Page 27 of Refraction

“That I have.” He pulled two bottles from the minifridge-bar deal and handed one over, and then he carefully put his hat upside down on the dresser and shrugged off his jacket and hung it up before he plopped down.

“Next time we go dancing, I want to go to a Western bar. That whole partnering thing is neat, even if our hands are all backwards.” Calvin drank deep and set the bottle down on a little side table.

“Is there one here where two men can dance, honey?” Because that could be fun. “I mean together.”

“Well, there are lots of bars, and this is New York, tiger. We could scope out a few places. But there is a gay bar, yes. It’s a little gimmicky, but the men are hot and the music is all country. They dance on the bar.” Calvin giggled. “It’s called Flaming Saddles.”

He snorted, then started to laugh, deep, good belly laughs that eased his soul.

Calvin’s giggling turned to laughter too, and the two of them rolled and howled themselves breathless. “We….” Calvin gulped air. “Wehaveto go there now.”

“I’m renting a studio for a few weeks. I want to paint here. I will take you dancing again.”

“You… a few weeks? Really?” Calvin took a deep breath. “Oh, thank God.”

“A few weeks. Really. Marge is dealing with it. This place is wild.” Tucker brought their foreheads together, stared into Calvin’s pretty eyes. “You’re fascinating.”

“You’re unreal.” Calvin slid shaking fingers around the back of Tucker’s neck and held him there, just breathing with him.

He could live with that. He really could.

* * *

Calvin wasalmostsure he was going to pass out, and it had nothing to do with his calorie intake. He really hoped Tucker was cool with just sitting still a minute while he recovered from this head rush.

A few weeks. Not a few days, not just a week—a few weeks might be long enough for him to figure this shit out and get ahold of himself. For now, though, he was unspeakably relieved not to have to say goodbye to Tucker tomorrow.

Tucker sat, watching him, so quiet, so still, but not stiff at all, their foreheads just resting together.

“Sorry.” What else could he say? He’d just laid a whole mountain of responsibility at Tucker’s feet without saying a word, and Tucker had just absorbed it, like it was okay, like it wasn’t complete insanity. “Really.”

“For what? I’m not.”

“Okay.” It was, for now. He smiled. “I’m really glad you’re going to be around for a while. Will you let me come watch you work?”

“If you want to, sure. It can get messy. Wear old clothes.” Tucker just let him in like it was nothing. Here. Come see.

“I love messy.” He had this image in his head of Tucker painting and just losing more and more clothing as the afternoon wore on. It made him grin. And despite his energy level when he wasn’t working, he understood patience, and he had a lot of it—he had to in his line of work. He could sit there all day if Tucker wanted him to. “Sounds like fun.”

He kissed Tucker lightly, finally feeling like he could sit up on his own, picked up his bottle of water, and took a big gulp.

Tucker leaned back on the sofa with a lazy smile. His phone buzzed, and he looked at it, then chuckled. “Daddy says that the show must’ve gone well. Marge is still on the phone with my momma.”

Calvin smiled, feeling almost as proud as if the show had been his own. “Way to go, tiger. People were having a good time, I’m telling you, and the wine was fantastic. How long has Marge been your agent?”

“Since I was thirteen, but like I told you, I’ve known her forever. She’s Momma’s agent too.”

So talent ran in the family. He wondered what Tucker’s mom painted. He wondered if a mom would worry about a son who painted the things Tucker did. And he wasn’t sure if he should ask, but he already knew he would. “You’ve been doing shows and hating them since you were thirteen?”

“I was sixteen when I went to my first. My art was different then—think more comic book and less Dante’sInferno—but yeah, I’ve always been wigged-out at the thought that people were judging me, my work, like it’s just a commodity.”

“I can relate.” In his career, he was judged all the time. Some people judged him for a living. “What does your mom do? She’s a painter too?”

“Yessir. She does photorealism, sort of like Audrey Flack. This incredible, huge stuff that defies reality. She’s amazing. Daddy is a commercial contractor—he builds restaurants, hotels, malls, that sort of thing.”

“Audrey Flack?” He pulled out his phone and looked her up. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to pretend he did. That would just be insulting. “Oh, wow.” He’d look up Tucker’s mom too, eventually.

Daddy built big shit; Mom had a New York agent; Tucker was encouraged to explore art as a kid…. Calvin was getting a picture in his mind and knew for sure that Tucker had been raised way out of his league. He didn’t particularly care, but a fact was a fact.

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