Chapter 7
Seven
KIERAN
Dinner is a casual affair. We’re seated at the lanai, bathed in the warm glow of the string lights draped between wooden columns and the candles lit on the table.
There’s a bowl of arugula salad with lemon balsamic dressing and Parmesan; a plate of mushroom and tomato bruschetta; vongole; roast chicken; and grilled eggplants.
I pile a healthy serving of each onto my plate, and for drinks, we have sparkling water and a glass of white wine each.
I sit as far as I can from Isabel. As much as I want to guard her from Jaime’s advances, my heart won’t stop ringing in my ears every time I’m near her.
I can’t even risk starting a conversation with her, knowing my mouth will go dry and I’ll stutter like a fool.
A man must know his limits, and I’m afraid Isabel lies miles and miles outside of mine.
“How did you guys all meet?” Isabel’s voice carries through the night air. The cicadas hum in unison. She’s sitting between Erin and Chiara, with Jaime right across from her. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s probably trying to play footsie with her under the table.
“College, mostly,” Bo says. “Jaime and I both took Economics, so I met Natalia and Luz through him.”
“Ravina and I were classmates in a Psychology class,” Luz says. She laughs at the memory. “We skipped so often to hang out, I still don’t know how we passed that class.”
Ravina mimes sucking a dick by twisting her fist in front of her mouth and sticking her tongue into her cheek.
“Oh, fuck, right!” Luz cackles. “Ravina hooked up with our TA. Bless you and your cooch, girl.”
I glance at Isabel. She’s smiling, but I sense confusion and discomfort in it. Culture shock, maybe. I know my friends can be a lot.
“And Erin?” Isabel asks.
“I used to buy coke from Bo,” Erin answers, laughing.
Isabel’s eyes bulge.
“Have you never hit the slopes before?” Bo asks.
“Isabel’s a good girl,” Natalia answers, tone bored as she lifts her wine glass to her lips. “She’s always been. Straight A’s and kissing ass with teachers, right, Sugar?”
“You were so annoying,” Luz says. “I remember when you obliterated my ass in debate in front of Andrew.”
“Ty?” Isabel asks.
“Yeah, Andrew Ty. He stopped talking to me after that. You made me look so stupid.”
Isabel frowns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Natalia rolls her eyes. “That’s because all you cared about were grades.”
“Are you still friends with—what’s her name?” Luz asks. “The tomboy. Inigo’s twin.”
“Rocío?”
“Rocío!” Natalia laughs. “How is she?”
“She’s—” Isabel smiles the most genuinely since I’ve met her. “She’s doing great.”
“God, she was such a bully,” Natalia says to the group. “Like, we would be joking around, and she’d turn things so serious. I don’t know how you could stand her, Sugar. She was worse after you left.”
“She’s not—”
“Anyway,” Natalia cuts her off.
“Do you still sing?” Jaime asks. “I remember you performed at a school recital once.”
“You sing?” I blurt out.
“Oh, yeah,” Jaime says, smirking. “She played the piano, too. I don’t know why you never auditioned for a school play, Shug. You easily would’ve been my leading lady.”
“I di—” Isabel starts to say.
“I didn’t know you did theater,” Bo says to Jaime. “Makes sense ‘cause you’re such a drama queen.”
“You should play us something,” Erin says. “Later?”
“Okay,” Isabel says timidly. “I can try.”
I shouldn’t—I really shouldn’t—but my head fills with fantasies: me on guitar, Isabel on the piano. We could be like Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. God, stop it, Kieran. Stop it.
The sound of utensils clanking replaces conversation. After a beat, Isabel asks Natalia, “Are you still friends with, um, Kelsey and Sam and stuff?” She smiles sheepishly at the table. “They used to call themselves—what was it? PAR. Pretty and Rich.”
Amused laughter bubbles from all of us. “A little tacky, no?” Bo says, reaching over to tickle Luz’s neck. She slaps his hand away and glances at Natalia, who shrugs.
“Well, Kelsey is soul-searching across the globe as we speak. She’s repenting for her wealth or whatever by volunteering. It’s kind of embarrassing, like, she’s a total begpacker,” Natalia says.
“Beck’s married in Monaco with a baby on the way, which was like this whole thing because the man she married is—or was—her dad’s friend who took her in for like a month so she could unwind and watch the Grand Prix from his balcony.
Apparently, they fell in love. The wedding was très awkward,” Luz says.
