When I return to New York, I decide that I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself. I submit job applications to the local restaurants and coffee shops, then compile a calendar of various gallery events. God knows when I’d be showing my own work but until that glorious day arrives, I’ll have to settle for showing the next-best thing – myself.
I’d show better if I didn’t immediately catch another damn cold. It must be from living in such close proximity with so many other people, or maybe because I was far enough away from home that I didn’t have immunities to the various illnesses being passed around here. It was also possible that New York City was trying to kill me. Regardless of the reason, I was sick again and that made everything so much more difficult.
Ted was right about almost everything. Getting a job, even a crappy low-paying one as a server at a run-down restaurant, was exactly what I needed. It took some time, but eventually I met people, started developing relationships, talked to people about my goals and ideas, and was soon part of a clique of oppressed workers who spent their Friday nights bitching about our tyrant of a manager. My co-workers introduced me to other people and soon I had a steady trickle of social invitations, parties to attend, and casual hanging-out to do. Most of the people I met were straight, but at least their companionship got me out of my room.
I would have been better company if not for the nagging cold, which improved only slightly before returning full-force and often leaving me unable to crawl out of bed for days at a time.
“Are you sure you aren’t just allergic to New York?”
That’s Alia’s voice, and I’m trying to block it out by pulling the covers over my head. No such luck. She might be an aspiring model but she possesses the dulcet tones of a fishmonger. I murmur something non-committal but then she’s planted herself on my bed and is attempting to pry the blankets back. I really need to get a lock installed on my door.
“I mean, I think you’ve had about two snot-free days since you got here. Which is really fucking gross, but at least I haven’t caught your dread disease. Which is kind of odd, don’t you think?”
I’m not fooled into thinking she’s waiting for an actual reply.
“I usually catch everything… but not from you. Which makes me think maybe you aren’t sick at all.”
I arch a single brow at her while chain-coughing convincingly. She can’t really think I’m faking all this misery?
“I think it’s all in your head,” she concludes in that superior, know-it-all tone that I’ve come to hate. I wait for her to leave, but she doesn’t. With a sigh, I peer up at her with sore eyes.
“Do you have another roommate waiting in the wings or something?”
She laughs, a pretty tinkling sound that could fool a person into not realizing that she’s actually a risen hell spawn. “Honey, this is New York City,” she tells me grandly. “There’s always someone waiting in the wings.”
I’m saved from answering by my phone. Thank God. Waving her away, I answer without even glancing at the display.
“Justin?” The all-too-familiar whiny voice is the last thing I want to hear, but at least Alia is finally leaving. Okay, fine. The second-to-last thing I want to hear. She doesn’t bother shutting the door behind her, of course. I really need to put a lock on that fucking thing.
“Michael.” I brace myself with a long breath. “I know I’m a little late with the inking for this month but I promise I’ll get caught up this weekend. We aren’t going to miss our dead—“
He cuts me off. “Have you talked to Brian recently?”
I pause to think, frowning. “Um. Last week? No. The week before. He’s been busy with a new account and I’ve been working nights so—“
“—So it’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve talked?” Now that I’m paying attention, it’s hard to miss the strain in Michael’s voice.
“What’s wrong? Is he sick again?”
He ignores the question. “What about Ted? Have you talked to him?”
I pause to think, and now that he mentions it, it has been awhile. At least a week, and that’s probably the longest I’ve gone without seeing or talking to Ted since I arrived here. “Michael, will you please stop fucking around and just tell me what’s wrong? Are you trying to tell me that – what? Brian and Ted have run off together?” I smile around the words; some things are too ludicrous to voice with a straight face.
There’s an odd pause before he replies. “Brian got sick again,” he admits at last. “Not sick enough for the hospital or anything like that, just more of that flu. He told us he was taking some time off work so he could focus on getting better, but I haven’t heard from him since then.” His voice turns petulant. “I figured maybe he went to New York to be with you?”
