Page 8 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
“Could’ve gone somewhere more private for how little you’re paying her, incompetent asshole!” I speak too quickly, huffing. I see him push the woman away from his body. If my words were fast, one could imagine how quicksand-like my feet were when running away from him.
I open the backdoor that I should have never closed, an enigma of bad luck as I press my arms to it to keep it shut. Not to say I don’t lock it, but I don’t want Lorenzo to follow me and see that my cheeks are burning with the dropped tears that signal just how much I cared. I fell in love and he never did, echoes inside my head.
And here I am, dressed to the nines, and Lorenzo never intended to propose to me. I won’t be part of the Pacheco family.
He could come at any minute. After all, there is still an entrance door upfront. The only thing I can do is lock myself in the bathroom and hope that over the music and the alcohol, I am forgotten for at least a few hours. I rub at my clouded vision, going past that window that the chefs used to look through and gossip about the people they see, until I come face to face with the man with the gorgeous smile.
My reddened face and puffy eyes erase all sights of his grin. I try to give him a smile, but I don’t have it in me to pretend. So, with my head up-high and my heart on the brink of escaping my sleeve, I rush towards the bathrooms, locking myself in the first cubicle I see.
God, I was so stupid.
He never cared. Not even when he was younger. If not, he would have had second thoughts when deciding to get his dick blown while on my parents’ anniversary.
I sit on the toilet, bringing my knees to my chest and sighing through a clogged-up nose.
Betting that I’ll stay, at least, five hours here. My parents sure know how to keep the party going.
?CHAPTER FOUR
VERONICA
“That seeing each other becomes tempting like love from the movies. You’re like water on a hot day.” -Amor de Cine by Humbe.
MISERABLE AND FORGOTTENARE TWO WORDS THAT SHOULDN’T GO TOGETHER BUT MATCH PERFECTLY WELL IN THIS SITUATION.Like my parents’ marriage or the one I thought I would have. I sit on a toilet, hearing the bustling music, tracing the outlines of the words written on the cubicle I was locked in. There are drawings and misspellings, but also love confessions—shapes of forever, initials made for each other, scribbled in harsh Sharpie.
Why doesn’t that happen to me? The answer comes to me in clashes of memories. I remember the crooked window in Zeke’s small house, through which I would look just to catch a glimpse of what I thought was impossible. Then, he wasn’t. And lastly, he just wasn’t mine to begin with. I should have never looked his way.
Tears appear in spurts throughout the night, but they become more significant when, somewhere, at five in the morning, either mom or dad turn off the music and leave the place in its natural ruins. Then, I can hear my thoughts with more power. Dressed to the nines, ready to become a wife, and yet, so far away from reality. I check my phone, seeing the missed calls from Alessia, Ezequiel, and Adam. Just one call from my dad. None from mom.
When I decide to push my shoes off the toilet seat, hoisted there to carve the outline of my chest, I am ready to stand up and go home. No one would see me in my shame now, and I always keep a key to the restaurant in my purse. Just when I run my fingers through my disheveled hair and I sniff loudly through a clogged-up nose, the door flicks open, leaving the noise of the old wood as the soundtrack of my tragedy.
It must be Alessia who never leaves a place unless she ensures I am alright, but that’s not the case. I catch the rhythmic sound of footsteps approaching, but they lack the familiar click of heels that I had anticipated from her presence. A deep sigh emerges when the person in question kneels in front of my cubicle. Panic rises within me, and I’m on the verge of screaming—what if this is an attacker, lurking just beyond the flimsy barrier of my cubicle? The tumult of my thoughts shatters abruptly as a paper slips silently under the thin gap of the partition, interrupting my spiraling fear.
It’s folded in half, though. Bulky-looking, it is. As if there were a lot of contents in the paper. Just when the person is about to leave, I open the door with a bang. I must not look my best when I come face to face with the dishwasher that my mom was complaining about. He looks tired, the bags under his eyes growing deeper, back hunched but straightening the minute he sees me.
For someone as gorgeous and tall as him, one would think that he’d be grander in personality. Instead, he crooks his head to the side, watching me as I grab the folded piece of paper in between two digits.
