“I felt… bad for you, I guess.”
“You think I’m a fuck boy.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Good, ’cause I’m not,” he said emphatically. “He didn’t force me to do it.”
It seemed important to him that I know that. Honestly, I didn’t want to know any more than I already did. I knew it was shallow to judge a person by their hygiene and looks or whatever, but Fang was gross, inside and out. I wouldn’t touch his junk with a ten-foot pole. I said to Andre, “That’s not how it has to be, you know. Not everyone here is like that.”
“Like what?”
“A fucking prick,” I spat, surprised by my own vehemence. I fucking hated that guy. I wished I could scrub the image of Andre and him right out of my head. “Taking advantage of you like that.”
Andre stared at the road, jaw tense, one arm guiding the wheel. “Maybe I was taking advantage of him.”
I thought back to that shithole he was staying in. I had my doubts. “I’m just saying, Andre, what you’re working with, you could get a lot nicer place.”
A slow smile crept up on his lips. I was relieved he found humor in it. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Didn’t even have hot water. I fucking hate cold showers.” He glanced over at me. “Your place pretty nice?”
I smiled. I never knew what he was going to say next. “It’s got hot water.”
“Can I see it?”
“What is this,House Hunters?” I shoved his shoulder teasingly. “Yeah, you can see my place.”
“All right.” He nodded. “Cool.”
We were quiet after that. I directed him to the boatyard and told him where to park, which was just a small lot of crushed shells shared by all the tenants. We walked up to the side door of my studio. There was also a garage door, but I treated it like a wall on the inside, so there was no opening it.
“Did you make that?” Andre pointed to the rainbow lantern that hung next to my door.
“No, it was here already.”
“Weird,” he said.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Just seems like I’ve seen it before.”
I’d had the same exact feeling. “What does it make you think of?”
His face softened. “Makes me think, like, I don’t know, home? Not my dad’s house. The one I was meant to have.”
“Yeah, me too.” I breathed deeply. I’d deconstruct that later, in the privacy of my mind. I unlocked the door and led him inside, flicked on the lights. I was kind of a diva when it came to lighting. No fluorescents, only a couple reading lamps and strategically placed track lights that could be amped up or down. They shone on my workspace and the kitchen, where I wanted to see better in order to clean.
“Nice digs.” He glanced around. “Where’s all your pictures, painter?”
“They’re mostly up against the walls.” I suddenly felt self-conscious. I realized, too, that other than my loft, there wasn’t really much privacy for another person. It was just one huge room. “We could put the futon over there.” I pointed to a corner of the room. “I have some canvases on tracks. We can use them to make walls.”
“Like a roommate?” he said.
“Yeah. What else?”
He shrugged. Then in an affected white American accent, he said, “I really like what you’ve done with the place, Martin. And it’s right in line with my budget. I’ll take it.”
I laughed and slapped him on the back, relieved beyond words. “You want to run over to your place and get anything?”
He sighed and stretched his arms over his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
