Page 15 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“I said what I said. Just go.” I reply, watching as he pulls away and huffs at my words. When he’s running his hands through his hair, ready to fire back at me, I splay a hand in the air. “Lorenzo, I won’t be the woman that will sit in the house wondering if you’ve truly gone out to work or you’re paying for someone who will do the things I won’t. I don’t want to spend my nights holding onto you, thinking that if I let you go, you’ll go ruin my life again. I don’t want that for me, and I sure wish you don't want that for me, either.” Closing my eyes, I point to the door. “So, if you’ve ever had some respect for me or what we were, leave before I push you out myself.”
“You’re being unfair.”
Opening my eyes to glare at him, I state: “I said—”
“I know what you said. I heard you the first time around.” Lorenzo masks his anger with the clearance of his throat, raising his hands in the air and pulling the hood of his shirt over his head to go into the night once again. He stops by the door, running a hand over the frame before sighing. “Contrary to what you think, I truly do care about you, Veronica, and I’m sorry that I ever hurt you.”
I wish to believe those words, but I don’t let myself do so. I watch his frame leave me, as if the past that we carry didn’t weigh a single pound, and perhaps it didn’t when he cheated on what we had. My forehead presses to my forearm as I lay on the counter. All hopes of peace disappear when the door opens once again. This time, it’s not the one at the front, but the kitchen’s instead.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, right?” Mom whispers into the air and I lift my head to catch her rubbing at her palms as if they didn’t have skin on them. She always aims to leave every place spotless, even herself.
“I’m not...mom, I’m not in the mood to talk about it right now.” I tell her. If I’m lucky, she might drop the subject, but I’ve never been a charmed individual.
“Oh, but I am,” Mom says, throwing the towel she had in between her hands to the counter. “You were the one showing yourself to an older man when you were younger and you finally got him, but you decide to destroy everything just because of your insecurity? Men are like this. They won’t always have it figured out, but you’re there to coax them to what they should do.”
“No.” I stop her, frowning at her words. “I am not here to teach him what he should do. Fuck, I’m not his mom to start with.”
“Don’t curse at me. I’m just trying to help you.”
“Helping me be a miserable wife. I get it, that’s all you’ve ever wanted from me and I would have given my whole soul to become Lorenzo’s wife, but if he’s willing to hurt me now, I can’t imagine what he would do if he truly had me for a lifetime.”
My mom shakes her head at my words, disappointed at what I am mustering. As always, I am the child that goes against her mindset, the rules and plans that she had set out for me to go with.
“He made a mistake.”
“So? I don’t have to forgive him.”
“You two have spent years pining over each other. You’re willing to ruin that just because he was...” Mom breathes in and out deeply. “Lorenzo told me what happened.”
“Oh my God,” I roll my eyes at her words. “Well, I’ll give you the version that is true to what I lived. I came here during your anniversary thinking it’d be my time. Me and Ezequiel had spoken about us becoming siblings now that Lorenzo was going to propose to me, but the moment I went to look for him, he was getting sucked off by some prostitute.”
“I—” Mom places a hand against her forehead. “He made a mistake. You know Lorenzo and his family are from a good upbringing. He'd never hurt you.”
“But he did, and that’s what I’m staying with.” I retort. Mom’s face visibly hardens, but before she could add more fuel to the fire that has ignited within me, I pick up the keys to my place. “Mom, I should head back home now. Could you hurry so we can close Aseré?”
“Don’t rush me.” She scolds, though she’s moving on her own accord to pick up her purse. “I’m just trying to—”
“Mom.”
“Fine, we’ll talk about it some other time.”
I sure hope that time doesn’t come.
When she’s toying with the locks at the door, I play with the mailbox by the entrance and its thin layer of paper that barely peeks out. I extract it from the clutter without a second thought, but as I unfold the jagged edges and examine the tattered envelope adorned with my name, a wave of realization washes over me. Nathan must have acted quickly; it dawns on me that perhaps this letter was sent a while ago.
I fold it and save it in my wallet for me to read later. Perhaps not tonight, but when my heart feels a little more lightweight and hopeful.
Three days after my meeting with Lorenzo, the only way I can find myself calm is while painting. The idea came to me in a rush, with my hands aching to put the paint to work on an empty canvas set that Alessia had given me for my birthday. The biggest one shall welcome my idea this time around, with bright colors and the spice of Cuba bleeding through every motion.
I imagined a woman tugging her lover closer by the Cuban flag, in front of one of those typically antique Volkswagens that we see around the streets in the city. A goodbye with a smile on his lips and tears brimming her eyelashes. At first, I spent the few free hours I had working in the background; perfecting clouds and people bustling. I make details out of nothing, like a man’s white tank top and the pebbles on the flooring.
At some point in the night, when eleven strikes the clock, I’m starving and I can’t bring myself to pull away from the imagery in front of me. I’m barely starting with the Volkswagen and I still have to work on the details in the back, but my mind is such an ambitious mess that I can’t stop myself. Not when my feet are splashed with the vibrant yellow of the car, and my hair clings to my forehead in damp, wild curls as I endure the sweltering heat of my living room. A single sheet lies scattered across the floor, serving as a fragile barrier against the impending chaos that could unfold at any moment.
I could order take out. Definitely not from Aseré, but pizza doesn’t sound so wrong. Jorge must have his place open at this time, and it’s not too far away from home. Besides, he could give me a discount with the delivery and since I still have to pay the fee for my house—
When I reach for my wallet, hands thankfully dried in its painted state with glimpses of red and brown, I realize that the letter Nathan had written for me remains there. I had forgotten about it, or perhaps brought myself to do so. After all, I haven’t really felt like talking to anyone these past few days. Basking in solitude, replaying memories, plastering them on my mind.
Veronica,
