Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

My eyes are burning, an unintentional side effect of me trying to forget what happened at work this morning. I was helping Jules with an order and I wheeled around, saw a suit and red tie at the register, and for a millisecond, I hoped it was Bryce. I hoped he was heartbroken, repentant, here to win me back. Of course, it wasn't him. The cold reality is that Bryce would never lower himself to be penitent, much less fly across the country to see me.

After my shift ended, I threw myself into study mode. I'm serious about getting a painting into Lorraine's gallery, so I've been watching YouTube video after YouTube video on how to sketch and paint faces. I'm starting at square one: the student level. Doing a portrait will take so much practice, but it'll also take settling on a specific subject to know which new skills will be the most demanding. If I paint something with backlighting, then the face details won't be so obvious, but if I put the light source in front, shining right on the subject, then I'll need to be really detailed.

Aunt Mari has some leftover chilaquiles in the fridge, and I microwave them, then sprinkle cotija cheese on top, squinting at the time on the oven clock. Have I really been watching videos for…four hours?

I sit down at the island, take a delicious bite of fried corn tortillas baked in rich salsa, and nearly melt into the barstool over how good it is. I should ask Aunt Mari to teach me how to make this.

I brainstorm as I eat, thinking about the themes of courage, bravery, perseverance and the mode of nighttime and limited lighting. What subject would tie all those together? I could fall back on my experience painting the D.C. monuments. Or try to recreate my new favorite statue and poet, Mr. Longfellow. But I think the idea is to have a person doing something.

Oooh, I could do Aunt Mari cooking late at night, making one of her dishes that requires a slow simmer overnight. A halo of illumination from the soft light above the stove, her back to the viewer, worn apron strings tied in a limp bow, a pot of something on the stovetop, an ever-so-subtle blue glow from the gas burner. I could add in a picture in a colorful frame sitting on the counter nearby to emphasize she's cooking for others.

I grab my sketchbook from my room and set up the kitchen scene the way I imagine it, a pot on the stove, the light on dim. There's an old family photo in the living room that I relocate to the counter. I take a seat on the barstool and allow a minute to let my eyes roam over everything, drawing out the lines with my eyes, noticing the shadows and highlights and the general color palette.

With a pencil and some basic lines, I start to transfer that mental image to the textured paper of my sketchbook. It takes patience as I add in some curves and smaller shapes, but the vision comes alive. I can't help thinking the still life of the kitchen will look so good next to the other paintings in Lorraine's gallery.

I'm nearly ready to go grab my watercolors and start doing a color study when I hear a key in the lock and the sound of Aunt Mari shuffling in with arms full of shopping bags.

"Christiana, ayúdame, " she calls out.

I leave my art supplies on the counter and go to help her.

"Wow," I say, taking in the sheer number of bags she's loaded onto her arms.

"The sales, you would not believe the sales," she says, nearly breathless. " Ay, mis pies. I need to sit down."

She goes to the living room and sits down on the couch with a sigh while I line up about ten shopping bags from Banana Republic, Gap, and of course, Chicos.

"What did you do today? Did you eat?" she asks.

" Sí, comió ."

" Comí. We should really work on your Spanish," she mutters with a laugh.

"I should listen to Spanish shows or something while I paint. I've been working on learning some sketching and painting techniques on YouTube."

"For what?" she asks, blowing her nose with a wrinkled tissue that materialized out of nowhere.

I may as well go ahead and bring up the portrait idea now instead of agonizing over it for weeks. My stomach clenches.

"Well," I brace myself, wringing my hands behind my back. "There's a gallery near Cafe 22 that is accepting paintings in the style similar to the way I paint." I bite the inside of my cheek. "And I was wondering if I could do a painting of you cooking? In the kitchen?"

Aunt Mari waves me off. "No, no, not tonight."

"It doesn't have to be tonight," I say quickly. "It could be anytime, whenever you're next preparing something. You don't have to go out of your way for it."

Aunt Mari looks up at me from behind her glasses. "Christiana, is this your plan for the future? A painting for an art gallery?"

