Page 52 of Wish I Were Here
“Beautiful, right?”
“I had no idea the building had this view. I didn’t even know you could come up here.” I do a slow spin, taking it all in.
“It’s the tallest building in the neighborhood. You can see for miles.”
I tilt my head back. The sky is clear tonight, and thousands of lights shimmer overhead. “Living in the middle of the city, I never really think to look up and see the stars.”
“Down there, the streetlights block them out. But sometimes you just need to see it from a different angle.”
Luca has shown me the world from so many different angles. “Thank you for bringing me to this special place.”
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather show it to.” He tucks my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me across the roof to a metal lounge chair covered by a durable canvas cushion. “Would you like to sit?” Luca brushes a stray leaf to the ground. “Sorry, there’s only one chair. I usually come up here alone, but I’m happy to share if you are.”
I slide onto the lounge and move over to make room.
The cushion sinks under his weight as Luca sits beside me. He slips his arm behind my back, and I settle against his chest, my thigh pressed to his. Through the thin cotton of his T-shirt, I feel the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart beneath my hand. “Do you come here a lot?”
He nods. “I discovered the roof access when I was a kid playing on the fire escape, and I started climbing up here when I needed a little break from my family.” He gives me a sideways grin and an eye roll. Since I’ve met the Morellis… so many Morellis… I smile back. “I kept a bin of sketch pads and an old beach chair up here, and I’d come up and draw for hours.”
Just beyond where he sits, I spot a waterproof box on the ground. Through the translucent plastic, I can make out piles of sketchbooks and various drawing implements—charcoal, pencils, pens. It looks like he still comes up here to draw.
“My grandpa found me up here one day, and that’s when he discovered I had a talent for drawing.”
Though he smiles at the memory, I can sense his sadness. Shifting a little, I reach out to take his hand and weave our fingers together. Luca’s thumb strokes against my palm, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “I bet your grandpa was so proud of you.”
“He was.” Luca’s chest rises and falls. “There’s a little art shop over on Walnut Street, and I think he walked there once a month to buy me new supplies. Every time I showed up at his place, he had a new sketch pad or charcoal pencil for me to try.”
My heart aches for Luca’s incredible loss.
“When he died last year and we cleaned out his place,” Luca continues, “I found piles of my artwork in the cabinet, all organized and labeled by year.”
“Where is it now?”
“I put it in my mom’s attic.” Luca shakes his head. “I just couldn’t face it, you know?”
I remember the conversation when Luca said he’d planned to do an art show, but it hadn’t worked out. “Is that why your show was canceled last year? Because it was too painful to go ahead with it?”
Luca hesitates and then nods. “He was my biggest fan. It wouldn’t have been the same without him. But…” He sighs. “I know he wouldn’t have wanted me to keep it packed away forever.”
My gaze shifts to the box of art supplies. I’m dying to open it and pore over every one of Luca’s sketches. “Would you be willing to show me a few of your drawings?”
A week ago, I never would have imagined asking him to share something so private and important. But now, I can’t imaginenot. Though I’ve only known Luca for a couple of months and have onlyreallyknown him for a couple of days, this friendship matters to me.Lucamatters to me. I didn’t grow up with a lot of friends, and though I dated in college and grad school, I was too busy to ever get close to anyone. Sitting here with Luca, the buildings lit up in the background, the stars sparkling overhead, I feel a wave of gratitude that this person quite literally stumbled into my life. He’s shown up for me again and again, and I want to do the same for him.
He tilts his head to meet my eyes. “Yeah? You really want to?”
I sit up. “Of course I do.” These drawings are a window into Luca, and I want to open it and climb inside.
Luca reaches for the box next to him. I slide to the foot of the lounge chair and sit cross-legged so I’m facing him, the box between us. Slowly, he lifts the lid. I hold back, giving him a moment to sort through a couple of the sketchbooks, his brows knitting together nervously. Finally, he chooses one, takes a deep breath, and hands it to me.
I flip the cover open, and the air whooshes from my lungs. On the page in front of me is a delicate drawing of a bird in motion. The lines are sketched in pencil, or charcoal maybe, darker in some places and lighter in others, showing the bird as it descends toward a flat surface on the bottom of the page. Its wings curve back, tail feathers strain forward, and something about the grace of its movement reminds me of Luca.
“It’s gorgeous, Luca.” I reach out to touch his arm. “The way you’ve captured the bird’s motion. I want to keep watching it settle peacefully before its whir of activity starts up again.”
He gives me a smile that tells me I understand exactly what he was going for. “There was a whole summer when I was in high school that that guy kept me company up here on the roof, always flitting around me or landing on the foot of my chair.” Luca reaches over to give the page an affectionate pat. “That was the start of my bird-drawing phase. When fall came, I guess he flew south. I still think about him. Sometimes when I climb up here, I still hope to see him hanging out on the wall.”
Nothing about this story surprises me. Luca has a way of connecting with just about everyone he comes into contact with, whether that’s the older people in the building or three-hundred-pound bouncers at a club. Of course even a bird would be drawn to him.
I tilt my head toward the sketchbook to hide the emotions on my face, flipping the page to the next. And this time, I gasp out loud. It’s a drawing of a young woman gazing down at a sleeping baby in her arms. The baby is tiny—a newborn, maybe—and the woman looks tired but captivated. With just a handful of simple lines, Luca has captured all the love and worry and fear that I imagine a new mother must feel.
