Read Online Cubanita by Gaby Triana - Free Book Online Page B

the door most of the way and tips his baseball cap. “ Hola . How was your day?” He steps slowly, careful not to knock down the chairs up on the little tables.
    â€œLong.” This is totally true. I’ve been dying to see him today, dying to know if he’ll act the same with me, wondering if we’ll kiss again. I pull out my easel from the closet, the one with my painting.
    â€œSame here,” he says, watching me prepare brushes, cloth, mineral spirits. He then sits on a low countertop nextto me. “You’re going to work on that some more, I see?”
    â€œYes, I want to add a beach. This girl’s sitting on the sand, looking out, but I still don’t know what she wants or what she’s thinking. I guess no one’ll ever really know.”
    â€œKind of like the Mona Lisa.”
    â€œExactly. Like the Mona Lisa.” I smile, happy that he recognizes the mystery behind da Vinci’s masterpiece. Most people my age wouldn’t know anything about the Mona Lisa.
    I focus on my canvas and begin blending the oils on my palette, trying to get the right tone for the sand to complement the dark clouds. Scraping off my brush, I start dabbing the paint onto the canvas. Andrew watches without a word. The real storm clouds outside start rumbling, announcing their daily visit. That’s summer in the Everglades for you. And they call this the Sunshine State.
    I work the paint in quickly, because I want to finish this section before I leave today. It feels a little strange to have an audience. I almost never paint with someone watching. This is my quiet time. I’m usually alone. Andrew barely moves or breathes. Outside I hear the sound of some kids squealing, as the rain starts to come down. A sweet smell wafts into the room. Perfect rain.
    Andrew, maybe sensing my love of stormy afternoons, stands up and moves behind me to get cozier. He leans his chin on my shoulder for a better view. “Is this bothering you? Just tell me.”
    â€œNo, it’s not,” I hear myself say kind of quickly. It probably should bother me…I mean, I’m working here…but itdoesn’t. Not in the slightest. It feels nice to have someone genuinely admiring my one real talent.
    â€œJust tell me if I start bugging you.”
    He reaches around my waist and links his hands, like we’re slow-dancing to the sound of the rain. My stomach starts fluttering again. That’s practically zero butterflies in the last two years, and now a whole multitude has visited me these last few weeks. Why am I going so crazy over him?
    Weakling. You’re a weakling, Isa .
    I probably shouldn’t be able to concentrate on this painting with him holding me like this, yet I can. His being here helps me, as I work the oils. The storm outside now pounds the roof. Maybe I should always have him around. Maybe Andrew’s my muse.
    He turns his face toward me, getting a close look as I paint. He’s enjoying this, watching me work—the girl, this beach, these clouds, listening to the downpour outside and the sound of my breathing. And then, oh God, the final touch…he moves his mouth to my neck and kisses me softly. Once. His mouth lingers there, totally and completely teasing me.
    Okay, now I can’t concentrate.
    He pulls me closer. I can feel his every contour. Every contour. My grip on the paintbrush slips. My hands are sweating. And then, I realize I’m swooning again, like the first time he came in here. The room is sort of swirling, not completely dizzying, but enough for me to forget where I am for a second. My eyes close.
    Exactly what kind of special power does he have to make me feel like this? It’s not right. I’m leaving soon; we shouldn’t be doing this. I have to tell him.
    â€œAndrew?”
    Just the rain answers me, and I really don’t feel like interrupting again. Maybe I should listen to my brother’s wisdom. Go with the flow.