"No. I mean, yes, it's just kind of a stepping stone. I just…" I hate having to defend myself. Why can't she be excited for me? As tears prick at the backs of my eyes, Aunt Mari's expression softens.

"If you see me doing something and you want to draw it, está bien . Buenas noches ." She slowly gets to her feet. "I'm going to take a bath. Just remember, art is never going to pay your bills."

I know what she's saying, I know she's looking out for me. She's of a different generation and a different mindset, where money and numbers need to make sense for any risk to be worth taking. She's telling me she's worried, she cares. But it still stings.

For the next few days, any time I'm not working, eating, or sleeping, I'm drawing. I'm sketching like a madwoman, my hand cramping around charcoals and pencils, watching hours of YouTube videos, checking out library books, taking up whole sketchbooks with drawings of eyes, noses, mouths, eyebrows, and more.

I practice shapes, shading, structures, spacing. I draw pictures of Julio, Dad, Aunt Mari, and then I start reaching for any face in my mind. The soccer team, customers at the coffee shop, random strangers who pass me going for a walk on the beach.

It's difficult to tell if I'm making any real progress. The process is trial-and-error, try and try again. Faces are hard, requiring precision and fine lines and more exact highlights and shadows than I'm used to. I think I'm getting the hang of it as I flip through my sketchbooks, but I'm not quite brave enough to start testing my newly learned techniques on a painting yet.

I hang around the kitchen whenever Aunt Mari is cooking, taking down notes and working on the proportions of her small body in front of the large cooktop and oven. I put together rough color palettes in the margins to see how I can best adapt them to fit the moodier pieces in Lorraine's gallery.

Sitting on the barstool at the island does gift me with something new—it gives me the chance to talk with Aunt Mari as an adult. We begin to delve into conversations we've never had before. I was in high school the last time I came here; there are aspects of life I couldn't have understood then. But now, I have a chance to learn about her past.

"Aunt Mari, what did Uncle Gustavo do in Mexico?" I ask as she chops onions for salsa fresca .

"It had to do with telecommunications, satellites, television, television antennas, I don't know. But what I do know is when we came from Mexico to America, he invested his money very well, and it's those investments that continue to provide for me."

I don't really remember him. He passed away when I was young. I have a vague impression of him with a bristly mustache and a gray polyester suit, but I'm not sure if that's from a photograph or an actual memory.

"Why did we start coming here in the summer? I can't even remember the first time we came."

"You were two and Julio was four. Miguel was so tired, he needed to take a break from being a father. Mi sobrino precioso. Did you know cuando tu madre te dejó, I wanted you and Julio to come live with me?"

My jaw drops. I shake my head, sketchbook forgotten. Wait, I could have had Aunt Mari as my mother figure, lived here my whole childhood? How different would it have been from being raised by my uncle, a single dad, in Los Angeles?

" Pues Gustavo was too sick, he needed care and he needed peace and quiet. But once he passed, I told Miguel to bring you for the summer."

Summers at Aunt Mari's were the highlight of every year when I was growing up. I remember her house as cool, spacious, and finely furnished, and the fridge had a water dispenser that would give you ice two different ways: cubed or crushed. The icemaker was a distinct marker of Aunt Mari and her fancy house.

Julio and I were always spoiled rotten, and for the first few years, I assumed we were the most exciting part of Aunt Mari's year. But as we got older, I realized she had her own life and social calendar, full of jetting off to Latin literature retreats, Spanish film festivals, and a smattering of international dates with widowers who adored her. But she never made us feel like an inconvenience, and we were always celebrated.

"Thank you for letting me stay here," I say as respectfully as possible.

"Christiana," she replies, not looking at me. "I worry about you painting because I love you. Nuestra familia , we were raised to be afraid of failure, to not like risk. You know I enjoy the arts, but it is a vulnerable thing. For someone outside of our family to try to create art that will be enjoyed, sí, está bien ."

"But you left Mexico to come to America," I say. "I feel like that is way more vulnerable."

Aunt Mari looks up at me, pointing her chef's knife to accentuate her points. "It was a calculated, well-planned move. I had a job waiting for me, Gustavo had a job waiting for him, we had visas, it was all very carefully arranged. And the rest, we learned to be brave about."

