“I just want some vanilla.”
“Yeah, I bet you do,” he said in a low growl, his bedroom voice making a cameo at Azucar. Brennan shot him a loaded grin.
Cliff surrendered, unable to beat that line. Not with anything he’d feel comfortable saying in public anyway.
“You guys remind me of my dads.”
Cliff and Brennan looked up at the twelve-year-old kid standing over their table. He wore a Lego-branded shirt over a long sleeve T. His shaggy hair flew about his face.
“Excuse me?” Cliff asked.
“You remind me of my dads.”
A man that Cliff assumed was a baby-sitter or really older brother came over. He had the harried look of a parent, but he seemed too young to be the kid’s dad.
“Hobie, what are you doing? Come back to the register. We need to order.”
“Cameron, they remind me of you and dad.” The kid nodded at the other man by the register, who had the start of gray at the temples.
“I’m sure they appreciate the commentary.” The young guy spoke to the kid with a snarky authority. Cliff guessed babysitter. “Sorry about my stepson crashing your dinner.”
Cliff guessed wrong.
“Hobie loves pointing out when he sees other same-sex couples. You guys are super cute, though.”
Brennan and Cliff glanced at each other, then glanced away.
“Oh, we’re not…”
“We’re just friends…”
“We’re not...well, I’m gay, but he’s…”
“Cameron, they even talk like you and dad!” The kid laughed gleefully.
“Sorry about that.” The young dad shot them an apologetic, but knowing look. He knew what was up, much to Cliff’s chagrin. “Are you guys students at Browerton?”
They nodded.
“So were my husband and me. Well, we graduated like fifteen years apart, and then I stumbled back to his house drunk one night...it’s a long story. I have friends from college coming to visit later this month, so it’s bringing back a lot of good memories. Which I’m sure you don’t want to hear anything about. And I’m still talking. Talking to myself, in front of total strangers.”
“It’s cool,” Brennan said with his natural ability to disarm. He seemed to find the whole thing amusing. “Go Whitetails!”
While Brennan waved goodbye to the boy and his stepdad, Cliff lopped off a hefty spoonful of the sundae and shoved it into his mouth.
* * *
Brennan didn’t leavehis side the entire night. His hand frequently made it to the small of Cliff’s back to lead him to the next print; it wasn’t loud in the gallery, but Brennan still leaned into his ear to say things.
The exhibit was a collection of rotoscoped prints the artist took on the Las Vegas strip. They were a series of hand-drawn accentuations on top of photographs that brought a surreal quality to Sin City. He took Cliff around to each picture and showed him areas where the techniques they’d been studying came into play. How the exaggerated curves of the marquee lights gave it a dreamlike feel; how the shading of a side street hinted at a sinister side to the city.
Cliff loved listening to Brennan talk passionately about each print; whether he liked it or felt it missed the mark, he had something insightful to say. His mustache was like a heart monitor line going up and down as he mused on the collection. Watching someone in their element was infectious.
Usually at museums, he let art wash over him, feeling cultured just for being there. Tonight, he forced himself to engage, to draw upon what he’d learned in his art class, to think about what the artist was trying to say. He wanted to be a worthy conversational partner with Brennan.
Two hours flew by and soon they were running to catch the shuttle back to campus. The wind whipped between the buildings of the med school campus. Only two other people were on the shuttle in the first row. The art show was still in full swing, but Cliff had to get his rest for the first game of the season tomorrow.
Cliff was about to sit across from the couple in the first row. Brennan took his hand and led them to the back, sending shocks of electricity raging up his arm.