“No, Michael.” I close my eyes against the headache that’s brewing just behind them. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to him recently and trust me, there’s no way he could be staying here without me knowing. I’m living inside a postage stamp.”
To his credit, Michael doesn’t sound surprised. “Well. If you hear from him, tell him I’m looking for him, okay? And, um, ask him to call me.”
“I will,” I promise before disconnecting the call. I immediately try Brian’s cell and sure enough, it dumps me directly into his voicemail. “Call me,” I implore before trying Ted’s with the same result. Damn. Where could they be?
With increasingly bizarre visions floating through my feverish head (Brian and Ted lounging on beach somewhere, umbrella-topped tropical drinks in hand), I try Kinnetik next. It takes me awhile to get through to Cynthia, as the new receptionist apparently wasn’t given the low-down on what “Justin Taylor is calling” means.
Or maybe that no longer means what it once did.
“Cynthia!” I’m so relieved to hear her voice on the other end of the phone. Who knew I’d ever be so happy to talk with Cynthia? I know I should greet her and make some small-talk but I don’t seem to be entirely in control. “Do you know where Brian is? Or Ted?”
There’s a long pause before she answers and I can hear the tell-tell click-click-clicking of her keyboard in the background. Of course she’s busy with the two of them mysteriously absent. Would they really have left Cynthia alone to run that place by herself?
“I don’t,” she replies at last, her voice sounding tinny and far away. “They aren’t in the office today, but if I hear from either of them I’ll have them give you a call, okay?”
“What?” Seriously, what the hell? “Don’t you manage Brian’s schedule?”
She sighs. “Of course,” she replies slowly, as if addressing a child. “But as I’m sure you know, I don’t manage Brian. He does what he likes and I know what he’s up to only if he wants me to know. Surely you can relate?”
I do a slow burn at that but can’t really argue. After pausing to blow my nose, I make one last attempt. “If you hear from him and you’ve promised to keep where he is some sort of secret, tell him that if he doesn’t call me soon, I’m going back to Pittsburgh. To his loft. Where I’ll spend the time he keeps me waiting redecorating. I’m thinking purple, maybe lavender. And sparkles.” With that, I disconnect the call.
****
Ted:
When I finally return home, it’s late and Blake is already curled up under the covers, sound asleep. I stand there and watch him for awhile. He looks so peaceful, so young and uncomplicated. Watching him like that, it’s easy to forget that a few short years ago he drugged me and then left me unconscious on my apartment floor.
Ahh, memories.
I pour myself a glass of water as I listen to my messages. There’s a lot of them, including a string of irritated ones from Cynthia and three increasingly agitated ones from Justin. The last one implores me to call him as soon as I can, regardless of the time. I glance at the clock and wince when I see that it’s 2:20am. I need to be awake and headed for work in just a few hours, as I’m certain I have an enormous amount of work waiting on my desk after being gone for a week.
If I were younger I’d just brew some coffee, shower, and head in.
I stare down at the phone and weigh the pros and cons of calling Justin. In the positive margin, I’d get to talk to Justin. On the downside, I wouldn’t be able to offer him any answers and I’d probably just make him even angrier and worse, all of his anger would be directed at me. But then again, I did have some good news to offer him, right? And I could reassure him that his partner wasn’t secretly dead and I hadn’t spent the past week off in the countryside somewhere, searching for an ideal burial ground.
I’m still pondering when the damn thing suddenly comes alive in my hand, blasting the Magnetic Fields song I’d set as Justin’s ring-tone. I have to peel myself off the ceiling before I answer.
“Um – hi, Justin.”
“TED.” He shouts directly into my ear, adding injury to injury.
“Hey. Um, sorry about the delay in getting back to you. I’ve been, um, busy…”
But he’s already shouting at me again. “What the FUCK, Ted! I’ve been calling you for DAYS. Why haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve been worried. Don’t you check your messages anymore?”
“My, uh, battery died.” The excuse sounds pretty lame even to me and I can sense Justin about to go ballistic.