Another shared glance between her and Natalia, then Luz presses on.
“Sam’s in Cebu.”
“Oh.” Isabel furrows her brows. “Is she busy?”
“No. She’s running for a position in local government,” says Natalia. To us, she adds, “She’s literally dumb as rocks, but it’s the family business.”
“She’s been texting me a bunch, asking when we’re going to hang ‘cause she’s down to fly to Manila,” Luz says.
“What, governance isn’t a full-time job?” Cisco asks. There’s a hint of irony in his voice.
“She probably outsources the work to her minions,” Jaime says without a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Don’t reply,” Natalia warns Luz. “She’s been pissing me off since Cabo.”
“What happened in Cabo?” Isabel asks.
Natalia waves a dismissive hand. I’m curious now, too. Nevertheless, we return to our food, and for a few moments, silence reigns. And then Isabel asks, “What about Kieran?”
A jolt of electricity shoots through me. My name sounds foreign in her voice. Like it belongs to someone else. Like it belongs on her tongue. She makes it sound like a spell. I’m entranced.
Natalia meets my gaze. Her expression is soft, tender. I give her a small smile.
“I modeled for his figure drawing class,” she says. “I have the sketch framed in my room.”
Isabel pierces me with her gaze. “You’re the artist,” she says. I feel exposed, as if her eyes cut through my flesh and bones, straight into the heart of me.
As expected, my mouth goes dry. I can only muster a nod.
“I was roommates with Kieran,” Cisco adds, as if not wanting to be forgotten. His arm is draped behind Chiara’s seat.
“Oh. Cool,” Isabel says.
“Oh, dude,” Erin interjects. “Please tell me you brought party favors.”
Bo grins. “I stuck it in a bag of Haribos. The rest I put in a pancake mix bag.” Jaime swipes his fingers under his nose, brow quirked.
“Duh,” Bo responds.
Conversation turns to drugs, and I finish my food as quickly as I can.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing abruptly. “I’m gonna—” I point toward the pool house.
My studio for the summer. Natalia had gone all out, decking it with easels and more paint than I’ve ever had in my life.
Cream fabric hangs from the exposed wooden beams on the ceiling, though there’s no need for backdrops for my collection’s concept, all sceneries from golden hour rendered in oil paint.
I wanted something warm, evoking lazy summer days from my youth.
The concept is only half the battle, and I have until August for the Riboulet showcase, which is enough time to get some pieces done, if only my hands and brain would cooperate.
Isabel is still the only thing I seem to be able to draw lately.
It’s insane to think I know her name now.
“Going already?” Natalia calls out.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say, lifting my plate to carry to the kitchen.
“You can leave it,” she says. “The maids will get to it.”
I nod, setting the plate down and excusing myself again.
I enter the studio and lock the door behind me.
With the blinds drawn, I’m cocooned from the world.
I can be alone with my thoughts. I can be at peace to think, and to ponder over the fact that she’s here.
She’s real. She’s no longer just a dream.
I chuckle to myself when I think of what Mum said as they dropped me off at the airport. No distractions. We expect updates.
How do I begin to explain that I’ve just met my biggest distraction and my muse all wrapped up in one? What sort of updates can I give?
Do I tell Mum that her hair looks even silkier in real life?
That I’m convinced the moon gets its glow not from the sun but from those big, brown eyes?
Every inch of Isabel must have been carved by a master artist. She’s Aphrodite’s daughter, truly not just mine, but the world’s modern-day Helen of Troy.
As artists, we’re taught to see the combination of shapes in all things: three rectangles and three circles can be stitched together to make a nose. Isabel is all hearts, all mine. Even my wildest dreams don’t do her justice.
Listen to me, waxing poetic. I’ve just met her.
Dreaming of someone doesn’t equate to knowing them.
Even an artist has no excuse for being so shallow as to think someone’s beauty means they are a good person.
She could be totally insufferable; sometimes I think—and this is just as much a criticism of me as anyone—in order to be Natalia’s friend, you kind of have to be.
I plop down on the couch, beat-up sketchbook on my lap and a freshly sharpened pencil in hand. I can draw someone else. Hell, I can draw anyone. I can draw Natalia—she’ll like that.
Yeah. Why not?
I take to the page. I sketch the guidelines for a proportioned face, break the head into circles and triangles and more lines. Downturned eyes, button nose, plump lips. Dark hair tucked behind one ear.
Ah, fuck, I’ve drawn Isabel again.