Page 280

“No,” I tell Baxter as he examines a dropped crust.

At the outdoor table nearest me, Lenny lifts a slice with both hands and studies it. Dee, Riverview’s resident lesbian, sits across from him, already halfway through her own.

She huffs at Lenny and gives him her pirate’s squint. “You’re supposed to eat it, not romance it.”

“I’m gettin’ there, you impatient old…”

Lenny takes one careful bite and shakes his head.

“Well?” I ask. “Whatcha think, Lenny?”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing. Then he looks at me over his glasses. “Honey, I think I just found my new lunch spot.”

Dee nods, mouth full, then points the crust at me. “Damn good, Paul. Damn good. You tell Clint he’s won some regulars.”

“I will.”

“Tell him to stock up on the anchovies,” Lenny says, hiding behind his hand. “Dee likes ’em fishy.”

Dee kicks him under the table. “Kiss every crease in my ass, Len.”

Baxter barks once, either offended or supportive. Lenny collapses against the back of his chair, cackling. The smell of Clint’s pizza pours into the street, mixing with the Riverside air.

People are shoulder to shoulder inside the restaurant. Plates moving. Heads bent together. A couple standing near the wall looks at one of my paintings.

“Can you watch them for a minute, Len?”

Lenny looks down at Baxter and Barret like I have handed him visiting royalty.

“Can I watch them?” He lowers his voice. “Boys, your daddy doubts me.”

Dee snorts. “Their daddy knows you.”

I hand over the leashes, and Baxter immediately sits on Lenny’s foot.

Inside, the restaurant hits me with heat and noise. Voices overlap against the old brick walls. Someone laughs in the buffet line. The girl working the drink station fills cups with various colors of soda.

The air smells like tomatoes, garlic, and melted cheese. And the walls—

I stop just inside the door, still amazed at the display.

My paintings are everywhere. Old pieces I once thought of as practice. Newer ones from the last few months. Some in my mind will never be finished, but here they are anyway, open to public scrutiny.

The couple stands in front of a Puerto Vallarta beachscape, leaning close, talking with their heads tilted in the same direction.

For years, I thought the work had to be perfect before anyone saw it. Then I thought maybe no one needed to see it at all. Now a woman in denim shorts points at a rough patch of underpainting and smiles like the incompleteness is part of the reason she gets it.

The drink girl catches sight of me and lifts one hand. “Hey, Paul.”

“Hey.”

She glances toward the couple. “We already have a few people asking about your paintings. Is it okay to sell them today?”

I look at the crowded room, at my work hanging above tables where people are eating and talking and living.

“I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.”

She grins. “Got it.”