Page 25 of Portrait of A Lost Artist

NATHAN

T HE WARMTH I FOUND WITHIN BENICIO’S HOME SURPASSED ANYTHING LOS ANGELES EVER OFFERED, MAKING IT FEEL LIKE MY OWN.

So, when the sky lightened to a clearer gray and the humid sun finally peeked out, I could perceive it in its most peculiar form.

It wasn’t until I saw the shredded wood—all that was left of the front yard’s frame—that I understood the storm’s impact on everyone else. My fear intensified as I draw nearer.

However, one look at my side is enough to calm me down.

Or try to do so, at least. The frizz from the weather couldn’t tame the wildness of her curly hair, which is pulled back but still unruly.

Veronica, moving forward with resolute calm, becomes my source of stability, showing no fear of what lays ahead.

Part of me needs to know that Benicio is alright, but another portion of my soul is telling me I wouldn’t be able to cope if that wasn’t the case.

A backward glance reveals an outstretched hand and the question, “The keys?” Veronica’s brown irises trace the outline of my features, which must look like I had seen a ghost, clasping that hand she had extended around mine to interlock our fingers before bringing our palms up to her mouth.

“What if he’s injured?” I question, voice a mere whisper, but Veronica shakes her head before that thought could fully settle within me.

“He’s there. That’s all we can hope for.”

“How do you know?”

Right as I hand her the keys, she turns and says, “Sometimes hope is more important than knowledge. Humankind is not meant to be smart; it’s meant to know how to dream.”

I’ve learned to lose everything that is non-tangible.

Friendships, my sister, people that I cared about.

My concern lies solely with the memories within these walls, even if the house itself were to fall apart.

The sight of darkened walls and the stench of mold now fill me with worry.

I move without command, digits turning on the lights and panicking when looking around the room.

“He’s not here.” Those words fall on me with the weight of a skyscraper, landing on my weak shoulders, but once my voice reaches the air, I realize some motion from the corner of my eye. A body stands from the couch in the middle of the living room, a blanket wrapped around his frame.

Benicio’s eyes are so swollen and raw, the whites almost entirely consumed by a furious red from his tears.

Then, as his gaze finally lands on me, a small movement from beneath the blanket between his legs reveals Opal, who greets my arrival with a soft meow.

But I have no time to truly register Benicio’s state before he propels himself towards me, his embrace a sudden, fierce wave of pure relief that etches itself into my memory the moment his skin meets mine.

He buries his face in my shoulder, his sobs shaking us both as he finally speaks.

“I thought I had lost you, child.” And perhaps that’s who I am to him. A friend, a child, the first person he truly got to know after his partner’s loss. I hug him with just as much force, placing a hand on his head, my own tears pouring from my eyes. “God, I’m so happy you found that motel.”

“I couldn’t get a hold of you soon enough.

I’m sorry.” As I explain, I pull away so I can really see him.

The shadows beneath his eyes and along his cheekbones are stark, and the thin layer of sweat and grease that sits on his skin makes me think he hasn’t had a proper wash. “What happened to the house?”

“I—” Fresh tears gather in his eyes, his fists twisting the material of my shirt, leaving it heavy and wet.

Benicio cannot bring himself to meet my eyes.

“I came back here as soon as I could. Locked myself up in my room and waited for you to come back. I even took care of your cat, but...when I got out...” His voice shakes, lifting his head to spare me a glance. “The room, Nathan, the room is gone.”

Benicio maintains a locked-off section of his house; his current room isn’t his true place.

He used to share a bed with the man he loved, and since losing him, he finds it unbearable to change the sheets or touch the belongings left behind.

He explains that on his lover’s birthday; he goes in simply to feel the texture of his clothes under his fingertips.

At the very back of the house, almost a separate dwelling, that room remained unused, waiting for a time that may never come.

“What do you mean?”

“We built that room after we moved in here, so the materials weren’t the same. The house stood upright, but the room was destroyed.” Benicio explains, tugging at my hand and bringing me forward. “Just check it out for yourself.”

I move instinctively, my body acting independently of my focused gaze.

My palm finds the doorknob, and I twist it.

