Page 12 of The Amazing Date

It’s not their laughter that stops me but the squeeze from Rylee. “Hey, come here a second,” she whispers and leans forward. Her lips land on my cheek. “Your sister isn’t the only woman who enjoys good-morning kisses. Let me apologize to you in advance for the craziness I’m about to put you through.”

Our gazes lock, and I lose the ability to breathe. Her light brown eyes glow with the morning sun, and I notice her fingers making a new set of circles on my lower back. Sensuous circles that cause my knee to buckle. I must deflect. “You have no idea what crazy looks like. Try to keep up.” I pivot and escape before her hand can do any more damage.

Having Rylee Reynolds this close to me, looking the way she does, with her hand where it was, is a dangerous thing. I stumble away from the beautiful distraction toward the folding table set back from the curb on the bridge.

I’d been caught in her web once before, and it destroyed me. I won’t let that happen again. I twist away from her in search of an escape and spot the friendly coordinator from last evening.

Our eyes connect, and she nods, welcoming me to the table. “I’m here to check in,” I state.

“Good morning, Roberto. I can help you with that.” She remembers my name, and I feel bad I didn’t take the time to get hers. She is wearing the It Take Two staff polo shirt and a name tag—Juanita.

“Boricua?” I ask, taking note of her brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair. She resembles so many women from Puerto Rico. Prideful, strong, and confident. That thought alone has me grinning ear to ear. I love meeting people from the island.

She giggles and swipes across the iPad screen. “Dominicano.”

“Perfecto.” I pump my fist twice to my opposite shoulder.

“Sí.” Her light voice is filled with sunshine and happiness. She runs the tips of her finger through her long, black hair, directing it over her shoulder. “I have you and Rylee all checked in. Let me confirm the team’s name—the Checklists?”

I glance back at Rylee laughing and strutting around Gabby. She is goofy and unpretentious around her, and it makes my sister laugh louder than she has in recent memory. The sunrise frames them in the distance, a picture-perfect moment if I ever saw one. I pull out my phone from the race belt and snap a quick picture, wishing I had my sketchbook in front of me, the desire to sketch in charcoal a sudden urge that had not moved me since the accident.

No way.

“Is that right?” Juanita asks once again.

I speak without turning, without thinking, without breathing. “Nah, we’re not going to go with that.” I steal another glance at Rylee spinning on her toes, and the image of her performing a similar move in Puerto Rico bombards my mind. An overpowering image that carries with it so much emotion and history.

“Oh my god, this is beautiful.” Rylee gapes.

Shock races through me as I turn to see her standing by the opposite bench in the fort, my sketchbook in hand. It’s flipped open, and I already know what’s she’s staring at.

“It’s not completed,” I begin, surprised when the normal wave of irritation I experience when people look at my works in progress without my permission doesn’t appear. Rylee, Gabby, and our friend Luis went dancing on the piers in Guánica the previous evening. Rylee showcased her salsa skills. The joyful image too impossible to ignore, I spent all morning committing it to charcoal. “It’s beautiful because it’s a reflection of the moment, the person, and the emotions. You are beautiful.” My feet pause as I give her space to enjoy the drawing. “Always so damn beautiful.”

She slowly slides down to sit on the bench, her eyes never leaving the sketch. “I look so happy. You are freaking incredible, Roberto. Europe is lucky to have you. Have you always wanted to be an artist?”

I slip onto the bench next to her, not expecting the question. “For as long as I can recall. My dad liked photography as more than a hobby. I remember seeing some of his pictures, and I began to sketch them. My mom noticed, and both my parents would bring home art supplies. I would save my allowance and buy even more supplies. I collected pencils, pads, and paints the way my friends collected Pokémon cards. “

The awe in her eyes is the greatest compliment I could ever receive. Her index finger traces the outline of the drawing in silence.

“That’s my favorite type of sketch. I love capturing people in an unguarded moment doing something they love. It’s the true beauty of art. And you ….” I lose track of my words as she turns and looks up, capturing my gaze. “Let’s just say you’ve provided a jolt of inspiration.”

I’m rewarded with a shy smile, a rarity from her. She fumbles while reaching into her bag, pulling out a spiral notebook of her own.

“I can’t teach you to sketch,” I joke.

Her laughter fills the small fort, and she shakes her head. Flipping back the cover, she turns a page, lifting a pen. She flips the pad to face me, and I can’t help but burst into a roaring laugh. Have Roberto sketch me stares back at me. “I guess Gabby and her checklists work.” She strikes a line through the request and flips the page.

It was at that moment I knew I had found my muse.

Without thinking, I mumble to Juanita, “The Artist and the Troublesome Muse.”

Juanita’s loud laugh pulls my attention back to her. Her fingers fly across the screen. “Oh my, that’s a good one. I’ll have to remember it when I speak to my dad. He owns a studio. Are you an artist?”

“Used to be.” I utter my standard answer before I can think. The silly paint-by-numbers commissioned portraits I do aren’t considered art in anyone’s book. The first two years after the accident, I struggled with drawing, failing at the simplest of tasks. My dominant drawing hand was broken in so many places it required surgery and months of physical therapy for me to even hold a crayon. It took a year before I attempted lifting a charcoal pencil. The intricate, delicate touch required for my charcoal drawings either lacked the necessary finesse or caused pain in my hand when I attempted certain motions. I gave up drawing with charcoal, moving on to the less demanding and less interesting paint and brushes. I needed to make ends meet, so I took on the nonchallenging job of portrait painting, knowing I would hate it.

I fell into a depression and funk. Gabby pulled me out of that dark well. She had just graduated, decided to stay in Chicago, and was full of optimism for the future. Countless hours were spent on the phone talking about my love of sketching and the joy it not only brings to me but those around us: the fourteen-by-seventeen sketch of Abuela I did when I was sixteen, which still hangs in her bedroom to this day. The sketch of Papi working on the car in the driveway, which hangs in his office. On and on she spoke with such reverence, it left us both in a puddle of tears.

Her faith and belief in me gave me the courage to risk a second surgery. The torturous road back included yet another six months of physical therapy, rediscovering how to hold a pencil, how to write, how to draw, the frustration of knowing progress doesn’t occur in a straight line. For every good day when you think you are on your way back, there is a dark day that has you questioning everything.

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