"I can be brave too, about painting."

"Christiana, it will not be easy," she says, glaring at me over her reading glasses. " Te lo prometo. "

Aunt Mari's promise is sobering, but by the time I head into the next soccer game, I've taken on her appropriate concern and jettisoned anything that would make me too fearful to keep going.

We end up dominating in our game, and the whole team is fired up. Cole scores two goals with moves so slick, I literally do a double take. His last goal he scores with a series of step overs into a freaking rabona, planting his left foot and hooking his right foot around behind his leg in a kick that sends the ball sliding across the goal line in style. Where did he come from? He jogs back to our half of the field flexing his huge biceps and yelling, "Don't sleep on Slaeden!"

"I see you, Cole!" I shout.

"Let's go, Lopez!" he chirps back.

We win easily and celebrate like we struck gold. Anisha is especially enthusiastic. "Mick is gonna be thrilled," she says with a gleeful smile as we stretch after the game.

"How long has he been gone?" I ask.

"Uh, three months in, so four to go?"

"Oh, shoot," I say, my mouth falling open in shock. "He's just…gone? For seven months?"

"Yup. Navy life is so great, it's the best," she says with fake enthusiasm.

"Yo, let's go hit up In-N-Out," says Denny, tapping Anisha on the shoulder. "Chocolate milkshakes make everything better."

"That does sound good," she says. "Carpool?"

"For sure. Tia, come with?"

"Yeah, definitely. Cole," I yell, turning to find him slinging his soccer bag over his shoulder. "Cole, I'll buy you a milkshake for your goals."

His face clouds over. "Can't. Ripley booked us surfing lessons."

"Dude. You hate surfing," says Denny.

"And you have to study for your pin," says Luko, as he hovers nearby.

"I know what I have to do," Cole snaps. "I am studying for my pin, I'm holding it together, quit nagging."

We all go silent.

"I gotta go," Cole mutters and storms off to his car.

As he drives away, Anisha sighs loudly. "He's not happy. She's always been awful to him, but I feel like it's gotten worse."

"What did he ever see in her?" I mumble.

"It wasn't always like this," says Luko. "He said in the beginning she was unassuming and nice, treated him well, and kind of took him under her wing. But by the time Denny and I got stationed here, all I saw was her being controlling."

"Our theory is she's just a really insecure person with a jealousy problem," says Denny.

My heart hurts for Cole. I think he knows it's getting bad, but he's going to do the same thing I did—overlook as much as he can and hope for the best.

"He has to realize it for himself," I say, loosening the laces on my cleat. "I just got out of that and he won't know how bad it is until it's over."

"How did it end for you?" Denny asks.

"I found out he was basically lying to me the whole time. I thought we were going to end up together and he was just using me until someone better came along. Now I can see he was pretty toxic."

"I'm sorry. That sucks."

It does. It sucks that it's part of my story. I know everyone has bad experiences in dating before they finally settle down with someone, but it doesn't take away the sting of being played for a fool.

"Okay, I'm buying milkshakes for everyone," Denny says, twirling his keys around his finger.

I finish my fantasy romance novel a few minutes before midnight and set it on my bedside table with a sigh. The romance was a beautiful, sweeping love story for the ages, full of sacrificial choices and selflessness combined with passion and longing. I adored it, even though it brought a sobering truth to light.

I don't think I ever truly loved Bryce and I don't know that he loved me.

So why was I ready to settle for him? I think my pride kept me from waving a white flag and admitting I was with someone who was wrong for me. I didn't want to deal with a breakup. I think compassion for Bryce in his moments of vulnerability went a long way. I never felt insane fireworks with him, but I had convinced myself that wasn't a significant factor. I don't know that either of us would win an award for "Most Selfless."

We never fell out of love because we were never "in love." There were bits of friendship and kindness. There were times we genuinely had fun together. But the kind of love I've just read about, a life-altering love, the kind of love I dismissed as too idealistic—we definitely did not have that.

And I don't know if I ever will.