Chapter 25 Diane #2
“I want Cassie to be happy, I want Sara to live forever, I want to write something that matters. But mostly I just want to feel like I belong, somewhere. And perhaps, to someone.”
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You already do.”
We walk on, the path narrowing until we’re shoulder to shoulder. There’s a section of the beach where the windbreakers cluster, creating pockets of calm amid the gusts. Nathan leads us there, picking a spot where the sand is soft and dry.
We sit, knees drawn up, and watch the gulls wheel over the surf.
“I wish I could paint this,” Nathan says, gesturing at the horizon. “But it’s always moving. I’d need a whole wall to capture even a fraction of it.”
“You could try words.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not as brave as you.”
The compliment makes me flush, and I feel as if I could float right off the sand. I risk a glance at him, and he’s already looking at me, his gaze unhurried and clear.
A group of kids races past, trailing laughter. I watch them go, then turn back to Nathan.
“I don’t think I’m brave,” I say. “I think I’m just tired of being scared.”
“Most people never even get that far.”
The breeze picks up, and I shiver despite the sun. Nathan pulls off his sweatshirt and offers it to me. I slip it over my shoulders, the fabric still warm from his body, and inhale the scent of him.
“Thank you,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
We sit like that for a long time, watching the tide creep in, the line of wet sand advancing with each wave.
At one point, he leans back, propping himself on his elbows, and lets out a contented sigh. “If you still have time, I have a painting I want to show you, one I’ve been working on since the hurricane. I think you’d like it.”
Knowing Sara and Cassie are in good hands, I say, “I still have time.”
We gather ourselves, shoes in hand, and make our way up the beach to the boardwalk where the summer crowd is just beginning to trickle in.
“Welcome to the mess,” he says as we step into his studio, but there’s pride in the way he gestures at the explosion of canvas and color within.
The space is nothing like the gallery below, which is curated and clean.
Here, there are high ceilings with open air and light, the floor scattered with tarps and the walls crowded edge-to-edge with paintings.
The smell hits first. Not just oil and turpentine but sweat and smoke and the unmistakable smell of the sea.
I stand just inside, uncertain where to put my hands, and let my gaze travel the room.
Some of the canvases are enormous, all weather and sky, the colors so intense they seem to bleed off the fabric.
Others are miniature, more intimate, little scraps of life rendered in brushstrokes so fine I want to touch them.
From the corner of my eye, I see Nathan watching me, arms crossed, chin tucked into his shoulder.
“Sorry about the clutter,” he says, but I can tell he loves it.
There’s a logic to the chaos—brushes sorted by size, palettes stacked by hue, a row of jars with paint thinner each at a different stage of opacity.
I want to say something insightful about the paintings, but all I can manage is, “They’re incredible. I had no idea you could do…all this.”
He laughs, soft, and moves closer. “I can’t, most days. But sometimes it works.”
He walks me through the room, pointing out his favorites.
There’s a triptych of the same inlet at dawn, noon, and dusk, each version angrier than the last, the water more choked with light, the wind more insistent.
A small portrait of a dog, ears cocked and eyes knowing, that I recognize instantly as the mutt from the hardware store.
“She has a better poker face than most people I know,” Nathan explains, and I realize he means me, too.
We talk about process, how he primes his own canvases with rabbit-skin glue, how he can’t listen to music when he paints because it crowds out the sound of his own thinking.
At some point, he offers me a beer from a tiny fridge wedged under a makeshift workbench. I accept, though I rarely drink, and he pours the bottle into a pair of glasses before handing one to me.
“To surviving the storm,” he says.
“To starting over,” I reply, surprising myself.
We drink, and the beer is cold and bitter and exactly what I need.
Sunset crawls up the windows, turning the ocean glassy and gold.
Nathan leads me up a set of stairs to the narrow loft, where there’s a futon and an old army blanket folded with military precision.
There are more paintings here, smaller and more raw.
Quick studies of hands, bodies, the lost profiles of people I don’t recognize.
The painting of the lighthouse is here, as well, nestled among the clutter. “Is it finished?” I ask.
“No, not yet. I can’t seem to find the right light for it.”
“Well, you’d better hurry, or else Sara won’t be around to see it finished.” The words hang heavy in the air, and I wish I could reel them back in.
“I know,” he says, eyes downcast.
Before the melancholy can seize us, he leads me to a painting that’s only half-finished, a woman on a windswept beach, hair whipped across her face, the horizon behind her smeared with indigo and rust. “She’s not done,” he says, and I can’t tell if he means the painting or the woman.
“Sometimes I think it’s better that way. ”
We stand side by side, so close I can feel the heat of him along my shoulder. He smells like soap and something resinous, maybe pine. I want to touch the painting, to run my thumb along the edge, but instead I rest my hand on the frame.
