The Art of Scandal(79)

He flipped through the pages of mostly black-and-white photographs until he came to one of Beto as a pimply teenager, standing next to a wood paneled car with a wide grin. A calmness washed over Nathan, like he’d found something he didn’t know he was looking for. Confirmation that his father wasn’t infallible. He was just a guy who went through the same nerdy growing pains as everyone else.

“First time taking her out,” Beto said, tapping the car. “It took six months to convince my mother that I could handle it without crashing.”

“You look so happy.” Nathan wondered if Beto had ever smiled like that again. Maybe at his mother. Or when Joe was born. “It’s a good picture.” Nathan closed the album. “Thank you for this.”

Beto studied his face. “You look like something’s bothering you.”

“No, I’m just—”

“Don’t lie, Nathaniel, please.” For once, it was a request instead of a command. Beto leaned back in his chair and motioned for Nathan to continue.

His hands were clammy. He set his glass down and wiped them against his thighs. “I’m…” He thought it would be hard to say, but the truth spilled out in a rush. “I’m in love with someone. A woman.”

Beto nodded. “First time?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I know her?”

Nathan hesitated and Beto must have sensed his struggle. “You don’t have to say. But good for you.”

“It doesn’t feel good.” Nathan drained his glass and flinched at the trail of fire it made down his throat. “It actually feels like shit.”

“She doesn’t love you back?”

He thought about how Rachel was downstairs right now, letting Matt Abbott touch her like they were still together. “I don’t know what she feels. I don’t think she knows either. But I’m not sure I can wait around while she figures it out.”

“That’s understandable.” Beto tapped his chest, over his heart. “It hurts though, right? Thinking about letting go.”

Nathan nodded. He tried to remember whether Beto had ever been this insightful before, but kept coming back to one memory, so old and worn that he could barely trust the details anymore. Beto loved cocoa and used to make oversized marshmallows from scratch. It was always strange to discover his father in shirtsleeves, studying a candy thermometer like a chemist. Once, when Nathan was six, Beto had caught him watching and beckoned him closer, inviting him in. Nathan had run away. For years he wasn’t sure why, but now he realized it was unnerving to see your parents as more than the caricatures you’d created in your mind.

He was always running. But what if this time he stayed?

Beto drained his glass and set it on the table. “You boys are like me.”

Nathan stilled. “Excuse me?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Our history. We butt heads, but it’s because we’re too much alike. I knew that. I’ve always known, but you make it hard to—” He shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. “What I mean is you’re very passionate, mijo. You and your brother. You love like…” He paused. “Like it’s who you are. It’s not simply a feeling. Losing this love will mean—”

“Losing myself,” Nathan finished.

“Give her time,” he said, with a bittersweet smile. His voice was filled with decades of regret. “That’s what we all need to get it right sometimes. A little more time.”

Beto’s phone rang, and the extra-large font setting made it easy for Nathan to see Joe’s name pop up. “This boy never slows down, does he?” He waved at the door. “Let’s finish talking another time.”

Nathan left but stood for a moment at the closed door, still reeling at one of the softest conversations he’d ever had with his father. There had been kindness and mutual respect. The exchange was so different from what they’d always been, it felt like a waking dream.

The foyer was empty when he finally walked downstairs. Nathan stopped to look at his mother’s favorite piece of art, a framed textile piece by a local artist influenced by Feliciano Centurión. A small print by the same artist hung in his apartment. He should have told Sofia that. He should have thanked her for raising him in a house filled with inspiration. He should have looked up. But every day he’d kept his eyes stubbornly fixed to the ground, as if he had all the time in the world to appreciate what he’d been given.

Nathan left without anyone noticing. By the time he got home, he was so keyed up and itching to work, he almost tripped on his way up the stairs. He opened Abuelita’s album and started to sketch. Once he had a rough idea, he pulled out a larger canvas and laid it on the floor.

He used every tool he could think of—pencils, charcoal, his fingers, the different positions of his body—to create light and smoke, heavy lines and whisper-thin shading. And then he’d move to another canvas, and start again, like a machine. He turned his music up so loud the table beneath the speaker started trembling. “Y Llegaste Tú” played on a loop, while the memory of her spilled from his fingers.

Nathan only stopped when someone knocked on the door. He turned off the music, and the sudden silence made his ears ring. There was another knock, softer this time. Like an apology. That’s when he knew who was on the other side. But he still didn’t move. Not yet. Every second he waited was another second they weren’t broken. Loving her felt like holding the pin of a grenade.