He frowns. “When?”
“A moment ago, I called your name and you didn’t hear. Maybe you were just ignoring me.” She laughs softly, nervous.
“No, I wouldn’t do that.” He plucks at the corner of the label. “I was thinking about my brother. Nothing in particular.” He tries to grab the memory again, but it’s like grasping smoke. Details recede like the tide with every passing second.
His skin pricks. He senses Natalya watching him, so he angles his body toward her. The night sky casts her skin in blue. His expression is questioning, inviting her to ask him anything. She must have plenty on her mind.
Her eyes buzz over him; then her chest rises with a deep inhale. “I’m going to come right out and say this. It’s very hard for me to look at you and not see Carlos.”
“My conservative clothes and shorter hair aren’t enough to differentiate us?” he quips, trying for humor in hopes of unbuckling the tension he’d felt strapped around her since their arrival.
“I wish it were that simple, but no. For a long time, Carlos saw his situation differently than I did. He separated himself from you. He talked of you as though you were a brother or cousin.”
“How do you see me?”
“You’re the same person. Almost,” she adds as an afterthought. “The same blood pumps through your veins. You have the same heart and same soul. So, tell me, James Charles Donato. Who are you?”
He doesn’t know. There isn’t much of his old life left. He gulps back his beer.
“Come on,” she prods. “You have to give me something. What makes you different from Carlos?”
“I don’t collect newspapers?” he points out.
She nods, considering. “That is something. But you know he did that for you?”
James palms the sand and lets it rain between his fingers. There’d been more stacks of newspapers than he cared to count, boxed away in the garage in Mexico. Left behind by Carlos for James, so he wouldn’t miss out on one day’s worth of news. He’d tossed them without opening the boxes. The clutter had been overwhelming. It only added to the staggering number of issues he had to contend with.
“There are quite a few similarities between you. You both run, God knows why.”
James chuckles despite his heavy mood. He finishes his beer.
“You both paint.”
“Not anymore.”
“Why?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Not feeling it.”
She studies him for a moment. His skin itches from the way she watches him. He’s not her Carlos, and he’s tired of being compared to a man who no longer exists. He’s already compared himself enough with Carlos. He pushes the bottle into the sand beside him and considers returning to the house. Maybe they should talk tomorrow. His mood has darkened with the night sky.
Natalya digs her feet into the sand and wiggles her toes. “I was four when my mom passed. My dad didn’t surf for a long time. There he was, at the pinnacle of his professional career, and he couldn’t compete. Surfing is like any sport. It’s about where your mind’s at.” She taps her forehead. “Dad’s mind hadn’t been on the water, so he decided to take some time off and mourn. Then he took another year off to start his company. But the ocean called to him, and in time he was back on the water and winning titles because when he went back, he was ready to go back. Now he has a booming business, travels the world sponsoring tournaments, and has a gal in every port.”
“You and Raquel were sisters, right?”
“Half sisters. Dad’s a free spirit. He’s always been open about his relationships. I love all my siblings.”
“How many do you have?” James recalls reading something about her family, but not the details. These would be his sons’ aunts and uncles. Their family.
“My sister, Tess, is in Sydney, Australia, and my brother, Calvin, is in South Africa. He’s the baby. I’m the eldest.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
“You probably already know I’m thirty-six. I feel like I’m thirty.”
“Hmm, I wonder why.”
He taps his temple. “In my head, I’m drinking a beer with an older woman.”
Natalya looks at him with a blank expression; then a laugh bursts from her chest. He grins. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Anyhow, there’s a point to my story.”
“Which is what?”
“You’re not ready to paint.”
“Well . . . ,” he says, rising and brushing off his shorts. “Send me a memo when you figure out when that’ll be.” He means it jokingly but the crass undertones are unavoidable.
“Oh, I already know.” Her tone matches his. She stands and takes his empty bottle. “You’ll start painting again when you stop hating on yourself and your life.”
He tenses. Carlos didn’t write anything about Natalya’s bluntness. Other than telling her last December he didn’t need her help, he can’t figure out what he’s done to deserve the icy attitude she keeps tossing his way.
“You’ve got me all figured out.” He crosses his arms. “What’s your story? Who the hell are you, Natalya?”
“Didn’t Carlos write all about my deep, intimate secrets?”
James clicks his tongue. “Ah . . . so you know what he wrote about in the journals.”
Her face turns crimson in the pale light. “I’ve read some parts.” She takes a deep drink of beer and he doesn’t have to guess about the parts she’s referring to. Like his paintings, Carlos’s writing was very detailed.
“Awkward.” The word echoes in her bottle. She looks sad and he can’t help feeling like an ass.
“I don’t remember anything about, um . . . us.” He motions between them.
She presses her lips tight and nods. Her eyes glisten. “Maybe it’s for the best. It’ll make tomorrow easier.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“I call the attorney so he can start drafting the adoption papers.”
CHAPTER 18
CARLOS
Five Years Ago
August 15
San Jose, California
A muffled noise echoed through the room. It sounded like a hammer pounding nails into walls, but felt as if it were happening inside my head. White-hot pain shot across my scalp.
Thump, thump, thump. I peeled open sleep-crusted eyes to a dark room. I blinked and blinked again, trying to adjust to the pitch-blackness.
Thump, thump, thump. “Carlos!” My name came through the walls.
Memories from last night, or lack of them, scattered inside my brain like tumbleweeds on an empty road. No direction and completely at the wind’s mercy. At some point in the morning hours, I’d closed the privacy shade to block the sunlight. I couldn’t see shit.
I ground the heels of my palms into my eye sockets.
Thump, thump, thump. “Open the damn door, Carlos, before I call the front desk and demand they do it for me.”
“Coming,” I croaked. I rolled out of bed, stumbling to a knee. The migraine that burned like a forest fire had waned during the night, but my body ached, muscles stiff from sleeping hard the last few hours.