Chapter 37 Nathan
Nathan
SEPTEMBER
At first, there is only the ocean and the brush in my hand. The ocean breathing beneath my windows. I’m working on a gift for Diane and Cassie, two blurred bodies running barefoot across the sand, Rolo trailing behind them. The light in the studio is all wrong for flesh, but perfect for memory.
I’m so deep in the rhythm of brushstroke, water, pigment, wipe, repeat, that I barely notice the shift at first. But then I do. A break in the quiet, the echo of footsteps on old porch planks, and then a knock. Three short, one long. My whole body goes rigid.
The brush freezes mid-stroke, balanced precariously on the lip of the easel.
The sound is ridiculous, anticlimactic, almost apologetic, but it detaches something in my spine.
I know this knock. I have heard it in stairwells, in city apartments, through ten years of shared doors and mornings.
I know the sound like I know the back of my hand.
There is a tremor in my hand and a flutter in my chest that feels less like a heartbeat and more like a bird battering itself against glass.
I set the brush down and move to the window, stepping over stacks of empty frames and boxes of dried-up tubes.
The glass is wavy, old, and everything on the porch looks slightly melted around the edges.
But she’s there. Melissa. Her shape is unmistakable, shoulders squared, one hand clutching the strap of a leather bag, the other tucked into the pocket of her jeans.
She rocks on her heels, impatient and fragile at the same time.
My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of it.
I drag my palm over my face, leaving a streak of sweat, and try to steady my breathing.
I want to stay hidden behind the glass. I want to rewind the last ten seconds and pretend I never heard the knock, never saw her waiting outside my studio.
But the rules of the world, even mine, don’t allow that.
I descend the steps and cross to the door.
I reach for the knob and realize, too late, that my fingers are still smeared with titanium white.
The paint presses into the ridged brass, leaving a fingerprint that will never quite come out.
I hesitate with my hand on the knob, feeling every stupid, familiar heartbeat in my veins.
When I finally open the door, I brace myself against the frame, as if the house itself might tip under the weight of whatever happens next.
I don’t know what to say, so I stare. Her hair is shorter than it was the last time I saw her, lopped at her shoulders, and the ends are uneven like she did it herself after a bottle of wine.
Her smile, though. That part hasn’t changed.
It splits her face in two, reckless and honest.
“I know you told me not to come, but you know me, I’ve never been good at following instructions.”
I want to respond, but my throat won’t cooperate. I grip the doorframe with my clean hand, bracing for aftershocks. Up close, she smells like hotel soap and cheap shampoo. Her eyes search the room behind me, skimming the paintings on the walls.
“Can I come in, or are we doing this out here?”
I step back and let her pass. The gallery is cool and quiet, with windows thrown wide to the sea.
“Nice,” she says with a nod at the first painting.
She walks the length of the gallery, taking in the display of coastal landscapes.
“I never thought you’d really do it, open up a place of your own.
I thought you’d spend a few months out here, get it out of your system, and then head back to the city. ”
My hands start to shake again so I jam them into the pockets of my jeans. I can feel the sticky print of paint on my fingertips. “What are you doing here, Mel?”
She leans against the wall, crossing her arms. “I came to see you.”
I almost laugh. “I said not to.”
She shrugs, but it’s a gesture thick with old ache. “You say a lot of things, Nathan.”
I don’t answer. There are too many things in my mouth at once, too many years of practiced silence.
Melissa’s eyes drop to the floor. She tows her shoe along the hardwood, then looks up at me like she’s about to confess to a murder.
“I think about you every day,” she says. “The city is empty without you. So is the apartment. I quit the job. I—” She stutters, searching for the next place to land. “I know what I did. I know how I hurt you. I thought time would fix it, but…it didn’t.”
There’s a punchline in there somewhere, but I can’t bring myself to make it. “What do you want from me?”
She takes a step forward. “I want to start over. Even if it’s just for a night. I want to remember what it felt like to love you without all the noise.”
I take a step back, and she holds up her hands, empty. “I just want to talk.”
“Like I told you on the phone, there’s nothing left to talk about.”
She nods, but the edge of her smile softens, and she looks lost, the way we all are when the map runs out. “I just… I thought maybe there was something left, something that hasn’t been painted over.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, thinking of Diane. “When I told you not to come, I meant it.”
She holds my gaze for a second that feels longer than any winter, then nods. “Fine. I’ll go.” She moves toward the door and I watch her go, every step a slow-motion break. She hesitates at the threshold, then turns.
“I’m staying at the Ocean Side Inn for a couple of days,” she says, almost smiling. “In case you change your mind…”