Micah picked up the damaged sculpture. No matter what Cosmo said, he was sure the rumors about Royce were true, and it wouldn’t be surprising if Royce had been withholding promotion from Cosmo until he slept with him. Micah cradled the sculpture to his chest and jabbed a finger at Royce. “I know all about you. I know exactly what you do, and you’re mad that it didn’t work this time. Don’t think for one second that I won’t tell every artist I know.”
The whites of Royce’s eyes flashed, and his nostrils flared. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right. Go prey on someone your equal. Like a cockroach.” He turned, but Royce snatched his arm. Micah shoved him into the wall. “You keep your hands off me, old man.”
Royce raised his fist, teeth bared in a feral snarl. Cosmo shoved between him and Micah. He stared at Royce, chest heaving, then slapped him hard across the face. Royce let out a clipped exclamation, and Cosmo slapped him again. Royce squeezed his eyes shut, but didn’t put up his hands in defense. His cheek flared a vibrant crimson.
Hands pressed against the wall and a vein jumping in his jaw, Royce cracked open his eyes and said, “Cosmo–”
He smacked Royce again, and the sound reverberated off the walls. Turning away, Cosmo shoved the cart down the hall, and Micah hurried to catch up. Supplies and sculptures clattered as the cart weaved drunkenly past the gravity-reversed figures in the installation room. They reached the gallery entrance, and Cosmo rammed the cart through the front doors.
Stopping at his car, he threw open the trunk and packed in the resin cubes. Micah set the boxes of supplies inside, but when Cosmo tried to shut the lid of the trunk, it popped back open. He slammed the lid down, eyes blazing, and it popped open again. The cardboard box dented and crumpled as he tried a third time. He slammed the trunk down over and over, until the box was smashed and the contents surely broken.
He collapsed against Micah and sobbed, balling Micah’s sweatshirt in his fists. He pressed his face into his shoulder, his hoarse cries muffled as shudders wracked his body. Micah held him tight and stroked his hair.
Micah had been there. That frustration and anger, the self-blame and feelings of being violated had been his constant companions – his only companions – until he’d destroyed enough art and shed enough tears for depression to take over instead. He couldn’t let Cosmo get to that point.
Of course Royce would turn this on Cosmo.I know how badly you want to be registrar, and how lonely you are. He knew, and he pounced upon it.
Gasping for breath, Cosmo pulled away, his eyes red and puffy. Streaks of mascara ran down his cheeks. He sniffled hard and wiped his nose, then shook a cigarette from his pack. The lighter trembled in his hands. Micah gently took it from him then held it to his cigarette. Cosmo took a long drag; smoke curled from his nostrils, tears still clinging to his lashes. “Well. That was cathartic. And I’m grateful your adorable sweatshirts are as soft as they look.”
Micah pulled it over his head and offered it to Cosmo. Cosmo tugged it on, then pressed his nose to the collar and inhaled. He stared at Micah, then turned the smashed art supply box on its side. After shutting the trunk, he said, “It’s mostly sculpting tools, some silicone molds, dust masks. I rather wish there’d been something fragile inside.”
“I punched a hole through a stretched canvas and flipped over my drafting table after what happened to me.”
“And destroyed a balcony railing.”
“‘Destroyed’ is a strong word. I’m not the Hulk.”
Cosmo squeezed Micah’s bicep. Micah flexed, and Cosmo smiled weakly, the cigarette bobbing between his lips. “Don’t suppose you’ll come back to my place, will you? I can show you the sculpture I’m working on.”
He couldn’t let Cosmo be alone right now. “I’d love to.” He climbed into his car and followed Cosmo as he pulled through the parking lot.
In Micah’s rearview mirror, Royce walked out of the gallery and stopped at the abandoned cart. He gripped the handle, watching Micah drive away.
16
COME BACK AND STAY
Micah - Snagged Thread
The threshold to Cosmo’s apartment was a silver strip of textured metal, dented and scuffed with dirt and bits of dead leaves. Cosmo stood just inside on the front room’s low pile carpet – green with rainbow pinstripes. It was a fitting contrast to his purple Oxfords with their shiny toe caps. Micah focused on them, pulled in a breath, and stepped over the threshold.
He straightened and sighed. It was only people inhisapartment that were the problem. Thank god.
Cosmo smiled and shut the door. “You’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He swept his arm across the front room. “Make yourself at home. I’ll fix us a drink.”
A bed and large art desk took up much of the space. Against the other wall was a turntable, speaker towers, and a crate of records. All of it looked vintage. ’80s postmodern and Memphis Group art in eclectic frames covered so much space that Micah wasn’t sure what to look at first. Sketches of divided skulls were tacked above the art desk. Glass jars full of buttons, electronic parts, food wrappers, and fabric scraps sat on top of clear storage drawers. Inside were tubes of paint, bottles of what may have been resin or silicone, brushes, and spools of wire. Sitting on the desk were slices of a skull, encased in resin. Pushed together, they looked like a stack of coasters, or maybe some hideous flavor of aspic dessert.
A hand lightly touched his waist. Cosmo offered him a glass of orange juice. “Thanks.” Micah brought the glass to his lips, then paused. “Is it candy corn-flavored?”
Cosmo chuckled. “It’s a screwdriver.”
“There’s a reason candy corn only turns up at Halloween. It’s evil.”
