The world contracts around us. The canvases, the paint splatters, the smell of salt and turpentine. All of it fades until all that exists is Nathan. His fingers find their way into my hair, gripping gently as he buries his face into the crook of my neck.
His pace quickens and I match him, stroke for stroke. A pressure builds inside me, mounting with each thrust until I can hardly hold on. I tighten my grip around him, whispering encouragement into his ear. With a final thrust and a gasp that sounds like my name, he finishes, the sensation tipping me over the edge right after him.
Afterward, we lie tangled in each other, the sweat cooling, the air thick with the smell of sex and paint and the dying sun. Nathan strokes my hair, his breath slowing as he comes down from wherever he went.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice so gentle I could cry.
“No. You made it better.”
We drift for a while, neither of us willing to move. I listen to his heartbeat, the heavy drum of it beneath my cheek, and wonder if I could stay here forever.
In the distance, the ocean keeps beating against the shore, a reminder that time is still moving. I close my eyes and let the sounds fill me, let the memory of his body linger on mine.
For the first time in years, I feel whole.
26
Diane
I wake with the taste of his skin still in my mouth. For a long time, I don’t move. My legs are tangled in the blanket, my arm numb from the weight of Nathan’s chest, his breath stirring the fine hairs at my temple. It is a rare, precious kind of quiet, the kind that doesn’t demand to be broken.
Nathan stirs, pulling me closer, lips grazing the crown of my head. We stay like that, lingering in the quiet, until the sound of his phone startles us from our reverie. He reaches for it with a grunt. “Hello?” he answers, his voice still gravely from sleep. A pause and then a groan as he squints at the clock. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” He hangs up the phone. “Shit,” he mutters, “forgot about a delivery.”
He slides out from under me, the mattress dipping, and for a second I panic that he’s leaving for good. But he just pulls on his shorts, leans down to kiss my eyelids, one, then the other, and says, “Back in five. Don’t go anywhere.”
I listen to the thump of his feet down the stairs, the creak of the studio door. My body is loose and heavy, every muscle blissed-out and humming. I stretch, arms above my head,savoring the afterglow, before rolling to sit on the edge of the futon.
The loft is flooded with light. My clothes are scattered across the floor: bra looped over the back of a chair, shirt trailing like a flag from the banister. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and sweat and the deep animal smell of sex. I breathe it in, let it fill my lungs.
I wander the edge of the loft, peering down into the studio proper. Canvases are stacked in haphazard towers, some leaning precariously, others lashed tight with twine. The table is littered with brushes, the bristles stiff and stained, palettes crusted over with sun-dried color.
On a side shelf, a stack of paper catches my eye. There are letters—some opened, some still in their envelopes, all with the edges curled and creased. I go in for a closer look. I shouldn’t, but I do.
The first letter is addressed to Nathan, the handwriting neat, the return address in Charlotte. I hesitate, then unfold the single page.
Dear Nathan,
I keep thinking of that night in August, how we sat on the fire escape, drinking gin and arguing about the moon. I wish I’d told you then what I was afraid to admit—how much I wanted the future you saw, even if I couldn’t see it myself. You’re probably painting the sunrise as you read this or fixing something I broke. It’s what you do. I know I told you not to come back, but I’m not so sure now. I miss you. I miss us.
If there’s any chance left, please write. Just so I know.
I’m sorry for everything.
—Melissa
I read it again.The words pinwheel behind my eyes, making it hard to focus, the letters dissolving into a blur. There’s more than a half a dozen sheets, some typed, some covered in scribble, all signed by the same hand. I pull the stack closer, my breath suddenly tight in my chest.
Next to the letters is a yellow legal pad with Nathan’s writing. Loopy, uncertain, begun and abandoned again and again.
Mel,
I keep fighting the urge to call you. I know I shouldn’t. I don’t even know what I would say. I wish I could tell you it’s not your fault, or that leaving made things better, but that would be a lie. Nothing is simple anymore. Sometimes I think about driving back, just to see if you’re?—
The rest is crossedout in thick, angry slashes. Below it, the start of another letter:
I don’t knowhow to let go of you. I’m trying, but the more I paint, the worse it gets. I’m scared that if I come back, we’ll just end up hurting each other again. But I’m also scared of the silence. Maybe I’ll write tomorrow. Maybe I’ll?—
Another line,aborted mid-sentence.