“The restaurant isn’t doing well,” Tom said softly. “And I need to get a roommate. Apayingroommate. I’d prefer that still be you—”
Adrian rubbed his face. “I’m broke,” he reminded Tom.
The shorter man shifted in discomfort. “Can’t you just sell a painting or something?”
Adrian groaned, because if he’d been selling more paintings, he wouldn’t be imposing on Tom. He didn’t understand why sales were down. His last exhibition had made it intoArtforum. He’d assumed sales would follow, but he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to his bank account until he was standing on the curb in front of his former home, suitcases at his feet.
“I’m still under contract with Nora’s gallery through the end of the year,” Adrian muttered. “And inexplicably, my art hasn’t sold at all since I left.” He hadn’t gone by the gallery to check if anything was still on display since their breakup, as all the gallery staff had come down firmly onTeam Nora, but it wasn’t like she’d asked for a forwarding address to send checks to.
Tom sighed and screwed up his lower lip. “Well, do you have any other ideas? Could you just go pick up a few shifts at Starbucks or something until things turn around at the restaurant? Have you even been going into your studio?”
“I’m planning a new series,” Adrian said, tapping his notes. “Historical scenes from the Anglo-Ottoman War.”
“Uh-huh,” Tom said, unconvinced that this was a quick route to rent money. “That’s, like, another step away from actually painting?”
Adrian thought that was a low blow, so he merely stared at his roommate mulishly.
The other man stared back. “Could you ask one of your parents to help you out for a while?”
“Do you remember that I could have been a doctor instead of an artist? They do.”
“Or you could teach? You have an MFA.”
“Ha. Do you know what they pay adjunct art professors? I’d make more slinging coffee.”
“Then sling some coffee, or we’re gonna get evicted,” Tom said, tossing his hands in the air.
Adrian appreciated thewein that sentence for its suggestion that they were in this situation together, even though the easiest solution would be for Tom to tell Adrian to get out so he could move in someone who had a stable income.
Coffee. Jesus. The idea that he’d work a cash register would have been inconceivable to him just two weeks ago.
Adrian propped his forehead against his fingers. His swift descent from locally prominent artist to deadbeat couch surfer had happened so unexpectedly as to leavehim feeling like he’d tumbled down a mountain and hit every boulder on the way.
“I’ll... apply for something,” Adrian unhappily promised. “Some new grants. Or teaching, you’re right. I still know a few professors in the area.” It sounded pretty thin.
They both looked at the black television screen. Adrian imagined Tom was as disappointed in him as he was with himself. Until recently, he’d been the reliable one—the one whose life had gone according to his expectations. Tom slurped the rest of his drink and tipped his head back against the couch with his eyes closed, stress forming little lines around his mouth.
Adrian clenched his teeth as guilt hit him. It wasn’t Tom’s job to worry about his failing career and broken engagement. Two weeks was more than enough time to sulk about his breakup and his gallery and his declining sales.
“There’s no reason I can’t try waiting tables, I guess,” Adrian said reluctantly. “Do you know if anyone nearby is hiring?” At least Tom’s neighborhood was far enough from Adrian’s former one that he wasn’t likely to encounter anyone he knew.
Tom didn’t open his eyes, but his chest rose in amusement. “You’d suck at waiting tables.”
“Why? I think I get the theory of it.”
“Sure,youare going to hustle for tips.” Tom scoffed.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but the first time someone tried to order their boeuf bourguignon with the sauce on the side, you’d make a face—”
“What face? And how the hell would you do the sauce on the side, it’s astew—”
“That face! That one you’re making right now. You’dmake that judgy face, and boom, no tip for you. Plus, anywhere nice is going to want you to have experience. You’d have to start at, like, some hole-in-the-wall, and you’ll barely clear minimum wage.”
Adrian waved a dismissive hand. “You figured it out. You managed to pay for your divorce waiting tables. I can come up with half the rent, at least.”
Tom was silent for a moment, his mouth twisted to the side. He looked back over at Adrian, seeming to size him up.
