea held the same level of appeal as if he’d asked to look through her underwear drawer. But since she couldn’t think of a logical reason to tell him no, she simply nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

      Colt watched her go, chewing the inside of his lip. He still couldn’t decide if it had been a good idea to come over here tonight. The live wire of anger still fizzled in him. He’d even argued with her over her painting on the wall, though she hadn’t seemed to mind. She didn’t seem to mind anything,