Page 70 of Protecting Mr. Fine

This time with Bear was maybe the happiest of my life. But in my experience, happy things didn’t last.

In this case, the expiration date was coming in a matter of days.

By the time my stomach started demanding dinner, I’d grown melancholy. The excitement and joy I’d had at figuring out my cheerful song about Bear had drained away like fizzy pop in a broken bottle.

I made my way to the kitchen and began poking around in the fridge, not realizing Bear was sitting right there at the table. When he spoke, I jumped.

“Shit, sorry, what?” I said, clutching my chest.

“I said I was kind of in the mood for a big salad to go with that bread Lou brought over from the local bakery. That sound good to you? I can’t cook, but I can chop ingredients for a salad, and there’s grilled chicken in there.”

“Yeah, good. I can help.”

I felt Bear’s eyes on me as he joined me in the kitchen and began pulling out ingredients. I washed my hands and busied myself cutting vegetables.

He didn’t push me to talk even though it was clear he was concerned, and I appreciated that. But then I wondered if he wasn’t asking because he didn’t much care—not that he didn’t care aboutme. I knew he did. But because he might not have wanted to get involved in whatever emotional crap I had going on.

He might want to keep things professional… to the extent you can do that with someone’s whose ass you ate earlier.

My cheeks flamed as usual as those memories replayed in my mind.

“Did your song go okay?” he asked gently without looking up from the giant bowl he was tearing lettuce into.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m, ah… I’m working on a couple of them right now, actually. The one that came to me today is done. It’s a happy song, and I’m really pleased with it. The other…” I shook my head. “Something’s not quite right yet. The subject is a little more serious, and the bridge and the final verse need work. Too bad, really. I was thinking about playing that one in Amsterdam, if it was ready.”

“That’d be exciting,” he said. “Your fans would go nuts if you debuted a new song onstage. But only if it feels right.”

Silence fell again. I tossed the bell peppers into the salad and began to slice the red onion. “Tell me about your parents,” I said, realizing he didn’t talk about his family all that much. “You said the other day that they didn’t necessarily know you were gay, and it made me wonder about your relationship with them. I thought you were close.”

“We are. I know it seems strange I haven’t told them, considering we are close, but…” He shrugged. “I didn’t want it to be a thing, you know? A topic of conversation they might bring up at any time. I didn’t want awkward moments of my mother casually mentioning every gay kid she knew or my dad showing up wearing a Montanan Pride shirt.”

I snickered. “Yeah, they sound terrible.”

“They’re the opposite of terrible. They’re the type to love your face off. They’re aggressively supportive.”

It made sense. “That’s how you became an Olympic-level athlete.”

“Exactly. They supported the shit out of me and did everything they could to help me pursue it. To this day I think my brothers andsister are prouder of my medals than I am. My sister has them on display in her house.”

That surprised me. “They’re not at your place in LA?”

I knew he had a small apartment in Santa Monica, but I’d never been there.

“God no. My apartment is a shit heap,” he said with a laugh. “I haven’t even finished unpacking the things I do have.”

I stared at him. “Why? Is it because you spend too many hours at work? Because I could talk to Violet?—”

“No. God, no. And don’t you dare talk to Violet. No. I just… I like to explore. I don’t hang around my apartment much. When we’re in town and I’m not with you, I usually hike the canyon or go for long runs. I go to Topanga. Sometimes I’ll try a new restaurant or find someplace with live music. That kind of thing.”

“What kind of music?” I asked eagerly. I’d asked him about music before, but he’d always seemed to imply that he liked mine. Maybe he felt disloyal by telling me what he really liked.

“Zee Barlo cover bands,” he said with a straight face.

I stared at him. “You are a complete and utter asshole. Tell me the truth.”

“There’s this place, Pips on La Brea, that does jazz and amazing cocktails. It’s the vibe more than the music.”

I deflated a little, remembering I was too high-profile to go to places like that anymore. If Bear and I ever had a real relationship, he’d miss out on some of the things he liked.

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