Page 29 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
From: Nathan.
What are you doing tonight? I just got told that Havana has the best beaches and after some little research, I may want to go with somebody.
There it is. The smile only a getaway can slip past my lips, and somehow, with Nathan, it’s easier to achieve.
From: Veronica.
Yes. I don’t know what the plan is. But yes.
He doesn’t take long to respond. Just as I’m about to start the car, he’s typing:
From: Nathan.
I need you to show me where I’ve gone wrong with my Spanish. I now know how to say a handful of new beach-related words.
From: Veronica.
Where and when, Mr. Spanish Man?
From: Nathan.
Santa Maria del Mar, at four! I’ll be there by the time you drop by.
While the beach won’t solve everything, I’m hoping the ocean can at least ease some of the worries weighing me down.
I can’t get out of the car.
A nervous feeling, unexpected, began to churn in my stomach. Though not as intense as anxiety, it was still unsettling, prompting me to check my appearance in the car mirror, questioning if I looked as presentable as I’d believed. It took me an ungodly amount of hours to get ready—wondering why in the hell I had never bought a proper bathing suit, and what kind of outfit is supposed to be worn here. Just because it’s not a date, and we’re only talking about grammar, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try to look presentable, does it?
I unfold my hair from the confines of the clip, watching the waves fall messily, mostly across my bangs, when I decide to pull it up again. I have a yellow knitted two-piece underneath a flowy white dress that reaches my ankles. Covered in sunscreen and a bit of coconut hand cream, I am ready for an afternoon at the beach. Worst of all, I can see Nathan from afar and maybe that’s why I am not precisely getting out of the car.
Sand obscured his feet as he rested by the shoreline, his face partially visible. As usual, his hair was tucked haphazardly beneath his cap, and he was shirtless. Speckles of fine, brown hair spread across his chest, towards a slim waist and defined, not precisely gym strong, but muscular in a sense that lets me know he must have worked out some time in his life, just not now.
Yes, this is probably not a good idea if I don’t want to call it a date.
Before I could totally regret my decision, I got out of the car, carrying my beach bag in one hand and using the other to lock the door. My sandals waltz and deepen on the sand, expecting to see brightened skies and endless trails of people rushing to get to the water, but the clouds have gathered in what could be the teaser of upcoming rain. Judging by how the weather has been lately, I highly doubt it’ll pour. I shattered the quiet by saying his name, ‘Nathan,’ and watching him turn, I got struck with a sudden, profound sense of ‘I shouldn’t have done this.’
He stands with a smile that crinkles his eyes and shows genuine happiness to be there. Grinning, he pulled off his cap, ran a hand through his damp hair—he must have taken a dip—and then put it back on. His arms flexed, his legs stretched, a captivating display as he advanced, his hand waving, his voice a raw shout. I fought, with an intensity I didn’t know I had, to keep my eyes from lingering.
“¡Camarón!”
Huh?
I put on my sunglasses, perhaps because that will make me look at him less directly, before smiling. “Is there any apparent reason you’re calling me shrimp? Because I know you said you’re learning beach-related words, but...that’s not how you use the word.”
He stopped abruptly, standing directly opposite me, the disparity in our heights immediately noticeable. And his exposed chest, a vision against the scattered clouds, became an unavoidable distraction. “Shit, sorry, I meant ‘se tardó’; as in, it took you long to get here. I get confused sometimes and I was—” I start laughing at his rapid speech before he’s grumbling. “My Spanish has gotten better, I swear! I was just studying another topic and got it mixed up.”
Nathan informed me a few nights ago when we were mindlessly talking through text about how our days went, that he had his first Spanish quiz in just a few days. “How did the test go?”
He licks the inside of his cheek, looking over to the side before clearing his throat. “I’d rather not say. Due to my Spanish teacher’s very objective and strict nature, my performance suffered. But I’ve been studying!”
Easily stealing laughs from me, I sit down on the warm sand and toss my head back, spreading my digits in between its silky texture. I hear him moving to my side, taking the same position as me. “You never told me who your teacher is. I know he’s your roommate, but I’ve never visited you...so...”
“He just doesn’t like visits.” Nathan adds, munching on his bottom lip before looking at me from the corner of his eye. “What?”
“As if that doesn’t sound highly suspicious. Is it a wife? Because if it’s a wife, I’m considering it inappropriate that we are here together.” It wasn’t meant to be a date, but as soon as the words left my mouth, I understood how they could be taken that way.
Nathan shakes his head. “I don’t have a wife.” A long breath goes through his nose as he extends his legs in front of him. “I’ll tell you just because you’re looking at me like that.”
