“What an event that fair will be,” Giuseppe said, voice tinged with scorn.
Immediately, Jesse remembered how Arthur had looked whenever either of them had brought up the fair—his bright, beautiful eyes that sparkled with excitement; his handsome smile that was so sweet and lively and infectious—and he had to momentarily cover his mouth with his hand to hide a burgeoning smile of his own.
Giuseppe continued. “It probably cost the city a lot of money.”
“Yeah, probably,” Jesse replied, his voice slightly muffled by his palm. He removed it and moved to take a sip of beer. “Arthur thinks it’ll bring in a lot of money, too, though.”
“Arthur, huh?” Giuseppe said, and Jesse cringed mid-sip. He could practicallyhearGiuseppe’s little teasing smile even before he set the bottle back on the table. “Are you two friends now?”
Jesse could feel the corners of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly, his cheeks becoming even hotter than they had been before.
“We’re not friends, exactly, but he’s not bad.”
Giuseppe smirked. “I thought you called him tiresome.”
“He is.”
Giuseppe set his fork back in his bowl and leaned in close, furrowing his brow in concentration like old Mr. Putnam trying to read the smallest sized type in the case. Jesse subtly bit the inside of his cheek to try to keep his secret, but it was no use. Slowly, Giuseppe backed away, and the man’s mouth curled into an even larger smile.
“Can’t wait to meet him,” Giuseppe teased.
“Shut your hole, Giuseppe,” Jesse shot back.
“I thought you wanted me to eat, not shut my mouth,” Giuseppe retorted. “I believe you even tried to use my mother tongue.”
“Mother tongue,” Jesse repeated, letting out a sound that was half-incredulity and half-scorn, while still being fully playful. “You came to Chicago when you were two. Also, there’s humor in that statement with regard to your wording, only I’m too polite to utter the epigram myself.”
“Yeah, toopolite,” Giuseppe said. “Not the other thing.” Jesse scowled. Giuseppe’s smile broadened, and Jesse knew that his roommate would soon follow it up with an even worse remark. “You know, the fact that it’s myfather’stongue you’d be interested in.”
Jesse burst out laughing and kicked Giuseppe’s shin.
“Shut it!”
Giuseppe snorted. “Jeez, sorry. Just Mr. Arthur’s tongue, then.”
Cheeks burning, Jesse thumped his roommate once more, but harder this time, kicking Giuseppe’s leg with as much force as he could muster from his seated position. Giuseppe only laughed in response, and then the two of them resumed eating, one or both of them continuing to snicker on and off for the rest of the meal, though neither of them explicitly brought up the topic of Arthur again.
Still, Arthur was never far from Jesse’s mind.
***
On Tuesday, Jesse was working the Gordon Jobber, creating a series of tickets for one of the city’s theatres, when a small smile began to tug on the corners of his lips. Memories of Arthur Hughes carelessly tossing papers this way and that flitted into his mind, the snapshots of Sunday’s scene momentarily blocking out the present.
That man was something else. Jesse had never met someone whose excitement was so infectious. Arthur’s entire way of being—his unfettered optimism, his unending playfulness, his brazen flirtatiousness—was contagious. And Jesse wanted to experience more of it. He wanted to experience more ofhim. Because Arthur Hughes really was an experience in and of himself, one that had to have been more splendid than each and every one of the exhibitions Jesse had heard would soon be shown at the World’s Fair.
Jesse wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to resist Arthur’s charms the next time they saw each other. He wondered whether he even wanted to.
When Jesse moved to place a fresh sheet of paper on the bed, the sudden sound of Arthur’s voice seeping through the walls of the shop from the sidewalk caused him to pause, Arthur’s enthusiastic tone making his breath catch. Jesse took his foot off the press’s pedal and turned to see Arthur coming in through the front with Mr. Stevenson, a circular tin in his hands. Immediately, Arthur’s eyes found his, and the moment they connected, a pleasant-yet-terrifying shiver rolled up Jesse’s spine. It caused Jesse’s cheeks to flush. Arthur’s smile broadened. He continued to speak with Mr. Stevenson, but never once took his eyes off of Jesse. Blood whooshed past Jesse’s eardrums. He couldn’t even make out what it was Arthur was saying. Unable to look away, Jesse watched Arthur set the tin on a little corner table and then removehis outerwear. Afterward, Arthur started toward him holding the tin.
Oh, God.
Mr. Stevenson’s voice boomed through the shop.
“Mr. Hughes has brought in some treats for everyone to enjoy,” he said, sounding immensely pleased, likely because Mr. Putnam had rarely ever treated his employees to extra things.
Arthur stopped in front of Jesse. He removed the lid of the container to reveal oblong-shaped pastries topped with chocolate frosting. Éclairs. Jesse hadn’t eaten them in years.
“I had one of my staff members make them for you,” he explained, talking loudly enough so that everyone could hear him, as though he was using the word “you” in a plural sense, speaking to everyone in the shop. The way Arthur was positioned, however—as close to Jesse as social norms would permit, leaning in ever so slightly and tilting the tin so that Jesse could better see its contents—suggested that the volume of his voice was merely for show. Arthur was speaking to him. He had brought these treatsfor him. Jesse’s knees went weak from the realization.
