“The day after,” Roland cleared his throat. “After we fought. I trashed the studio again. And I felt like shit, worse than before. I don’t know why I did it, why I called the doctor I mean. I was just tired, I guess.” There was a silence before Roland added, “I wasn’t sure if the medication was enough.”
“I’m proud of you. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
“It wasn’t. It’s not. But she’s trying to help.”
“Did she show you the thing?” Donny asked, simulating the tapping on the side of his hand.
“The tapping is supposed to help.”
“Does it?”
“So far.”
“I think that’s all anyone can ask for.” Donny smiled and took a drink of water, and another silence stretched between them. Roland wanted to crawl out of his skin.
“I hate this,” he blurted out.
Donny’s head snapped up. “Hate what?”
“This tension between us. This awkwardness. It wasn’t even like this when we just met. It’s only been a week and I feel like you’re more of a stranger now than you ever were before.”
“It’ll just take time,” Donny whispered. Roland could see the hurt etched across his face, even though he tried to hide it with a downcast stare. Roland clenched his fists and counted backwards from ten to give him time for his breathing to normalize. This was his fault. The unrest between them, the pain that floated across the surface of Donny’s eyes— it was Roland’s doing. Donny had been there when he needed someone, and Roland had to find a way to offer the same steadiness in return.
“Come on,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table and standing. He extended a hand down to Donny, and he did his best to blink back the hurt before sliding his hand into Roland’s grip.
Donny stood, nearly tripping over Pete and Elliot as they chased each other under the legs of the table, and Roland guided him down the hallway to the studio. He’d set up a fresh canvas and pulled out some paint and new brushes before Donny arrived. He settled Donny in front of the canvas and stood behind him, wrapping his fingers around Donny’s shoulders.
“What’s this about?” Donny asked, tilting his head backward so it rested on Roland’s shoulder.
“Paint with me.”
“What?” Donny scoffed, but Roland held his shoulders so he couldn’t turn away from the canvas. He leaned down and breathed into Donny’s ear, “Create something beautiful with me.”
Donny’s body was wracked by a tremor, then he stilled, and his shoulders straightened as he nodded. Roland skirted his fingers down Donny’s arm, raising the fine hairs in his wake, and then covered Donny’s hand with his own, aligning their fingers with ease.
He used his hand to guide Donny’s toward a brush, which he dragged through a splattering of paint before raising it up to the canvas.
“Ready?” he whispered, and Donny nodded again.
Roland touched the brush down against the canvas, creating the basic lines of a flower vase in the center of the canvas.
“Wipe the brush,” Roland said, gesturing toward a rag on the stool next to them. Donny picked up the rag and wiped the bristles of the brush, Roland’s fingers never lifting from his.
“Now green.” Their hands dipped the brush into the green paint and Roland lifted them back to the canvas, leaving arching, swooping lines with every pass of the brush until the vase was overflowing with leaves and stems. The painting was starting to take shape and Roland heard Donny’s voice catch in his throat before he spoke.
“Roland,” he choked out. “What is this?”
“One of the many things I owe you.”
There was a part of Roland that was afraid he’d never be able to make things right with Donny, and his fingers reflexively tightened around Donny’s hand as he thought about not being able to get back to where they’d been before. Roland felt Donny’s shoulders shaking against his chest.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Roland willed himself to not let his regret ruin this moment.
