“More than once,” Margaret says, deadpan once again, on her way to the front of the room.
Greg leans in and whispers, “How does she do that?”
Julien doesn’t allow himself a moment to relish the nearness of Greg’s lips or the heat of his breath this close to his ear. “Like I said,” Julien whispers, straining for breath. Just beneath his skin, a soft, pleasant rumbling starts. “That’s just Margaret.”
After lowering the music and clapping her hands, Margaret introduces herself and welcomes everyone to Studio Artiste. She does a safety rundown and describes the evening’s piece and wine pairing. It’s a barrel reserve chambourcin which is poured liberally for each guest.
From his bag, Julien pulls out a small stainless steel spittoon. Usually, he wouldn’t be so secretive about this. The people at these classes are more interested in their friends and the drinks than his habits. Sometimes his whole row of easels is empty. But with Greg right beside him, he can’t see a possible way to avoid the questioning.
Margaret leads the class in painting the purple-blue background. Julien picks up his brush, tunes into the smooth jazz, and follows the instructions to a T.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Greg using one hand to sip his wine and the other to cause chaos across his canvas. Artistic license is certainly one way to describe the route Greg is taking in this class. He’s using a different style of brush and a different color combination. It doesn’t look bad, but Julien could never be so bold.
Instead of harping on that, Julien swirls the wine in his plastic wineglass (they used to be glass pre–paint war) before bringing it up to his nose for a deep inhale. Notes of berries, perhaps blackberries, grace his nostrils. Following that, he swishes the robust red around in his mouth. He tastes something smoky like tobacco. The chewing type would be another use for his swill—though he’d never touch the stuff despite his strange, uncharacteristic craving for a cigarette that night in the restaurant when he was obsessing over Braydon and Greg together.
Whatwasthat about anyway?
Release, probably. He’s been sorely needing release for a while now. Something—or someone—to untie him like a bow atop a present.
Once he’s satisfied that he’s gotten all the flavors he can from his sip of wine, he spits it out.
As assumed, Greg’s curiosity comes blurting out immediately. “What is that?”
“A spittoon,” Julien says, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“What’s it for?”
“I don’t drink the wine, so I need somewhere for it to go,” he says quietly.
“You’re a sommelier who doesn’t drink wine?” Greg’s confusion is grooved across his forehead and on the sides of his pouty mouth. Stark interest blazes in his chocolate-brown eyes.
“I know it’s oxymoronic or whatever, but I don’t drink alcohol at all, actually,” Julien clarifies, hushing up with enough time to hear Margaret’s next instruction. He switches out his brush for a thinner one and goes for the black paint.
“How does that work exactly?” Greg asks.
“I swill. You don’t need to swallow the wine to taste it.” Julien hopes this explanation is enough, but he knows it won’t be. Greg is inquisitive. And for a change, maybe Julien enjoys that.
Greg sets his brush down and looks at Julien with such an intense gaze that Julien does the same. “Is that why you declined my cocktail sample?”
Julien nods. “I’m sorry about the whole shirt debacle.”
“It’s no sweat,” he says, effortlessly forgiving. What an admirable trait. “I’m sorry I tried to push the sample on you. Can I ask...whyyou don’t drink?”
It’s not a judgmental question by any means, but it still chokes him up. Knocks him back for a second. Should he give the easy answer or the real one? Greg’s deep eyes, filled to the brim with a startling sincerity, make the decision for him.
“My parents were both alcoholics. When I was young, my mom got a DUI with me in the car. CPS opened an investigation afterward. That’s how I ended up being raised by Martin and Augustine and why I don’t drink,” Julien says, voice barely audible, even to himself.
It’s wounding that his parents loved alcohol more than they loved him. He knows intellectually that alcoholism is a disease, and like cancer, it’s not easy to overcome. And he wouldn’t trade his childhood for anything. It was under Uncle Martin and Aunt Augustine’s care that he came into his own, came into his sexuality, and learned about his love of service and wine.
Greg doesn’t speak right away. Then: “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Thanks. It’s okay.” Julien erases the upset from his expression. Turns back to his easel. “I was six when it all happened, and there’s a no-contact order, so yeah. It all worked out for the best.” He couldn’t understand that fully at the time, but he knows it deep in his heart now that born of a terrible situation came a better, more secure life. The wounds of his childhood have largely healed, but the scars remain, and if he presses them hard enough, they still hurt. If he scratches the wrong way, they still bleed.
Greg has mostly abandoned his painting. Other students are chatting. Julien faintly hears the sound of smooth jazz in the background and the beating of his own heart rising inside his chest. Greg’s unwavering gaze has this bizarre effect on him.
“Can I ask you another question?”
Julien swills, spits, steels himself because he’s not used to anyone taking this much of an interest in him, and then finally nods.
