“Class won’t start for another twenty minutes,” Margaret says, not looking up as she unpacks some new canvases from their plastic casings. She’s wearing a clean, teal-colored smock.
“Oh, it’s just me,” Julien says. He shimmies his way into the far corner, reserving his favorite easel where he can be most alone in the crowd. Then, he remembers Greg is coming, so he sets his bag on the stool next to his.
“Ah, Julien, I should’ve known,” she says before cocking an eyebrow at Julien’s NPR tote on a second stool. “The lone wolf brings along a member of the pack?”
He becomes bashful as he claims a smock of his own and a paint palette. “Oh. Yeah. Coworker.”
“Is this the wavy brown-haired fella with the big arms who came in here earlier in the week?” she asks.
“Greg. Probably. Yes.”
“He’s a chatty one.”
“Yeah.”
“Unlike you.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this a date?”
“Ye—” Julien flushes, then stammers. “No!” Though his ego inflates for a second that someone like Margaret thinks he could get with someone like Greg.
Margaret laughs lightly to herself. “Almost got you there, didn’t I?” She makes her way to the front of the room, instructing him to grab some paint bottles from storage.
“Greg and I, we’re just... Well, I don’t know what we’re doing here, but we’re working together to retool happy hour at Martin’s Place, and we figured this was a nice, neutral place to meet and plan.” He refrains from adding that he spruced up his apartment anyway on the off chance that their outing is to spill past the class’s end time. Not that he’s expecting Greg to want to spend his entire evening off with him, but still, if the possibility exists, he likes to be ready.
He promised Aunt Augustine he’d give this a try, so he’s putting his best foot forward.
“Happy hour, huh? Sounds fun.”
“If anyone shows...”
“You’re skeptical?”
“I’m skeptical.”
But Julien’s skepticism is swept into a dustpan when the class attendees begin filing in and Greg is there looking handsome in another solid-colored T-shirt—this one hunter green—and another pair of jeans that hug his muscular legs in all the right places.
“Hey, Julien.”
How does he do that? How does he make Julien’s name sound like the greatest word ever invented in any language? It’s exasperating.
“Saved you a seat.” Julien moves his bag, doesn’t make direct eye contact. He’s afraid if he does that Greg will somehow know hevacuumedfor him.
“Thanks. I’m excited.” It sounds as if Greg genuinely means it.
Margaret is setting up the sample painting at the front of the class. It’s a nighttime cityscape. Julien senses Greg tense beside him, the way he did in Uncle Martin’s office two days ago, and wonders what exactly is triggering Greg. Part of him wants to ask. Another, more vexing part of him wants to place his hands on Greg’s prominent shoulders and rub until the muscles relax.
“Full disclosure, I’ve never painted before, so this is going to be a fun new challenge for me,” Greg says, borderline sheepishly. “Unless you count elementary school art classes.”
“I don’t,” Margaret says, appearing suddenly behind them, handing out the brushes. “But don’t worry, even mistakes can be art.” Her deadpan makes Julien laugh.
“Not exactly a vote of confidence,” Greg says. Making Julien laugh a second time.
“That’s just Margaret.” Julien shrugs. “You get used to it. I mean, you have to have a sense of humor when half your business is keeping women from getting so absurdly drunk they start an all-out paint war in your shop.”
“Has that happened before?”
