Nathan glances over, as if gauging my mood, then says, “Do you ever get the feeling that everything you’re supposed to want is just a list someone else made for you?”
“All the time.”
“I quit my job because I couldn’t stand the list anymore. All those things I was supposed to want—promotions, money, the five-year plan—they felt like a suit that never quite fit.”
“And now?”
“Now I just want to make things. Even if no one cares, even if it’s just for me.” He turns to face me, stopping at the edge of the dunes. “What about you?”
“I want Cassie to be happy, I want Sara to live forever, I want to write something that matters. But mostly I just want to feel like I belong, somewhere. And perhaps, to someone.”
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You already do.”
We walk on, the path narrowing until we’re shoulder to shoulder. There’s a section of the beach where the windbreakers cluster, creating pockets of calm amid the gusts. Nathan leads us there, picking a spot where the sand is soft and dry.
We sit, knees drawn up, and watch the gulls wheel over the surf.
“I wish I could paint this,” Nathan says, gesturing at the horizon. “But it’s always moving. I’d need a whole wall to capture even a fraction of it.”
“You could try words.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not as brave as you.”
The compliment makes me flush, and I feel as if I could float right off the sand. I risk a glance at him, and he’s already looking at me, his gaze unhurried and clear.
A group of kids races past, trailing laughter. I watch them go, then turn back to Nathan.
“I don’t think I’m brave,” I say. “I think I’m just tired of being scared.”
“Most people never even get that far.”
The breeze picks up, and I shiver despite the sun. Nathan pulls off his sweatshirt and offers it to me. I slip it over my shoulders, the fabric still warm from his body, and inhale the scent of him.
“Thank you,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
We sit like that for a long time, watching the tide creep in, the line of wet sand advancing with each wave.
At one point, he leans back, propping himself on his elbows, and lets out a contented sigh. “If you still have time, I have a painting I want to show you, one I’ve been working on since the hurricane. I think you’d like it.”
Knowing Sara and Cassie are in good hands, I say, “I still have time.”
We gather ourselves, shoes in hand, and make our way up the beach to the boardwalk where the summer crowd is just beginning to trickle in.
“Welcome to the mess,” he says as we step into his studio, but there’s pride in the way he gestures at the explosion of canvas and color within. The space is nothing like the gallery below, which is curated and clean. Here, there are high ceilings with open air and light, the floor scattered with tarps and the walls crowded edge-to-edge with paintings. The smell hits first. Not just oil and turpentine but sweat and smoke and the unmistakable smell of the sea.
I stand just inside, uncertain where to put my hands, and let my gaze travel the room. Some of the canvases are enormous, all weather and sky, the colors so intense they seem to bleed off the fabric. Others are miniature, more intimate, little scraps of life rendered in brushstrokes so fine I want to touch them.
From the corner of my eye, I see Nathan watching me, arms crossed, chin tucked into his shoulder. “Sorry about the clutter,” he says, but I can tell he loves it. There’s a logic to the chaos—brushes sorted by size, palettes stacked by hue, a row of jars with paint thinner each at a different stage of opacity.
I want to say something insightful about the paintings, but all I can manage is, “They’re incredible. I had no idea you could do…all this.”
He laughs, soft, and moves closer. “I can’t, most days. But sometimes it works.”
He walks me through the room, pointing out his favorites. There’s a triptych of the same inlet at dawn, noon, and dusk, each version angrier than the last, the water more choked with light, the wind more insistent. A small portrait of a dog, ears cocked and eyes knowing, that I recognize instantly as the mutt from the hardware store. “She has a better poker face than most people I know,” Nathan explains, and I realize he means me, too.
We talk about process, how he primes his own canvases with rabbit-skin glue, how he can’t listen to music when he paints because it crowds out the sound of his own thinking.