“You were never my kept boy, Andre.”
“Still.”
It seemed we were negotiating, which was a good place for us to be. Of course I wanted him to move back in with me. It was part of why I hadn’t moved any of his stuff around. Even his toothbrush was still in its holder right next to mine. “We can take it as slow or as fast as you want,” I said. “I don’t want to pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
He nodded. “Can I call you sometime?”
“Anytime.” I pulled out my phone to get his number.
“You’ve got it already.” He stood and pulled out his wallet to pay.
“I got this.”
“It’s cool.” He laid some money on the table. “Got to get back to work. I’ve got a double today.”
I studied him again. He’d showered, shaved, and worn fresh clothes for me, knowing that he had to be back to work in a couple of hours. He’d wanted to look nice for me. “That gravy was good,” I said. “You put something extra in it. Sage?”
He grinned. “I do what I can.”
“Keep it up. You’ll get there.”
He left with his skateboard under his arm. When he got outside, he dropped his deck, hopped on it, and skated away. I watched him until he turned the corner.
I loved the way he leaned.
21. Inevitable
WE TEXTEDand talked on the phone. We went dancing one night, to dinner another night, to the movies. It felt like we were dating, except there was no physical intimacy, save for a light punch on the shoulder and our hello and good-bye hugs. He didn’t invite me to his place, nor take up my invitation to come back with me to mine. He kept his distance and while I wanted to respect his need for boundaries, I also wanted to know the source of his hesitation.
One night we were strolling through South Beach after club hopping and I asked him about the dreams he’d had.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I want to know everything about you.”
“Not this.”
I stopped him and grabbed his hand. “Yes, this too.”
We sat down at a café and ordered some coffee. Andre took his time warming up to it.
“I’ve been having it for a couple years,” he said with his hands cupping his mug. “I’m lying in bed and someone has their hands around my throat, just squeezing the shit out of me.”
“Is it a man?” I asked. He nodded slowly. “Can you see his face?”
“I never could before, but now, yeah.” He bit his lip and looked at the table, wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“What does he look like?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“He looks like you.” He lifted his gaze, looking guilty, as if he could control it.
So I told him everything, beginning with the lantern. I told him about Simone and Martin Bonnaire and Melissa, about our affair and Van Laar’s painting. I told him how Melissa betrayed us and how I strangled him because of it.
“And then I set my studio on fire and burned down all my paintings, except one. I died a few days later from all the smoke I inhaled. That’s been my nightmare, burning down my studio. And sometimes too, I see your face. Her face.”
I waited for him to call me crazy or tell me he didn’t believe it, but he only raised his eyebrows, tapped his long fingers against the tabletop and said, “Well, that explains some things.”
“I know this doesn’t make up for it, but I’m sorry,” I said.