“I swear, it’s like you’re turning into Brian!” he continues as if I’d said nothing at all. “Where the fuck have the two of you been?”
I don’t answer, because I can’t. Not that Justin’s going to understand.
Or maybe he does, because my silence isn’t greeted by more shouting but merely with icy stillness. In a way, that’s worse. At least when he’s shouting I can gauge how much he’s currently hating me.
“Fine,” he breathes at last, sounding defeated in a way that makes me cringe all the way down to my toes. “I thought we were friends, Ted.”
He pauses, but I can’t find my voice.
“Just tell him he better call me, okay? I know damn well that his phone didn’t die and he didn’t lose it or toss it off a cliff or whatever. Tell him to pull it out of his pocket and dial my number or…”
He trails away, all of his previous anger gone just as quickly as it flared. When he speaks again, he just sounds sad. “Have him call me, Ted.”
He hangs up.
****
Alia:
Okay, this fucking does it. It’s the middle of the night and that little shit isn’t just hacking and snorting and doing his best imitation of a plague victim. Now he’s screaming at someone at 2:30 in the morning. Could Daphne have found me a less-considerate roommate? Is this my punishment for the times I borrowed her clothes and spilled wine on her camisole?
I pound on his door to get his attention.
“Fuck off!” he screams.
On second thought, maybe this is my punishment for the time I borrowed her vibrator.
“You fuck off!” I scream right back. Just who did he think he was? I was the aspiring model in this household. If anyone is going to behave like a goddamned diva, it’s going to be me. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” I try to force the door open but he’s moved something in front of it. Frustrated, I give it a few sharp kicks.
“Keep doing that and you’re going to have a pile of splinters,” he snaps. “Have fun advertising for your next roomie when you can’t even offer a room with a door. Not that it much matters, with all the respect you have for them.”
I’ve managed to push it open far enough to see what’s impeding my progress. He’s slid his bed across the room. Like that’s going to stop me. I brace myself against it and give it a shove.
“I’m on top of the mattress, Alia,” he calls. “Even if you could move my bed, you sure as fuck can’t move it with me on it.”
“Wanna bet?” I brace my shoulder against the door and bend my knees. “Some of us work out. Some of us give a fuck about our bodies and our health in general. I’ll give you a hint -- that would be the ones who aren’t sick twenty-eight days a month! “
He falls silent while I push with all my might. The door doesn’t budge. Apparently he’s heavier than he looks.
“What are you going to do if you force your way in here?” He sounds genuinely curious and much less angry now.
I pause my efforts in order to catch my breath. Truth be told, I don’t make it to the gym nearly as often as I should and when I do, I’m more focused on cardio than the weights. The last thing a model needs is extra weight from muscle mass.
“I don’t know,” I admit between pants, leaning against the door a little. “Yell at you some more?”
“You could do that from where you are.”
“You’re right.” I pause, frowning. “And I would, but I guess that’s all the yelling I had for you.” I pause again. “But it’s late and I’m wide awake so I guess we could … talk?”
He doesn’t answer.
“You could tell me what’s so goddamned important that you need to scream at the top of your lungs – or maybe I should guess?” I wait three measured beats. “I’ve got it! BOY trouble. You’re having problems with that mysterious boyfriend. You weren’t talking to him, of course, so you were yelling at someone else about your doomed romance instead. Am I close?”
There’s another stretch of silence and then I hear first the squeak of bedsprings and then the slide of mattresses against the hardwood floor. When he opens the door he’s giving me a thoroughly unwelcoming look.
“Woman’s intuition,” I explain with a smirk that fades as I take in his appearance. He looks like hell. His complexion (which I’d previously envied) was washed out, dark circles underscored his eyes, and his hair was an uncombed mess. “You look like hell,” I inform him, frowning. “What happened to you? Don’t tell me this is all about some guy. Trust me, honey. He ain’t worth it.”
He glares at me. “How would you know? He isn’t anything like the guys you know.”