The scene that greets me looks as if the room were made of paper: destroyed walls and fragments of what was once furniture.

Jagged pieces of wood jut upwards, and clothes lie scattered on the floor, likely torn to shreds.

The tangible evidence of Benicio’s cherished love is gone, leaving only the echoes of their shared memories.

“My God...” I mumble, awfully knowledgeable about how difficult this must be for him. Losing the last portions that kept you close to someone you still grieve is the worst likely feeling to exist.

“There’s nothing I can do, can I?” Benicio asks, his voice a soft murmur, and as I pivot, I notice Veronica’s hand resting on his shoulder, her thumb gently stroking his skin while he gazes at me, his expression a clear display of shattered hope.

Though, luckily for me, I may lack a lot of things, but money isn’t one of them. His memories and his beloved are irretrievable, but I can provide him with a room. A glimpse of what was once there, I mean.

“I know what I say will do nothing to help you heal, but just keep this in mind...” I move over to him, keeping my voice levelled. “He wasn’t there. He is here with you. He will always be here with you.”

Benicio shakes his head, bottom lip quivering as an ugly sob leaves him. “But I want him here. Fuck, Nathan, I need him here with me.”

Once again, I engulf him in a hug. Veronica pulls away at that moment, but with mumbles against his skin, I tell him, right at his ear: “I’ll give you your room back, I promise.”

“I miss him.”

“I know you do...” I whisper, wishing to mend his wounds, but knowing I am not the person to help him heal. There, as our hearts hammer together, I realize I have my family here. In him. And I have to show him the gratitude I have for him.

How so? I am not sure myself, but money can help a bit with my idea.

“So, what are we doing?”

December brings deeper shades to Veronica Del Real.

To say that I love it would be an understatement.

In the last three weeks, my attention has been consumed by the architects and bricklayers as they construct these four walls from the earth, preventing me from truly seeing what’s developing between us.

She’s worked. Here at the house with Benicio, we shared meals, trying to create moments just for us.

A routine, of sorts.

This morning is the first time I have her all for myself, and vice versa, and I’m a little tempted to grab her by the waist and ravish her with a kiss with how gorgeous she looks.

Her hair flows down her back, its bulk behind her ears causing a slight lift.

Burgundy defines her lips, and even without other makeup, her mouth—the one I’d gladly worship—is the focal point.

She’s currently wearing one of my puffy black coats over a simple ensemble of a black t-shirt and jeans.

She can probably still smell the coffee in my breath when I get closer to her, pointing at the blank wall in front of us.

“I was thinking of what to do with this room. I already bought the furniture that looked the most like what Benicio had here, but I kept wondering if it would be enough...” I trail.

“So, a painting came to mind. Some kind of reminder of what they had, right on this wall. And I wanted you to collaborate with me.”

Veronica looks at me like I am a monster with three heads, squinting her eyes before laughing incredulously. “Me?”

“Is there anyone else?”

“I’m...Nathan, this is important shit. I’ve never done something this important.” Neither have I. I’ve painted for celebrities, cast their best moments on a canvas, but nothing has felt like this. So important and yet so simple. “I can be here with you, but you’re the proper artist—”

“We both know how to do realism, and I have an idea in mind.” I browse my phone, leaning back slightly to angle the screen so she can see it clearly.

“Benicio told me their first date was at a park. He knew he was in love with his husband then. I want to paint them by a sunset, sitting in the swings, hands interlocked.”

I show her the picture that Benicio had sent me of the two of them somewhere when we had first met. Benicio’s husband presented a stark contrast to him: salt-and-pepper hair, a thick beard, and considerable height. Yet that stern face melted into a sweet smile whenever he was near my friend.

“God, I hadn’t seen his face in so long...” Veronica let out, zooming on the picture with two fingers before humming. “I think one person should do the scenery and the other should do them.”

“You were just saying no,” I tease, only to get a glare from her, moving her eyelashes up at me as if to scold me.

“I could totally leave right now.”

“I never said that, but you said no just seconds ago.” Continuing to get on her nerves, I hear her groan as she pushes me away with a movement of her shoulder.