“Will you come to the house? For the reception?”
“No,” Blake said, stepping back. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He turned and walked away, his chest tight, his breathing shallow, desperate to get to his car, to get back to the hotel, to get anywhere that didn’t feel like a trap.
That night, Blake sat on the balcony of his hotel room, watching the lights of the boats bobbing in the harbor. The air was warm and thick, the sound of the water lapping against the docks a steady, rhythmic pulse.
His phone buzzed on the small metal table. Andre.
Blake answered, pressing the phone to his ear, closing his eyes at the sound of Andre’s voice.
“Are you okay?” Andre asked immediately.
“I’m fine,” Blake lied.
“Do not lie to me, Blake Harlan. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what happened.”
Blake let out a long, shaky breath, the tension of the day finally catching up to him. He told Andre about the church, about his mother’s tears, about the cold, silent nod from his father. He told him about the overwhelming, stifling feeling of being back in Greenwich, surrounded by people who looked at him like he was a stranger in his own hometown.
Andre listened in silence, letting Blake empty it all out. “I am sorry,” Andre said softly when Blake finally stopped talking. “I am so sorry, mon amour.”
“It’s stupid,” Blake said, rubbing his eyes. “I shouldn’t care. I have you. I have my career. I don’t need his approval.”
“It is not stupid. He is your father. It is natural to want him to look at you with pride.”
Andre paused, the line crackling slightly. “But you must remember something. His inability to see you — to truly see the man you are — is his failure. It is not yours.”
Blake swallowed hard, the truth of the words settling into the hollow space in his chest. “I miss you,” he whispered.
“I miss you too. The bed is too big. The flat is too quiet.”
“Tell me about your day,” Blake said, needing the distraction, needing the anchor of their shared life. “Tell me what you painted.”
Andre’s voice softened, taking on the rhythmic, melodic cadence he used when talking about his art. “I started a new piece. It is smaller than the others. It is a study of light, really. The way the morning sun hits the hardwood floor in our bedroom. I am trying to capture the exact color of the dust motes floating in the air. It is very difficult. The yellow must be warm, but not heavy.”
Blake closed his eyes, picturing it. The bedroom in South Kensington. The pale London light. Andre standing at the easel, his dark curls messy, his hands stained with paint. “It sounds beautiful,” Blake murmured.
“It will be,” Andre promised. “When you come home, I will show you.”
Andre kept talking, his voice a low, steady murmur in the darkness, describing the colors, the textures, the quiet details of their life together. Blake listened, the tension slowly draining from his shoulders, the cold weight in his stomach beginning to thaw.
He fell asleep in the chair on the balcony, the phone still pressed to his ear, anchored by the sound of the man he loved.
Chapter seven
The Kiss
Blake woke the next morning with a stiff neck and a dead phone. He showered, dressed in jeans and a plain t-shirt, and went down to the hotel lobby to find coffee.
He was standing near the concierge desk, waiting for his espresso, when a voice called his name. “Harlan.”
Blake turned.
Tyler Caldwell was walking toward him across the marble floor. He looked different than the boy Blake remembered from their childhood in Greenwich. He was broader through the shoulders, his face settled into the solid, handsome lines of adulthood. He wore a casual linen shirt and chinos, and a gold wedding band caught the light on his left hand.
“Tyler,” Blake said, genuinely surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you at the church yesterday,” Tyler said, stopping a few feet away. “I was in the back. I wanted to say something, but… well, your dad was holding court, and you looked like you needed to get out of there.”
