Page 46 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
I have to get to Veronica.
After an hour spent losing the pursuing cars and relentless cameras, a deep loneliness settles in, and with it, a growing fear. Veronica’s house comes into view: tidy, modest, a haven. The lack of any activity outside her home sends a shiver of apprehension through me. If they’ve really found her, they wouldn’t hesitate to descend upon this place, destroying it if possible.
I get out of the car, dusting my hands in my shorts to pull the sweat away from my skin. Driven by desperation, I climb the short flight of stairs, my knuckles hammering against her door. “Veronica!” I shout, longing to see her face, to hold her tight and explain everything. But there’s no response. A few more urgent knocks finally yield movement, but my plea for forgiveness catches as I see Zeke standing at the entrance.
“She’s not here.” By the way he’s glaring at me, I conceive the idea that he’s not precisely happy with me. The curls of his hair fall over his face as he leans on the doorframe, frowning deeply and pursing his thick lips in anger.
“Tell me where she went. I need to talk to her—”
“Talk?” Zeke spits out the word incredulously, shaking his head as a spurt of sarcastic laughter leaves his lips. “You want to talk now? The people that are following you practically tore her house down to get to her. I’m not even sure how we managed to get her out in one piece. They’ve been shouting at her all kinds of insults just because—” He stops for a moment, pushing at my chest and getting me to give a few steps back. “Who the fuck are you for real? Why are they looking for her?”
“I—” With my hands raised, I remain stubbornly still even as Zeke continues to push against my chest, trying to move me. “I am not the kind of person everyone thought I was, but I truly didn’t think this would happen.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to feel bad for you? You’re rich enough to have this amount of people behind you and you still want me to feel pity?” Zeke prompts, only stopping his pushing motions when we reach Veronica’s garden. “If they were calling her a slut, I can only imagine what your people have written about her. You’ve destroyed her reputation.”
A tremor runs through my entire being, my hands clasping together in a silent plea. I know it to be true. The sheer terror she must have experienced is almost unbearable to imagine. “I know I did wrong, but I want to explain everything to her. Tell me where she is.”
“I won’t tell you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Zeke! I am the only person who can tell her what to do in this situation. They are still around. I know what they want from her.”
“Oh, but you weren’t here in the morning—”
“I didn’t know they were looking for her. I wasn’t aware.”
“My fucking God...” Zeke trails, scoffing at the sky before placing his hands on his waist. “And here I was thinking no one could break her more than the asshole I have for a brother. You won. You outdid him.”
My intention was never to involve Veronica in this danger, but despite knowing that withdrawing and lying about what we share is the safest course, my feelings for her won’t allow me to. My life has taken root here, in Havana.
“...I love her. I wouldn’t be looking for her if it wasn’t because I was worried. I didn’t want any of this to happen and I take the blame for it, but I have to check if she’s alright.” My words come in a rush as I observe Zeke’s eyes squinting against the sun, his gaze lingering on the sky as if seeking answers.
“She’ll hate me for what I’m about to do, but if you were the one that started all this shit, I’m hoping you’re the one to solve it.” He slips into the house quickly, leaving me to follow, only to bump into him abruptly in the doorway. A pen is held between his fingers as he quickly jots down an address on my hand. “She’s at Alessia’s place. Don’t you dare do anything else to hurt her, will you?”
“I would never do that.” Not intentionally, at least. With my hand clasped in a tight fist, I move over to the car, not even saying my goodbyes as I start the engine and try to recollect the streets of Havana to get to this place. Near her office, it is, but I haven’t really visited that side of town other than to pick her up from the job.
The streets curl in ways that drive me to her without thinking. I’m blindsided by the idea of earning an apology, or at least saving what we have, but I know it’s almost pointless. Who would love me with all the baggage that I carry, from bottles of alcohol that filled my past to articles being written about me and everyone that surrounds me? While Veronica is the sweetest woman I’ve met, she also has the option of choosing someone else. An easier path.
Compared to Veronica’s, Alessia lives in a much more compact complex, almost stark in its minimalism, with a side staircase and white walls under a gray ceiling; it likely holds no more than three rooms. Veronica had said they were practically inseparable, making her being home alone a rarity. Exiting the car, the Havana sun has intensified, its harshness a stark contrast to the healthy sheen my skin has acquired in this country.
The staircase leads to the entrance door, but when I’m about to go up the set of black ceramic, I notice someone dropped on the ground. Huddled small, a picture of utter despair, Veronica has her knees pressed tightly to her chest, her usually styled wavy hair disheveled and askew. Black streaks of mascara track down her face as she gasps for air between the wrenching cries that tear through her. This level of sorrow is foreign to me in her, and it intensifies when her red-rimmed eyes lock onto mine at the sound of my urgent, heavy steps approaching.
Her features are fragile, the tip of her pointy nose reddened, lips swollen because of her tears. She bites onto it to stop her wailing upon seeing me, and my heart shatters at what she must have gone through. The fear that comes with being in the limelight when not used to it. Fuck, I’m supposed to be the one aware of how it is and it still petrifies me to this day.
“Sunshine...” With a soft whisper, I move towards her cautiously, kneeling on the stair just below where she’s huddled. This brings us eye to eye, but as my palms reach out to rest gently on her shoulders, she pulls back abruptly, her hand flying up to knock mine away. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry...”
“Sorry?” Veronica’s words are a muffled murmur through her congested nose, accompanied by a shake of her head. “I woke up to people knocking on my door and telling me I was a whore, Nathan. All because of you. You lied to me.”
“I know, I know...” There is no point in lying that I hid who I truly was, so I collide my forehead against her left knee, breathing in her scent as I feel her tears falling on top of my head. “I didn’t...I wanted to pull away from the life I had in California and I’m sorry I never explicitly told you that I was famous, or that I had this amount of people behind me—”
“Not only famous. Fuck, you lied to me about everything!” Veronica shoves me back, tearing another piece from my heart as she pulls out her phone and scrolls through various articles about me. Some show me completely intoxicated, others embracing Jane Rae. In one particularly damning high shot, my eyes appear as nothing more than red pinpricks. “Everyone describes you as a lost case and with a girlfriend, nonetheless.”
“She’s not—I know this will sound like an excuse.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of it. If you didn’t tell me before, you don’t have to tell me now.” Veronica tries to get up, but I clutch her hips, refusing to let her go, pulling her back down and staring into her eyes with desperate intensity. Tears well up in my own vision, mirroring the wetness in hers. If 'sorry’ isn’t enough, as I suspect, then I’ll have to lay everything bare. “Nathan, let me go.”
“Time...time healed none of my wounds.”
“Nathan—”
