Page 53 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
My best friend’s eyes soften, inspecting me through the screen as if I was there with her before sighing loudly. “Have fun, okay? If you’re ever feeling alone over there, call me. I’ll be by the end of the phone, I swear.” Her promises bring a smile to my face because, coming from Alessia, they feel more believable. After all, this is the woman who has given up her life to be with me—she’s like my sister, another part of who I am.
“I love you.” I admit, though, Alessia is knowledgeable about such matters.
“Me too. Now, go have fun, you.”
These past two years have been difficult for me. In a sense of growing, both in my career and as a person. For the longest while, I thought there was no point in trying to get out of the void I had carved for myself, but coming to visit Zeke is just one of the many steps I should have given. I’m trying to prove to myself that stepping outside my comfort zone and beginning again isn’t as terrible as I imagine it to be.
Much to Zeke’s approval, the restaurant that he suggested that we go to and meet in is gorgeous. Tall walls of reflective black dominate, shimmering under the ceramic and white lights that also throw off hints of red and blue. The doors at the entrance swirl open in graceful curves, operated by two guards who consult a tablet—likely the guest list. I self-consciously touch the beige, somewhat transparent turtleneck I’m wearing with my wide-legged, subtly slit pants. My black heels are already torturing my ankles, and the contrast is stark against the women in their cocktail attire and the men in their tailored suits.
I tell my name to the men in the entrance and they don’t even spare me a glance after finding me on the list. They open the gates to what feels like a lavish heaven for me, though their enthusiasm seems muted, probably because I don’t look like someone who will tip generously. Whatever. They’re not exactly wrong in their assumption.
Rouge, the restaurant on the inside looks like, with bricked brown walls and half-lit tables. In the center of the tables, arrangements of white roses seem to emit a soft light that illuminates the diners’ plates. The freezing atmosphere aligns with the jazz music playing softly, and robotic smiles stretch across the faces of the seated guests. Some briefly glance my way, but thankfully, their attention doesn’t linger.
“Veronica!”
Finally, someone recognizes me. When I turn around, Zeke is standing by the table in the corner, arms opened, one of his hands holding a bottle of bubbly champagne. He looks different from the last time I saw him. He has shaved most of the curls that used to frame the sides of his head, leaving only some on top, which he sleekly combs back. The dark navy suit he wears looks tailor-made for his now slimmer physique. His smile is still relaxed, the same as I remember. He’s a perfect example of who he once was and who he is now.
John Lennon-style sunglasses perch on his face, only to be lowered as my whispered greeting reaches him and I walk over. My arms come around him, holding him tightly to me, while his arms find their place on my shoulders as his voice murmurs against it.
“God, you look gorgeous.”
I haven’t changed the slightest, but even Ezequiel’s cologne is different. Something about him switched in the way he holds himself more confidently now, bathed in the glow of money. “So do you!” He rakes the smell of orange and champagne, but he seems to be sober by now. “I’m sorry I got here late. The flight took longer than necessary and then, I had to settle in the hotel and—”
“It’s okay. We have just started.” My friend gestures to a chair for me to join him, his smile encompassing the others at our table. We’re joined by two men and a woman, and almost immediately after Ezequiel settles in, the woman’s hand keeps finding its way to his thigh.
Oh.
Alessia definitely wouldn’t like this.
Much to what one would expect—or not—, Ezequiel seems to have hunted for a clone of Alessia and found it in California. The bleached blonde wears her romantically curled hair over one shoulder; subtle signs of a face-lift are evident in the limited movement of her eyebrows as she greets me with a simple ‘hello’. Her green eyes shine beautifully, mirroring the glossy sheen on her lips and the glitter of her disco-ball-like dress. I notice several similarities to Alessia. Quite a few, I’d say. Even the low tone of her voice is reminiscent.
“I’m Emilia. I’ve heard wonders about you, Veronica.” The blonde starts, extending her hand and giving mine a squeeze. I fight the urge to look at her from up-close, because she is definitely a good doppelgänger of my best friend.
I want to say I’ve heard about her too, but Zeke had forgotten about that little detail. “I hope you’ve heard good things only.” I release her hand to sit down beside Zeke, and a server hands me a menu. Just looking at the prices makes me gasp internally, but thankfully, I’m not the one footing the bill for this dinner.
“The only reason Ezequiel would go back to that hellhole would be you.” Emilia jokes as if she’s said the funniest thing in the entire room, and the men by the table—including Zeke—laugh as so. However, I digress. I don’t think Havana is a hellhole. Issues or not.
“I can only wonder how difficult it was for the two of you.” One of the old men says. His gray hair looks like a wig on top of his head, fluffed out and a little crooked. “When I heard about Ezequiel’s upbringing, I thought he came from a war-zone.”
More laughter. Isn’t Zeke going to say something about their disrespectful comments?
“Well, it’s difficult, but like any country, there are people working to make it as great as possible. The townies, I mean.” I comment, letting my shaky vision roam over the menu. I don’t feel comfortable where I am, and the only thing keeping me grounded is Zeke’s arm extended on the backrest of my chair.
If not, I would be a minute from running away.
“...Though, it’s true. I’m not planning on returning anytime.” Zeke jokes around, winking at the men in front of him and snickering along the way. “I was even thinking of bringing Veronica with me. She’s...like my sister. I just can’t leave her behind.”
Sadly for everyone in Havana, his actual brother remains there...and he’s constantly making headlines in town for his womanizing behavior. “That’s something we haven’t really talked about.” I say, keeping up with the fake smile on my face.
“One woman living with you is enough. Ezequiel, I either lived with my daughter or with my wife. Having both around was too goddamn much.” The other older man, balding and seemingly accepting of it, rubs his stomach. “Now you know why I travelled so much!”
More laughter erupts, leaving me feeling stranded in the moment. I’ve rarely felt so out of place, but I let it go. This is Ezequiel. The boy I grew up with. Maybe he’s putting on a show for this Hollywood crowd, a side of him I haven’t seen before, but the real him is still there, beneath all the expensive trappings.
The night passes in a blur, like shots of tequila coursing through me, and even though I only had a single glass of orange champagne that Zeke raved about, I feel like I’m a breath away from collapsing.
Turns out, everything went to hell after.
It comes to light later that the two men facing him are investors in a huge Las Vegas casino that Zeke wants a piece of, all in the name of financial expansion. Because the men were engrossed in stocks and invoices, I mostly conversed with Emilia. The conversation with Emilia is somewhat stilted, with her sharing more, recounting her failed attempt at a music career rooted in her nihilistic ideas. She met Zeke when she produced his popular track, ‘To Cuba.’