I laugh because seriously – how cute is he? Daphne was right. I make myself comfortable on his bed and grin. “Honey, they’re all the same. Some come with better packaging than others but aside from that, it hardly matters which one you’re with.”
He tilts his head to one side, as if he needs to readjust his entire world-view in order to process me. “Not Brian,” he replies after awhile. “How would you know, anyway? I seriously doubt you’ve met every man in the world. You sure as fuck don’t know Brian.”
I give him a little shrug. “I don’t need to know him. So what’d he do?”
He glares at me and for a moment I think he’s going to shove me off his bed. Fortunately there isn’t enough room between the mattress and the wall for me to hit the floor even if he tried. After a steady moment of giving me his filthy look, he sighs and looks away. “I don’t know where he is,” he admits.
I frown. “You mean he isn’t back in Pittsburgh where you left him?”
He shakes his head and sighs. “Apparently not. His best friend hasn’t heard from him, his assistant won’t tell me anything, and Ted won’t tell me a damn thing either. Even though I’m pretty sure they were together.”
Oooh, the plot thickens. “That older guy who’s been visiting you, you mean?” I widen my eyes. “You think they were … together?” I can’t stop myself from laughing. “So you’re away for five minutes or so and he’s already cheating on you? Yeah, I can see how he’s totally different from all the other men on earth.”
I expect him to blow his top but instead he just looks to the window and frowns. “He can’t cheat on me. We aren’t monogamous. We have … you know, limitations and agreements, but we aren’t married.” He bites down on his lip and looks so miserable that I decide to soften my tone. I’m not completely heartless.
“But you can’t find him, he isn’t returning your calls, and you’re pretty sure he’s been with that other guy for at least a week.”
He shrugs, still staring out the window. There’s nothing out there to see, just the dim lights from the building across the street.
“Well, if I were you, I’d want to get to the bottom of this. If he won’t return your calls, show up on his doorstep or at his office and demand some answers. That, or write him off entirely and move on.”
He looks horrified. “Write him off? That’s crazy. I love him. This is all my fault anyway. I’m the one who left him. I’m the one who just had to take a shot at New York City. So now, here I am,” he concludes bitterly.
I stare at him for awhile, taking in his clear white skin, his soft tumble of blonde hair, his casual-yet-expensive attire that still looks good, even rumpled and wrinkled. “You know what your problem is?” I know no good conversation has ever started with those words but oh well. Sometimes people need to hear things and I’ve decided that Justin Taylor is one of those people and there’s no one but me around to do it.
“You’ve always had it easy. Let me guess.” I narrow my eyes at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Your parents had good jobs and always had money. You had nice clothes, attended private schools, and then found rich boyfriends. This is the first time in your entire life that you’ve had to really struggle.”
That snaps him out of it. “That’s not true!” There’s fire in his eyes now. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m gay. My entire life went to hell after I came out. My father turned against me, my parents split up, and oh yeah, some homophobic asshole took at bat to my head! I almost died! I still don’t have full use of my hand.” He holds the hand in question up to me and then clenches it into a fist. “You don’t know anything.”
I shrug. “So, you had a few bad things happen after you decided to announce your sexuality to the world. Boo hoo, poor you. There’s a lot worse things, you know. Try being a black woman, for example. I don’t get to decide if other people know about my blackness or not.”
“We’re not seriously going to argue about which oppressed minority group has it worse, are we?”
I shake my head. “No. But I had a point here.” I take a deep breath. “You had it easy for most of your life and now you’re doing something that’s really hard. Just surviving in a city as expensive as New York without a high-paying job is a huge struggle, and you want to be a successful artist on top of that? Up against all the competition here?” I smile at him, a smile that feels hard on my lips. “No wonder you’re always sick. I think your body’s trying to tell you something. Maybe you should listen.”
That gets his attention. He stares at me for awhile before heaving a sigh. “If you don’t mind, I really need to get some sleep.” Without waiting for a reply, he lays down and tugs the blankets over his head.
So no, he didn’t thank me for my help or even say goodnight, like anyone with any trace of manners would have done.
