AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A surfer out in the water.
I don’t surf, so I can’t compare the size of the waves. Medium-sized. He’s a tall silhouette against the purple-gold twilight sky. My pencil moves, capturing the shape of the wave, the movement. It’s carrying him toward the shore. Toward me. And then his body shifts backward, no hesitation, all grace, and he’s under the water.
Oh, god, it has to be so cold. Cold enough to freeze a person, wetsuit or not. Right? But he’s back up before I can wonder anymore. Paddling out and out and out so he can catch another wave.
This one, he takes all the way back to the sand.
I make a few more sketches, but it’s not the shape of the waves I’m drawing anymore. It’s the loneliness of a man out there by himself in all that water. The aching sweep of the sky. Dark water. Dark wetsuit. He could have disappeared, if he wanted.
The man unhooks himself from the board and tucks it under his arm. It’s hard to breathe, with his body in a wetsuit. Shit—he might think I’m drawing him in his wetsuit.
“I wasn’t drawing you,” I blurt out when he reaches my chair.
He stops. Looks down at me. It’s hard to tell what color his hair is in this light, and when it’s wet—light, but not very. Maybe a sandy blond. Can’t tell the color of his eyes, either. He’s all shape and form. Strong shapes. Sharp forms. “What are you drawing, then?”
“The ocean.” I turn the sketchbook around to show him. To prove it. My face heats. It’s meaningless swirls at this point. The feeling of it. The sensation. Notes on the sensation, really—reminders, for when I start painting. Color is what adds depth. The pencil swirls probably look ridiculous, but he considers them seriously. “It’s for a commission.”
“You’re an artist.”
I shrug. I never know what to say to this question. The answer is yes, but if I say that, he’ll ask if he’s seen my work. He’ll want to know if I’ve been featured anywhere, which—no. I’m a starving artist with a full stomach thanks to my brother and my sister. “I like it.”
“It’s good.”
My laugh comes out as more of a snort. “It’s preliminary sketches. It has to be good when it’s done, though.” For the first time, I feel the pressure of this moment. Of the Collector loving my piece. ‘This is my first commission. No one’s ever ordered one before. In a way it’s the most important painting of my life, so I’m here trying to get the idea.”
Another glance at my sketchbook, and then he looks back to the ocean. “You captured the mystery of it.”
This tiny praise makes my chest light up. This man has no idea who I am. He’s not saying it because I’m Leo’s sister or Bryant’s daughter or part of a family dynasty with a surplus of power. “I think it’s more mysterious that you’re out here surfing. I thought people did that in, you know, warm weather.”
“I surf as long as there are waves. It’s a good wetsuit.” He slides the board next to my chair. I didn’t notice the black backpack in the sand before. He’s efficient with the zippers, pulling out a jacket that unfolds from nothing and a plastic rectangle. He puts the coat on over his wetsuit and opens the plastic. Unfurls it out into the dying light. Silver flashes. “For you.”
I catch a corner of it out of the air. A loud, crinkling catch. “A blanket?”
“For emergencies.” He takes a towel out of the backpack and dries his hair.
“I’m totally fine.”
He shoots me a look, and there’s a warmth in it. A familiar exasperation. “Your knees are shaking.”
It’s not because of the cold, but I tuck the blanket around my lap anyway. “There. No more emergency.”
He sits down on the surfboard. My chair is so low, and he’s so much taller, that we’re on the same level. More waves roll in. My muscles are tight with awareness of him. With how close he’s sitting.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.
“Aren’t you supposed to be sketching?”
I laugh at his joke, but I adjust my grip on the pencil and flip to a new page. The ocean is different when someone is sitting at my side. The whole scene is different—the feeling. Ocean droplets feel less like tiny chips of glass and more like snowflakes. Meant to wake me up, not to hurt. I’m not going to get hurt out here. If he was going to do it, he’d have done it already. He wouldn’t have given me a blanket.
It’s not the safest situation ever. I recognize that. But the Uber driver is waiting for me. A couple minutes sketching in earnest and my mind settles. It falls into the shapes on the page and building up the memory of the way the ocean is now. Darker by the minute. Soon the sky and the sea will be the same deep shade. Moonlight on the water will set them apart.
“They’ll like it.”
I’d gotten used to the crash of the waves, and the man’s silence in it. “Who?”
“Whoever commissioned the piece. What you’re doing here is completely different from the sketch you made before.”
“A few minutes makes a difference,” I say, hoping I sound sage and smart and not self-conscious. “That’s why the ocean is such a good subject.” This is a bit of a hedge. It’s the only subject I’m interested in lately. For months and months. “It changes all the time. Becomes something else.”
