“Sure,” said Austin.
He might remember something Clay had mentioned about going to the dance, but surely he was going because Bill asked him to and not because Clay was going to be there? Clay had mentioned the dance and how he didn’t know how.
Austin could just imagine how it might go, Clay, fresh faced and smiling, looking at the dancers with hope and trepidation about how he might perform up to snuff. Had not enough people told Clay he was fine just the way he was? Or, more to the point, had Clay never had anyone tell him he was not just fine, he was marvelous?
And he was, he truly was, in ways that Austin couldn’t explain. The day before, when he’d held his paint and paper close to his body in an effort not just to hide what he was about to do to the world, but also from himself, he’d thought to borrow Leland’s truck. Then he’d been going to check out Google maps to find a good view to paint, even if just for a little while.
He wasn’t much good at people, and maybe he was okay at landscapes, but most of his paintings were like watercolors verging on abstracts, with shapes and lines of color. And that was fine, since he never showed his paintings to anyone, except Mona, that one time, and that had been enough. At any rate, he’d go out, then come home and go to bed, hoping he’d gotten it out of his system.
But as usual with these things, at least since he’d arrived at the ranch, it wasn’t turning out like he’d expected it would—it had turned out better.
Clay had come along and just about swept him off his feet, driven him to the most beautiful ridge and then—left him alone. Walked off so Austin could paint. Didn’t pry and ask questions afterwards, just drove them to the ranch and said goodnight. Sweet and unassuming and kind. Not judgmental. Not anything bad.
When Clay had flirted with him before, more than once it seemed, the words and actions added up to something nice that Austin struggled to define. It was hard not to compare Clay to Mona, but when he did, it was light and dark, day and night.
Clay made him feel all the good things he’d forgotten, the pleasure of a new day, a job well done, the anticipation of seeing how a painting would turn out. This, it seemed, was spilling over into anticipation of seeing Clay each day. Stopping with Clay in the dining hall. Following Clay’s every move while he loaded and shot a long distance rifle, eyes focused and serious, intent on his task.
Clay was worth waiting for and worth catching up to. But dance with? And of course Austin was thinking about it, thinking extra hard. Overthinking it, very definitely, the way he usually did.
Gay guys danced with other gay guys, right? They held each other in their arms and danced. But at a guest ranch?
Perhaps all Austin could do was watch Clay dance with the guests. Perhaps that would be enough.
The idea of it, though, as he stood on the front porch of Maddy’s office while she locked up for the day, stirred in his minds’ eye visions of himself racing back to his little room after dinner to shower and shave. Put on extra cologne, and his newest shirt. Polish his boots. Use hair gel, for crying out loud.
He wanted to look nice so that if Clay glanced his way, maybe the glance would linger. Maybe the feelings Austin was feeling now as he climbed the stairs to the staff quarters would linger and grow. Maybe the staticky jolts of energy in his belly, thimblefuls of liquid lightning, would expand until that jittery something’s-about-to-happen feeling would come back, would feel the way it used to before he met Mona.
Before Mona, life had been full of the expectation of something good. Then lifehad been, simply, good. Mona had stripped all of that from him, without him being aware it was happening. But being on the ranch, having Clay as a friend? Was bringing that feeling back and then some.
Not waiting to determine if any of this was a good idea, he did go to his room and shower, put on his newest shirt, and ran the edge of a towel across the toes of his cowboy boots. He did put on cologne after he shaved, but not too much.
As he strode back to the main lodge, where he could see people gathering in the warm dusk, the little fairy lights strung between poles, the air seemed full of expectation, charged with something as though from a faraway and much anticipated storm. Along the porch was a small band with, a lead singer and other members playing instruments.
He’d seen the bills for the band, and there seemed to be some sort of handshake deal between the band and the ranch, for they were quite inexpensive, given the band’s reputation. He’d checked their website, and they were quite good and could go anywhere and play for anyone. Most weeks, they stopped by Farthingdale Ranch to play for the home team, getting people on their feet, getting people to dance and have fun.
Festive chatter from the guests rose and fell, dispersing into the trees, into the night, purple and black-blue, like a mystic cape surrounding them, giving them just the right amount of shelter from the cool breeze from the mountains.
Austin stood at the edge of the dance floor furthest from the porch, where the band was. He saw Leland and Jamie across the way, at the edge of the porch, and waved. Both men lifted brown bottles of what was probably root beer.
To keep in good with the boss, he was going to have to try some one day. Not that Leland would hold it against him if he never did have any root beer, but it would be a nice gesture to a man who was turning out to be a very good boss.
18
Austin
At the other end of the porch from Austin, looking like he was about to head off into the trees and go back to his room, was Clay. He was without his straw cowboy hat for once, and had spruced himself up. Even from this distance, Austin could see his curved smile, his freshly shaved face. Could imagine he smelled the cologne that Clay might have put on, evocative as it warmed against his skin—
These were not new thoughts, they weren’t. But they were coming all at once, like a spiral of energy pushing into him, creating more thoughts and more ideas, all of which were about Clay.
Had he liked the painting Austin had given him? Or was he embarrassed by Austin’s lack of talent? Would Clay figure out how much courage it had taken Austin to try his hand at painting another human being?
Would he pick someone to dance with and make his way across the dance floor so Austin could see him in action up close? Maybe Clay would take a break from dancing and he and Austin could grab a bottle of water from the cooler by the porch and—and then what? What did one do in these situations? He’d forgotten, if he ever even knew, and a hardy sense of nerves began to squash all the expectations that had been rising in him like bubbles.
Then Clay saw him and, in that brief second, before Clay figured Austin could see him, he saw Clay wasn’t smiling. The normal happy-go-lucky mien was gone and in its place was something withdrawn and quiet. Clay wasn’t dancing, he was merely watching.
Clay raised his hand to catch Leland’s eye, perhaps so he could then assume he’d been counted on the roster as having attended the dance. Leland waved back. Then, dipping one shoulder, Clay began to slide into the trees.
Without thought, Austin raced along the edge of the dance floor just as the band began to play something that might have beenStand By Your Manor might have been something far more obscure. Either way, Clay, all shaved and sweet, was headed back to his room like the last kid to be selected for a side of dodgeball.
