“Why do you want to be a sommelier then?”
Julien goes blank, having never been asked that before by someone outside of his sommelier courses. He’s not sure how vulnerable he wants to be with this mixologist he barely knows because in most cases people can’t wrap their head around his rigmarole logic. His brain doesn’t work like everyone else’s, so he’s largely stopped expecting understanding from others.
But once more those deep brown eyes, crinkled lightly at the edges, override his filter.
“Because I like being an expert on it. It makes me feel powerful. I get to be in control of the thing that my parents had no control over.” A tension somewhere south of his heart unfurls a little. Confidence over how far he’s come bolsters his posture and his mood.
Greg nods slowly, clearly taking this in. Then he smiles, a small, strong smile, and says, “That’s kind of incredible.”
Kind of incredible.Incredible.
The word vibrates through Julien’s whole body.
In the back of Studio Artiste with Margaret talking and smooth jazz playing, Julien’s spirits lift exponentially. Greg the sunshiny mixologist should not be able to make Julien glow like this. Like he’s complimentary moonlight.
“Sorry. That was, uh, kind of dark.” Julien might be buoyed by Greg’s praise, but he still feels exposed, self-conscious.
“Can’t have the light without the dark now, can we?” Greg’s expression shifts, growing wistful. “I guess I’m sort of oxymoronic, too. I bartend for a living, but I have to be careful how much I drink.”
Julien’s rib cage laces up tight with fear. The red-faced ghosts of his past swoop down around him and slur hideous remarks into his ears. They thrust him into the back seat of that car with a broken taillight, the memory of him straining to hear the radio over the drunken shouting match happening in the front seat.
Bang.
The sound is only in his head, yet it still causes him to startle and drop his paintbrush.
Is Greg admitting his own issues with alcohol? While he wouldn’t hold that against Greg, Julien’s life has been touched by it too harshly. Maybe his initial instinct for distance between them was the right one. Self-preservation has always been Julien’s number one priority. His feet instinctively angle away as if prepared to run.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Julien asks, concern making his throat thick.
Greg’s eyebrows shoot up. “Nonononononono. Sorry. That was cryptic. No. I take a medication for my mental health that doesn’t play well with alcohol. That’s all.”
“Oh, got it.” Relief sweeps through Julien’s shoulders.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“No.” Julien shakes his head, a sign of acceptance. He would ask more about the medication, but he doesn’t want to overstep. Especially because, for the first time, he sees a direct connection between him and Greg. Neurodiverse minds gotta stick together in this world. “Like you said, the light with the dark. It’s my fault for assuming.” He turns his attention back to his painting and realizes he’s fallen behind. He swills, spits, and picks up his brush again to dab yellow into the windowpanes. Small pools of light emanating into the nighttime.
That’s kind of what Greg’s aura is like: bright yellow in the middle of a mostly purple-blue existence.
While reaching for a sip of water, that contagious aura spills into Julien’s body when he accidentally brushes Greg’s arm. That glow fuels him for the rest of the class.
After their bout of honesty and the loaded arm-brush, they sit in mostly companionable silence and paint side by side, occasionally sneaking glances at one another or throwing out a suggestion or two for various happy hour themes.
At the end, Julien signs his name in the bottom right corner, sets his canvas on a rack to dry, and gathers his belongings. Outside, Julien and Greg linger on the sidewalk once all the other students have trickled out—to restaurants or parking lots. Julien decides to speak first. “Thanks for, uh, listening to me back there and for sharing. I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”
“Easier than packing up my life in New York and moving out here.”
“Talk about a culture shock.”
“A necessary one.”
Julien glances in the direction of the bus stop as Greg swirls his key ring around his pointer finger. Round and round. A light clatter fills the air. Julien doesn’t want to be obvious about it, but he is rather hoping Greg will offer him a ride again, even if he was curt about it the last time. He deeply regrets that.
Julien looks at his watch. “It’s getting late.”
“Yeah, should probably get going.”
The key circling stops. Greg holds the fob in his fist. Julien registers, in person and not on his phone screen, how large Greg’s fists are. How soft the backs of his hands, lightly dusted with hair, look. What might one of those knuckles feel like wrapped around his...
