Everything We Keep: A Novel by Kerry Lonsdale Page A

me?” He leaped over a small log. “A football?”
    “You already have one.”
    He jogged backward. “A Steve Young jersey?”
    “Lame.” I pushed by him and marched ahead.
    “Let me see!”
    “Nope. You have to wait.” We had a spot, a circle of logs where we often met Kristen and Nick and plotted our next adventures.
    James jumped in front of me and snagged the gift from my hands.
    “Give it back!”
    He raised the box high above his head.
    “You can’t open it yet.”
    “What if I want to? It’s my present.” His fingernail plucked at a piece of tape.
    “Fine. Go ahead.” I crossed my arms and pretended I didn’t care.
    “Really?” He gave me a skeptical look. He’d been teasing me.
    But I couldn’t wait any longer either. I’d been dying to see his reaction since I spotted the item at the art store. I moved closer. Dry leaves crackled under my shoes. “Yes, really.”
    He tore off the paper and stared at the wooden box in his hands. “What is it?”
    “Open it.”
    He kneeled and set the box on the ground, flipping the brass latches. The lid creaked open. His eyes widened and mouth fell open. He ran his fingertips through the brush bristles and rolled a paint tube, burnt sienna, in his palm. “You got me art supplies?”
    I tugged my sweater sleeves. Maybe I should have bought the 49ers hat Dad suggested.
    “You said your parents wouldn’t buy you paints, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give you any. Besides, how do you expect to be a famous painter if you don’t have any paints?”
    He grinned. “This is cool. Thanks.”
    My chest swelled and a smile bloomed on my face, the nerves gone. I hadn’t been wrong about the gift.
    He gave the box a quick inspection before upending the supplies. Brushes, paint tubes, and palette knives dropped onto a bed of pine needles. He converted the box to an easel and propped the canvas board that came with the set onto the ledge.
    “What’re you doing?” I asked when he squirted a glob of blue paint on the palette board.
    “Painting a picture for you.”
    “Now?”
    He didn’t answer, his attention glued to a squawking blue jay protecting her nest from a squirrel clinging to the tree trunk. He painted the scene, his inexperienced brushstrokes already showing signs of promise. As I watched, I became as enraptured with his painting as him. In that moment, there wasn’t anything that mattered but James’s artwork until a voice off in the distance penetrated our world. My head snapped up in the direction it came.
    “Your mom’s calling for you.”
    James stilled. The brush tip hovered above the canvas. Color drained from his face. We’d forgotten the time.
    He moved the wet canvas aside and we hurriedly collected supplies scattered about the ground, tossing them into the box. He closed the lid and flipped the latches.
    “Hold out your arms.” I did and he carefully balanced the canvas on my forearms. “Watch out, the paint’s wet.”
    I repositioned my palms underneath to create a flatter surface.
    “It’s for you.” He kissed my cheek, lips lingering on my skin.
    I inhaled a short breath, surprised at the contact that felt just as nice as it was unexpected. It left a fluttery feeling in my belly.
    He grinned. “Let’s go.”
    I followed him back to his house. We walked as fast as we could without risk of damaging his first painting. Mrs. Donato waited for us on the back deck. Her eyes narrowed on James, taking in what I only now noticed. Paint splatters on his forearms and shirt. Dirt stains on his knees. Her gaze dropped to the wood box.
    “What is that in your hand?”
    James quickly glanced at me. He tried to hide the box behind his legs. “Paints,” he admitted.
    “Paints,” she repeated and her lips thinned. “Paints are messy and childish. They’re a distraction, a waste of time.” She tugged his shirt where a blue thumbprint stained the collar. “I see you’ve already been wasting time. Best you understand now, James,