Page 39 of Brushed and Buried
The beachfront path winds along the water’s edge, connecting the resort to a small fishing village about a mile down the coast. I’ve walked it twice since we got here, usually when I need to clear my head. The rhythm of my footsteps onthe weathered boardwalk is meditative, and the sound of waves against the rocks below provides a steady backdrop.
I’m about halfway to the village when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn, expecting to see another resort guest or maybe one of the local vendors who sometimes work this stretch of beach.
Instead, it’s Holly, jogging to catch up with me.
“Mind if I join you?” she asks, slightly out of breath. “The spa doesn’t open for another hour.”
“Sure.” I slow my pace to match hers. “It’s a nice walk.”
We move in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching seabirds dive for fish in the shallows. Holly seems content to just walk, but there’s something in her posture that suggests she has something on her mind.
“Can I ask you something?” she says finally. “It’s a bit personal, so you can choose not to answer, okay? I swear, I just know enough, not all. Adrian isn’t exactly vocal about… things.”
My pulse quickens slightly. “Sure. Shoot.”
“How are you dealing with seeing him again?”
The question catches me off guard. I hesitate, weighing how much to say. “It’s been…both nice and complicated.”
“And the others don’t know you went to the same school?”
I shake my head. “Why?”
Holly shrugs, her tone measured. “Just curious. He’s been…guarded lately. I like knowing enough to help him, that’s all.”
I glance at her. “Help him?”
She nods, stepping around a piece of driftwood washed up on the path. “Yeah. He’s one of those people who carries a lot with him, even if he doesn’t show it. I just try to be aware of what’s going on so I can make things easier for him when I can. I hope you understand. I don’t mean to overstep into your business.”
I think about the way Adrian looked at me that first night in Trevor’s suite. The flicker of recognition, quickly shuttered. The careful distance he keeps, except when his guard drops and something else shines through.
“Some people can be hard to reach,” Holly says softly, almost to herself. “But he’s worth the effort. It’s just nice to see him creating again, you know?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, something cold settling in my stomach.
Holly considers this. “He was brilliant through most of college, graduated as one of the top art students in his class. Everyone told him he still had it, growing up as a child prodigy and all. But toward the end of art school, something shifted. Creative block, he called it. He said he’d lost his inspiration and couldn’t draw in his usual style anymore. When he moved to L.A. after graduation, it got worse. He threw himself into other work, like party planning, event coordination, art installations, or community projects. He’s good at all of it, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. It wasn’t the direction his art needed. Heeven took up stripping on the side to humor me and make extra money for his gallery exhibit.”
I never saw him after we moved on to college, when I was consumed with football, draft prospects, and the future my father had laid out for me.
“But now he’s drawing again,” I say.
“Constantly. Like I said, he’s been sketching nonstop since we got here.” Holly grins. “I keep telling him he should ask if you can model for him properly, not just the sneaky sketches he’s been doing. You know, he’s been working on this gallery exhibition for years. He has all these pieces he’s created over time, but he could never quite finish them. He said something was missing. Working on each piece was like pulling teeth, like he’d struggle for months just to get one piece halfway decent, and even then, he was never satisfied with them. But lately, he’s been talking about finally completing the collection.”
The path curves around a rocky outcropping, and suddenly, we can see the fishing village ahead of us. Small boats bob in the protected harbor, their masts creating a forest of vertical lines against the sky. A few local fishermen are working on their nets, their voices carrying on the morning air.
“He’s really talented,” I say, thinking about the napkin sketch from last night, the way he’d captured not just our faces but something essential about each of us.
“He is. It kills me that he doesn’t see it sometimes. Something made him forget why he loved creating in the first place.”
We’ve reached the village now, and Holly pauses to look out over the harbor. The sunlight catches in her hair, and for a moment, I can see why Adrian is friends with her. There’s something warm and genuine about her that puts people at ease.
“What changed?” I ask. “Why is he drawing again now?”
Holly turns to look at me, and there’s something almost sad in her expression. “I think you know the answer to that.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, not because they’re devastating, but because they carry a certain truth I wasn’t prepared for. A responsibility I’m not sure I understand.
“Holly, I don’t think…”
