She’s leaning over her sketch pad with an intense look in her grassy-green eyes as I walk up the dune. I’m careful not to disturb her. I like watching her sketch. Her pencil moves swiftly across the page, and every once in a while she smiles, like she’s happy with the shading she’s accomplished or the curve she’s drawn. She’s wearing a thick sweatshirt, shorts, and her favorite black lace-up boots with frilly white socks. Seeing her in those boots always does funky stuff to my stomach. Only Delilah could pull off black boots with frilly socks, especially in summer.
She lifts her eyes when I’m a few feet away, and her shoulders drop a hair as a smile spreads across her lips. She picks up a to-go cup from beside her and hands it to me. Her eyes sweep over me quickly and she nibbles on her lower lip, then covers her sketch.
“Hi, Ash. I brought you coffee.”
She’s usually too busy showing me how to sketch to create something herself. As much as I like when she’s leaning against me, showing me the right angle to draw from or the proper shading technique to use, I like when she sketches even more, because it gives me time to drink her in. She’s shy about her drawings, though I don’t know why. They’re always amazing.
“Thanks.” I drop my backpack and settle in beside her, pulling out my sketch pad and pencil. “It’s chilly this morning.”
“I know, but after a few minutes you’ll get used to it.”
I lean in close and peer at her sketch pad. “Can I see?”
She spreads her hands across the page as if she’s not going to show me. I know she will. She always does this, fights her shyness.
“It’s not very good.” She points to a boat anchored by the Harborside Pier. “I’m trying to draw that, but I can’t get the waterline right. It looks like a five-year-old did it.”
I want to laugh because the image is so beautifully drawn that it’s almost ridiculous that she worries, but I don’t. I didn’t know Delilah before her parents died, but I wonder if their death somehow undermined her confidence, or if she’s always doubted her talents. She moved here right after her parents were killed in an accident on the way home from her college graduation, and even though her confidence wavers, she still seems incredibly strong to me. I don’t think she realizes how managing everything she does on a daily basis requires her to be strong. Since the day I met her she’s been dealing with more than any young woman should have to. As if losing both parents wasn’t enough, she’s also had to learn to run their business, decide about selling her childhood home, deal with attorneys and wills and other things that no one our age should have to think about.
“It does not.” She watches my eyes as I reach for the sketch pad. She does that a lot, watching me. I set her sketch pad on my lap and marvel at her sketch, and when I feel her eyes leave me, I steal a glance at her.
She has the most flawless skin. Her slightly upturned nose might look snobbish on anyone else, but Delilah’s image is natural. There’s nothing harsh or contrived about her. She’s tall and lean, but not hollow-looking, like many thin girls.
Even though Delilah is strong, she has this shyness, this vulnerability, about her that makes me want to hold her in my arms and tell her things are going to be okay. We’ve only known each other a short while, but she’s already touched me in ways no one else ever has.
“This is so good, Dee. I wish I could draw this well.” I hand her the sketch pad and pick up my pencil.
“Stay right where you are. I want to see if I can draw your profile.” I hover over my sketch pad and set to work trying to create her image, but it’s like re-creating the Mona Lisa. I know I’ll never come close.
She sets her sketch pad in the sand and sighs.
“Come on, Ash. Draw that boat or something.” She looks down at the sand and bows her neck.
“Boats are so boring, and you’re supposed to be showing me how to draw people, remember? Now lift your chin and don’t complain.” Besides, boats don’t make me want to kiss them.
She rolls her eyes, but her cheeks plump up with her smile. I’m glad she gives in.
“Tell me about therapy last night—then you won’t think about me drawing you.” I’m trying to take her mind off of the fact that I’m studying her. I know she won’t go into much detail. She never does. But I like hearing the thoughts she is willing to share, and I think it helps her to talk it over, even just a little here and there. Most people would probably think she’s moving forward just fine. She keeps her emotions pretty close to her chest. But when she does share, I can tell there are struggles she’s not revealing, because along with a thread of sadness, there’s an underlying layer of anger. She buries the toes of her boots in the sand.