Maybe he does belong here after all.
****
Ted:
I guess turn-about is fair play and I can’t really fault Justin for ignoring my calls. It’s just annoying as hell because I have something important to discuss and he isn’t picking up. Which means I’m going to have to make yet another trip to New York City.
“I think you should call him,” I tell Brian in his office while he stares up at me like I’ve got something hanging from my nose. Well, it’s possible that I do. I give it a brush with the back of my hand before continuing. “I don’t think he’s going to talk to me until he hears from you,” I continue. “All he’s going to want to talk about is you, where you’ve been, what you’re doing, etcetera.”
His lips twitch at a smile. “And that would be different – how?”
Smug asshole. I’d hate him if I didn’t feel so badly for him. He’s suffering through yet another round of the flu and barely looks able to sit upright in his chair.
“Just let him know you’re okay,” I implore, doing my best imitation of Michael’s puppy-dog eyes.
He ignores them. “But I’m not okay,” he replies slowly. “If I talk to him, he’s going to know that. And if he knows that, he’s going to come rushing home and that would be counter-productive to everything -- right?”
“Right,” I agree out of habit. Wait, it’s not right at all. How does he do that? “No. Wait. That’s not right. It’s just as likely that if you don’t call him soon he’s going to turn up here, right? That’s what I would do if I were him.”
“If you were Justin?” He sounds amused, or at least as amused as he gets these days, but then his slight smile is gone and his expression is a study in tension again. “Theodore. This is why I’m paying you the big bucks. Get your ass up to New York and do whatever you have to do to convince him that I’m fine and that he needs to stay exactly where he is. I can count on you, can’t I?
With a sigh, I nod. “Yes, boss,” I mutter.
I’m still muttering to myself six hours later while seated in first class and mid-way to my destination. I’m still muttering when my cab deposits me in front of Justin’s building and I’m just finishing my complaints as I pound on his door.
It springs open and there stands Alia, wearing nothing but skimpy short-shorts and a midriff-baring tank top. She takes one look at me and laughs.
“Oh, hey, if it isn’t the boyfriend-thief himself! You’ve come to confess your sins in person?”
“Uh… huh?”
She smirks. “Yeah, I’d probably stick with that line, too. Justin has been in one hell of a mood lately and I should warn you, he’s stronger than he looks. Although I bet he’s more of a girly slapper than a down-and-dirty fighter, so you have that much in your favor.” She eyes me again, this time from my head down to my new designer shoes, shined to perfection before I departed. “And you’re bigger than he is, too. You want directions to the restaurant where he works or were you wanting to ambush him in his bedroom?”
I take down the directions to the restaurant and thank her politely, ignoring her look of disappointment, and use the walk over to Gennersen’s Bar and Grille to ponder what she’s told me. Of course it’s ridiculous. There’s absolutely no way that Justin would ever think that Brian and I… I laugh as I walk, no doubt looking like a crazy person.
I allow the hostess to seat me and order some wine while I look around for him. It doesn’t take long to spot him, with that pale blonde hair and even paler skin that practically glows under the soft lights. It takes him longer to caugh sight of me, likely because I blend right in with the woodwork. In fact, he doesn’t notice me until I flag him down with both arms and even then he looks right through me before it finally clicks.
His mouth forms a little “oh” and his eyes go wide. Ever the professional, he finishes with the table he’s waiting on before slowly approaching mine.
“Hey, Justin.” I try to act as naturally as possible, as if we’d just seen each other a few days ago. “How’s it going?”
“How’s it going?” His voice is a low hiss. Maybe this wasn’t the best approach after all. “What do you mean, ‘how’s it going’? It’s going all to hell is how it’s going! Which I’m sure isn’t news to you because you’re the one with all the answers, aren’t you?”
He glares and I shrink back into my seat. I haven’t seen this side of Justin before. How does Brian respond when he’s like this?
