“When will you be back?”
“Dunno.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like we were in our first fight.
“Well, be safe,” I said like some irrelevant parent.
“All right. Peace.”
We weren’t an overly affectionate couple. Like, we didn’t have to kiss each other good-bye when one of us left, but at times like that, I wished we were. Or else, how would I know that he hadn’t tired of me? Or that he’d be coming back?
I finished the painting around one in the morning. Andre still wasn’t home. I texted him but got no response. I paced the floor and imagined worst-case scenarios, called and texted him again.
He came back around three in the morning, totally wrecked. I didn’t know how he was able to even balance on his skateboard he was so drunk. He reeked of liquor and sweat and cigarette smoke. I guided him into the bathroom where he emptied his guts into the toilet, then gave him a lecture about how he should have texted me to come get him or called Uber.
“One text,” I told him for the third time. “That’s all it took.”
“Enough already,” he said testily and groped blindly up the stairs until he fell into bed where he passed out almost immediately. I couldn’t sleep, though. I was pissed at him for not telling me where he was going or answering his phone, for getting fall-down drunk and not calling me, and finally, for passing out in my bed, oblivious to my anger.
That night I had nightmares where I was choking on smoke. I woke up with my hands on my throat, gasping for breath.
Nicky’s people arrived early that morning to transport the paintings to the gallery. Andre was dead to the world while they worked downstairs. Nicky stopped by toward the end of the packing and noticed the new painting of Andre, the slumbering prince.
“Where did this one come from?” he asked with an accusatory edge to his voice.
“I just finished it last night.” I was tired and irritated. I just wanted them out of my house.
“Well, I want this one too,” he said possessively.
“It’s still wet.”
“We’ll come back for it tomorrow.”
Andre shuffled down the stairs, wearing his jeans from the night before and no shirt, since he’d discarded that in the bathroom after getting puke on it. I could tell from the way he was squinting that he had a vicious hangover.
“Good morning, Andre,” Nicky said congenially. He spoke with more cheer to Andre than anyone else in his orbit, me included.
“’Sup, Nicky?” Andre cradled his head. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“Late night?” Nicky asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Two-for-one margaritas. Didn’t even taste the tequila.”
“I can’t believe Martin allowed it.” Nicky glanced over at me. My face, I’m sure, was pissy, both at what Nicky was insinuating—that I was a controlling bitch—and the truth, which was that Nicky now knew as much about Andre’s night out as I did.
“I feel like shit,” Andre said pitifully.
Nicky laughed with genuine amusement. In all the years I’d known him or observed him from afar, I’d never seen the man laugh with such gusto.
“Well, even with a hangover, you are truly a vision to behold,” Nicky went on. “Vivie, my card.”
Vivie snapped to and provided Andre with Nicky’s business card. Andre inspected it while I concluded that Nicky was hitting on my boyfriend, in front of me, in my own house. A dick move if ever there was one. And, if I didn’t already mention it, he was old as fuck.
“Give me a call, Andre, if you ever want to pursue modeling. I have people who would jump at the chance to sign you.” Nicky called to his people, and they vacated the premises. “Vivie will be sending over the promo schedule,” he said to me, then turned to Andre, “Take care, Andre.”
“Will do, Nick.”
Now he was calling him Nick?
