Chapter 49
Forty-Nine
ISABEL
Dra. Gotiangco has always said that a routine would be good for me.
I spend most of my time at Kieran’s, though Mama calls me home at least once a week, mostly to get my opinion on this design or that.
She’s been meeting with architects to design her first store in Powerplant Mall, and as promised, Alvaro spared no cost.
After work, I head to Kieran’s where we have dinner, sometimes with Rocío and Joaqs, who’s returned from Cebu, sometimes without. After that, we retire to Kieran’s studio, where I work on my laptop and he paints.
He won’t let me see any of his work, though.
He wants it to be a big reveal at the Blue Moon show.
I know some are of me; he’s had me pose for him several times, but I’ve started asking him to just take pictures, so he doesn’t interrupt my work.
He hates working with pictures, says the point is to paint how it feels seeing something as it is in real life, but he has no choice.
Still, when he works on other paintings—just for us, he says—he lets me sit on his lap, watch him drag his brush across the canvas and see the image come to life.
I play with the curls on the back of his head, whisper praises into his ear and plant kisses on his blushing cheek.
My favorite painting I’ve been allowed to see so far is one of rumpled sheets and nothing else: a magnification of blues, greens, yellows, and browns coming together to portray a gloomy late afternoon.
Just beyond the canvas, I picture us tangled under the sheets, snoring. We hang it over his bed. Ours.
One night, while on break from work, I’m scrolling Instagram on the couch while Rocío reads on the floor.
The fat calico cat we rescued named Opie (short for Ophelia, after the Millais painting) dozes on Rocío’s back.
Joaqs is out playing pickup football at a nearby pitch; he’ll come by to pick her up when he’s finished.
My explore feed is full of book recommendations and cute art. It’s why the picture of a girl posing with the city behind her catches me off guard. I click it on instinct and am taken aback. It’s Natalia, dolled up as always, wearing the dress Mama made her.
I swipe through the carousel. There’s Erin and Bo and Ravina. Another swipe, and Luz is peeking from behind a giant glass of wine. It’s a whole collection of pictures: Cisco with his arm around Chiara, whose face is blurred in motion. A video of Jaime jumping off a balcony into a pool.
They haven’t changed, not one bit. Still the same rich kids, living life in excess. I can’t help but laugh.
“What is it?” Rocío asks. I show her my screen.
“Oh, Sabs, I don’t think it’s good for you to—”
“She’s wearing the dress,” I say. “She’s wearing the dress.”
Rocío takes my phone from me. She swipes and zooms in on the first picture. Over her shoulder, I can see my whole screen flood with Natalia’s face. For the first time, it doesn’t fill me with dread. Instead, I only wish her the best. I know I already have it.