Nathan turns, and I feel the movement before I see it. His face is inches from mine, his mouth slightly open. The kiss starts so tentatively it’s almost an accident, just the barest brush of lips, but it blooms quickly.
He tastes of beer and adrenaline. His hands are careful, one at my waist, the other skimming up my back, fingers splayed wide as if mapping the territory of my body. I lean into him, let my own hands find his hips, the ribbed curve of his spine, the warm slope of his neck.
The rest is a blur, the kind that happens when sensation eclipses thought. Our bodies are drawn together by gravity and hunger, the space between us shrinking until there’s nothing left but heat and the rasp of skin against skin.
Nathan pulls me to the futon, and the two of us collapse onto the mattress, mouths pressed together, limbs tangled in a messy geometry.
He pulls off my shirt as if unwrapping a gift he’s waited years to open.
I shiver, nerves flaring, but he steadies me with a hand at the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles along my hairline.
I tug at his shirt in return, surprised by the feel of his chest—warm, solid, a dusting of hair that prickles under my palms. He laughs into my mouth, a low, rough sound, and the vibration settles somewhere between my heart and my thighs.
We break apart only long enough to catch our breath. My bra comes off with a practiced one-handed flick, and we just stare at each other. Me, breathless and half-naked. Him, lips parted, pupils blown wide.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine.
Instead of answering, I pull him down to me, fitting our mouths together with a new certainty.
His hands are everywhere. Cupping my breasts, tracing the line of my ribs, skating down my stomach to the waistband of my skirt. He slides it down, his fingers trailing goosebumps in their wake, and I arch into the sensation, thighs parting without thought.
He hesitates, searching my face for reluctance, but I am nothing but want, and the slow-burn thrill of being wanted back.
He kisses a path down my throat, over my collarbone, pausing to worship each new inch of skin.
I bury my hands in his hair, guiding him, and when his mouth closes around my nipple, I gasp, hips jerking up against him.
He holds me steady, one arm curled under my back, his tongue and teeth working together in a rhythm that unties every last knot inside me.
I reach for him, eager to return the favor, and he helps me, guiding my fingers to the buckle of his belt.
There is a moment of breathless anticipation as I fumble with the clasp before he’s free, a sigh escaping him that reverberates through me like a promise.
I trail a path downward, the rough hair against my fingertips, the softness and hardness of him that makes my breath hitch.
He runs his fingers along the inside of my thigh, teasingly slow until he reaches the top, and oh, how I've missed this.
His touch is teasing, playful, yet so very skilled. A sigh escapes me, a sound I hardly recognize as my own. His fingers trace patterns that send lightning bolts of pleasure along my spine. He watches me closely, his gaze intense and fixed, taking in every twitch of delight that crosses my face.
Eventually, he settles between my legs, lining himself up but not moving, not yet. “Still sure?” he asks again, voice shredded.
I answer by wrapping my legs around his waist and guiding him in.
He slides into me slow, slow, slow, the stretch both blissful and a little painful, the way a long-held breath aches before it’s released.
We move together, bodies falling into a rhythm as old as the tides.
His hand brackets my hip, holding me open for him, and every thrust drives me further from the world I knew.
The room echoes with our shared breathing, punctuated by soft affirmations whispered into the hollow of each other's ear.
His fingers anchor into my skin, leaving a memory of touch that I know will linger long after we've untangled ourselves.
He whispers my name, the syllables broken up by ragged exhales as he moves, each stroke deeper than the last. I arch up to meet him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, nails digging into the heat of his skin.
His eyes flutter open and lock onto mine. They're the dark blue of a stormy sea, filled with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
The world contracts around us. The canvases, the paint splatters, the smell of salt and turpentine. All of it fades until all that exists is Nathan. His fingers find their way into my hair, gripping gently as he buries his face into the crook of my neck.
His pace quickens and I match him, stroke for stroke.
A pressure builds inside me, mounting with each thrust until I can hardly hold on.
I tighten my grip around him, whispering encouragement into his ear.
With a final thrust and a gasp that sounds like my name, he finishes, the sensation tipping me over the edge right after him.
Afterward, we lie tangled in each other, the sweat cooling, the air thick with the smell of sex and paint and the dying sun. Nathan strokes my hair, his breath slowing as he comes down from wherever he went.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice so gentle I could cry.
“No. You made it better.”
We drift for a while, neither of us willing to move. I listen to his heartbeat, the heavy drum of it beneath my cheek, and wonder if I could stay here forever.
In the distance, the ocean keeps beating against the shore, a reminder that time is still moving. I close my eyes and let the sounds fill me, let the memory of his body linger on mine.
For the first time in years, I feel whole.