Chapter 26 Diane
Diane
I wake with the taste of his skin still in my mouth. For a long time, I don’t move. My legs are tangled in the blanket, my arm numb from the weight of Nathan’s chest, his breath stirring the fine hairs at my temple. It is a rare, precious kind of quiet, the kind that doesn’t demand to be broken.
Nathan stirs, pulling me closer, lips grazing the crown of my head.
We stay like that, lingering in the quiet, until the sound of his phone startles us from our reverie.
He reaches for it with a grunt. “Hello?” he answers, his voice still gravely from sleep.
A pause and then a groan as he squints at the clock.
“Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up the phone.
“Shit,” he mutters, “forgot about a delivery.”
He slides out from under me, the mattress dipping, and for a second I panic that he’s leaving for good. But he just pulls on his shorts, leans down to kiss my eyelids, one, then the other, and says, “Back in five. Don’t go anywhere.”
I listen to the thump of his feet down the stairs, the creak of the studio door. My body is loose and heavy, every muscle blissed-out and humming. I stretch, arms above my head, savoring the afterglow, before rolling to sit on the edge of the futon.
The loft is flooded with light. My clothes are scattered across the floor: bra looped over the back of a chair, shirt trailing like a flag from the banister. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and sweat and the deep animal smell of sex. I breathe it in, let it fill my lungs.
I wander the edge of the loft, peering down into the studio proper. Canvases are stacked in haphazard towers, some leaning precariously, others lashed tight with twine. The table is littered with brushes, the bristles stiff and stained, palettes crusted over with sun-dried color.
On a side shelf, a stack of paper catches my eye. There are letters—some opened, some still in their envelopes, all with the edges curled and creased. I go in for a closer look. I shouldn’t, but I do.
The first letter is addressed to Nathan, the handwriting neat, the return address in Charlotte. I hesitate, then unfold the single page.
Dear Nathan,
I keep thinking of that night in August, how we sat on the fire escape, drinking gin and arguing about the moon.
I wish I’d told you then what I was afraid to admit—how much I wanted the future you saw, even if I couldn’t see it myself.
You’re probably painting the sunrise as you read this or fixing something I broke.
It’s what you do. I know I told you not to come back, but I’m not so sure now. I miss you. I miss us.
If there’s any chance left, please write. Just so I know.
I’m sorry for everything.
—Melissa
I read it again. The words pinwheel behind my eyes, making it hard to focus, the letters dissolving into a blur. There’s more than a half a dozen sheets, some typed, some covered in scribble, all signed by the same hand. I pull the stack closer, my breath suddenly tight in my chest.
Next to the letters is a yellow legal pad with Nathan’s writing. Loopy, uncertain, begun and abandoned again and again.
Mel,
I keep fighting the urge to call you. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t even know what I would say. I wish I could tell you it’s not your fault, or that leaving made things better, but that would be a lie. Nothing is simple anymore. Sometimes I think about driving back, just to see if you’re—
The rest is crossed out in thick, angry slashes. Below it, the start of another letter:
I don’t know how to let go of you. I’m trying, but the more I paint, the worse it gets. I’m scared that if I come back, we’ll just end up hurting each other again. But I’m also scared of the silence. Maybe I’ll write tomorrow. Maybe I’ll—
Another line, aborted mid-sentence.
My hands are shaking. I can’t decide if I want to scream or cry or laugh at the stupidity of it all. The whole room feels suddenly wrong. The paintings are too bright, the air too thick, the sunlight an accusation.
I am so deep in the spiral that I don’t hear Nathan come back up the stairs. He’s whistling, off-key.
He sees me with the letters, and for a heartbeat the entire world freezes.
“What are you doing?” he asks. The question is gentle, but his voice has gone thin and papery.
I hold up the letter. “Were you going to tell me about this?”
“Diane, it’s not what you think.”
“No, then what is it?” My voice is brittle, unfamiliar. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like you’re still in love with her.”
Nathan opens his mouth, shuts it. His jaw works, a tic pulsing at the corner. “It’s complicated, Diane.”
“God, don’t—” I start, but the words collapse.
I can’t look at him. “I just… Today you made me feel like…like maybe I was the only one. The only thing that mattered.” I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, furious at the sting there.
“But you can’t even finish a letter to her? You can’t even let go?”
He takes a step toward me, then another. “It’s not that simple.”
I shake my head. “It never is, is it?”
For a moment, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. The whole loft smells like loss, like disappointment and old paint and the heat of a body that is already slipping away.
Nathan sits on the edge of the futon, hands open and empty. “I was going to tell you about the letters,” he says, voice soft. “I just—I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to lose you before I even had a chance.”
“Too late,” I say, and the words shatter in the air.
I gather my clothes, barely registering the sound of fabric as I shove my limbs through sleeves and skirt. My hands are shaking so hard I can’t get the buttons right. Nathan stands, moves toward me, but I flinch away, the memory of his touch suddenly unbearable.
“Diane, please—” he tries, but I cut him off.
“I have to go,” I say, but what I mean is I have to run. If I stay, I will break, and I can’t afford that anymore. Not with Cassie, not with Sara, not with the part of myself I just started to get back.
I am out the door before he can finish. The stairs are steep, the boards cold against my bare feet, but I barely notice. I make it to the sand before the first sob punches out of me, so loud and guttural I have to double over to contain it.
I walk until the studio is out of sight, the boardwalk behind me, the only sound the slap of my own footsteps and the distant, indifferent caw of gulls.
When I finally stop, my face is wet, my throat raw. I wrap my arms around my ribs, hold myself together with all the force I can muster.
For a moment, I am sure I will never breathe right again.
But the air is salt and sun and the promise of rain, and eventually, I do.
One step. Then another. Then another.