Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

One week later

I set my brush down and take a step back from my easel, studying the nighttime seascape I've been painting since I woke up. Aunt Mari allowed me to make a studio in the office, and after a quick trip to the art supply store, I now have a limited collection of brushes, oil paints, and a mini easel. It's an art space of my own, something I never had in D.C., and it's necessary.

Bryce has finally decided to reach out and text and call over and over. I can't bring myself to give him any attention, to hear his spin on his side of things. I have to build my foundation here and listening to him would be an earthquake, shaking things up. Silencing my notifications and focusing on my brush strokes has been freeing. This is my first painting in my new journey, a healing start.

My seascape is almost complete, I just have to fill in the shadows and highlights, the details that give it enough perspective to show a boat in a harbor with a full moon reflecting on the slightly choppy water. I read another Longfellow poem called "The Bridge" and the last lines were what inspired me.

And forever and forever,

as long as the river flows,

as long as the heart has passions,

as long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

and its shadows shall appear,

as the symbol of love in heaven,

and its wavering image here.

This intersection of art, poetry, and the inspiration of nature is filling me with new life. I'm tempted to keep pressing on until I'm done, but a growing ache in my neck and shoulders tells me I really should take a break from this session. I need to move my body a bit, and the fresh air coming through the open window is calling me outside. I wipe my brush clean, dunk it in some brush dip, and set it down in a safe space.

"Aunt Mari," I call out, unsure where exactly she is in the house. "I'm going to see if the corner liquor store has any soccer balls."

" Está bien ," she yells back from the back patio. Now I can see her outside the screen door, watering her plants and refilling her bubbling fountain. "If they don't, check the drug store. Sometimes they have them in the summertime."

"Thanks," I say, waving to her.

I grab my phone and some cash from my bedside table, slip on some flip-flops, and appreciate the fact that I walk out the front door into sunshine and beachy breezes. I close my eyes for a few steps just to see the yellow of the sun on the backs of my eyelids, accompanied by the sound of rustling palm trees. It's heavenly.

The store is only a few blocks away, like most things on Crown Island. Julio and I loved to come here when we were growing up, a dream-come-true emporium of sodas, ice cream, sandwiches, beach toys, boogie boards. Walking through the automatic sliding doors feels strange without him, and I'm sad to see things have changed so much. The laminate flooring has been replaced with gray slate tiles, and the layout isn't charmingly crowded anymore. It looks…modern.

They do have a basket of soccer balls, though, and I fall in love with a neon blue one. I drift over to the wall of beer and zone out staring at all the options. It's my first summer being back as a legal adult, I could grab a six pack of the famous orange wheat beer that's brewed on Crown Island.

"Do you mind if I…" asks a male voice.

I startle, looking left, and make eye contact with warm brown eyes. I quickly drop my gaze to an olive-green t-shirt stretched attractively across a broad chest. I have zero right and less than zero necessity to be noticing that.

"Hi," the guy says, friendly but polite.

"Hi," I reply, averting my gaze back to the beer.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I was going to get a couple cases of Yuengling right there"—he points to the spot in front of me—"but take your time."

"Oh, please, go ahead."

"Cool," he says. I scoot over as he opens the door and deftly hauls out two large cases of beer. With a tight smile and a quick nod, he heads to the front, ringing the bell to request someone to come to the register.

His pale blond hair is buzzed short. Paired with the amount of beer he's taking to the register and the olive-green crewneck, it dawns on me—this guy is in the military. Maybe a Marine? Or Navy, as Aunt Mari warned about.

"Cole. Cole!" A tall, leggy blonde in jean cut-offs and a black tube top calls out from the store entrance. "I'm going to run down the street and grab a coffee."

She must be his girlfriend. Makes sense—she's pretty.

The military guy pivots from the register. "We're kind of running late, I can grab you a coffee here. Want a DoubleShot or a cold brew?"

"Ew, can you not? I need keto coffee. I'll be a few minutes, just go wait in the car when you're done."

"Ripley," he calls out, but she's already gone, typing away on her phone as her sandals smack the pavement.

He sighs, heavy enough that I hear it across the store. I should not be as invested in this brief dramatic exchange as I am. I'm here for a soccer ball and might as well grab one of my favorite summer drinks.

But she seems…a little demanding.

I move to the soda section of the fridge, and my eyes go right to the neon green glass bottle with the yellow cap. Squirt, my childhood in a bottle, straight from Mexico. I swing the door of the cooler towards me, ready to grab it, holding the soccer ball under my other elbow.

A loud crack of plastic and thick glue pulling apart echoes through the store and the entire door suddenly falls off the hinges. In slow motion, it looms over me, threatening to fall on my head as it teeters on the edge of the fridge casing. I drop the soccer ball and quickly brace the door with two hands and try to figure out how I can get it back in place. It presses down on me, heavier than it appears, and I struggle to keep my hand from slipping on the glass.

A hefty arm flies up to the left of me, and of course it's the military guy coming to my aid. He helps lean the door backwards, and we prop it back in place against the case.

"You okay?"

"Thanks for the help," I say, shaking my arm out as adrenaline courses through me. "Getting a Squirt has never been so dangerous."

A man in a tracksuit ducks his head inside the front door, then stubs out a cigarette under his sneaker before jogging inside.

"I have never seen that happen. Just had someone in here who got a Coke, worked fine." He shrugs and visually inspects the fridge. "I'll go get some tape to close it off."

He starts walking towards the back of the refrigerated section, then turns and points at me. "Something in the case you wanted?"

I'm about to wave him off when the military guy chimes in, "You said Squirt, right?"

I nod. Of course my favorite drink has to have a name like Squirt. Why couldn't I like something normal like Coke or root beer?

"Can you grab her a Squirt?" he calls to the guy, who gives a thumbs-up before disappearing behind the thick plastic flaps of the cooler.

The military guy pulls out his phone and starts texting. "I'm picking up my buddies from North Island, and then we're all heading to the mountains for the weekend," he says as he types. "I'm in charge of post-hike beers and forgot until just now. I'm letting them know I'll be a few minutes late for our rendezvous."

Oh, he talks like a military guy.

"Thanks again for the help," I say.

He puts his phone away and smiles at me. "I'm Cole."

"Tia," I reply. Technically, I'm Christiana Josefina María Lopez, but I'm Christiana to all my aunts and uncles and relatives, Nina to my dad and Julio, and Tia to everyone else.

He sticks out his hand, and I instinctively shake it. His palm is warm and dry, and his grip is strong and sure. He holds the handshake for just the right amount of time before letting my hand go. We smile at each other.

He seems nice. I wish his girlfriend was kinder to him.

There's a sound of plastic slapping against plastic, and the tracksuit man emerges from the cooler with a few bottles of Squirt cradled in one arm and some tape, paper, and a Sharpie in the other hand.

"On the house," he says, unloading the bottles into my arms. "The ball too—glad you weren't hurt."

"Oh, wow, thank you. Thanks again," I say to Cole with a quick smile and head for the door.

He holds up his hand and looks like he's about to say something, but something breaks his concentration, and he ends up pulling his phone out again to take a call. I leave him standing there in the middle of the liquor store.

As soon as I make it outside, I drop the ball to the sidewalk and dribble it home, smiling to myself the whole time over free drinks and a ball. Small town life is the best. I can't wait to spend a whole summer here in a place that feels far more like home than D.C. ever did.