I clear my throat and try again. “Listen. I’m sorry about everything, I really am. You know I wouldn’t keep things from you if it were my choice, right? But Brian’s my boss and this is my job and… “
“I’m your job?” He crouches down until he’s eye-level with me, his gaze hard and unwavering. “That’s interesting, because I thought you were my friend. I guess I was wrong about a lot of things though, huh?” He continues to stare at me, not even blinking. “I have two questions for you, Ted.”
I sigh and shift my gaze to my wine, which I swirl around again and again. Maybe if I do it fast enough it will form a whirlpool and suck me away.
“Are you fucking him?”
“Of course not,” I reply without hesitation, grateful now for the heads up gained by my brief encounter with his roommate. I force myself to meet his eyes again. “There’s absolutely no chance of that, Justin. You know that.”
He gives no indication that he’s even heard me. “Second question. When the two of you are off together, doing whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing, are you laughing at me? Mocking how hilarious it is that stupid little Justin would think he still matters while the two of you are running Kinnetik and raking in millions?” He leans a little closer and suddenly I’m alarmed by the over-bright light in his eyes. His skin is flushed, too, although that might be just with anger. He looks ready to throttle me. I wonder if I should be scoping out an escape route.
At least I’m able to find my voice before his fingers find my throat. “Never,” I manage at last. “Justin, please. Nothing like that has ever happened. Nothing like that ever would happen. Brian loves you. I’m his employee. And I’m here with some good news, so if you could join me after you’re done with your shift…?”
He studies me for awhile longer, his expression as unreadable as Brian’s often is. “Fine,” he sighs at last. “I’ll join you in about an hour and you can tell me about this good news of yours. But first, I need to know what the fuck’s up with Brian.” He gives me a pointed look before rising to his feet and returning to his job.
I sip my wine and pick at my dinner as I watch him. You’d never guess how agitated he was over this situation by the way he interacts with customers, gracious and charming and accommodating. He’s come a long way since Deb hired him as a busboy at the Liberty Diner and he arrived at our table with his fingers submerged in our water glasses. Back when we all thought his presence in our lives was temporary.
I’m still nudging the food around on my plate when he slides into the chair across from me. “So.”
“So.” I eye my empty glass. “Would you like a drink? Let me order us some more wine.” I flag down another server to place my order. He gives me a long, curious look before departing.
Justin stares at me, waiting.
I sigh. “You know if it were up to me I’d tell you everything.” My words come out in a staggered rush.” I don’t think this is fair, or Brian’s best idea by a long shot, but he doesn’t really consult with me. I know you don’t believe me but I really am just his employee. There’s no… parity in our relationship. Our working relationship,” I add quickly.
He considers my words in silence before leaning across the table. “What do you suppose would happen if you disobeyed him and told me anyway?”
“I suppose I’d be fired.” I give him an affected little shrug. “Believe it or not, he’s not the most forgiving person in the world. Well, not with people who aren’t you or Michael or Debbie. I’d really prefer to keep my job, Justin. It didn’t work out for me so well the last time I lost one.”
He seems to accept this, or at least is willing to wait when the server appears with our wine. He takes a few sips while watching me with his red-rimmed eyes over the brim of his glass. In spite of his anger he looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept well in weeks.
“I wouldn’t tattle on you, Ted. I wouldn’t say a word. Not ever, I promise. I just need to know what’s going on with him. I need to know that he’s okay. Can’t you help me?” His voice takes on a note of raw pleading and I’m forced to dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand.
I drain half my glass in order to fortify myself. “I can,” I reply uneasily. “But – not exactly how you want me to. I can’t tell you anything about Brian except that he’s okay. Not great, but he’s surviving. And I can promise you that if it were ever anything dire, I’d be on the phone with you in a heartbeat.” I pause to study his expression, but he gives me almost nothing. Well, fair enough; I’m not exactly being generous here either. “He’s going to be okay. You both are.”
He gives a slightly bitter little laugh and settles heavily into his chair, tipping his head all the way back and running both hands through his hair before looking at me again. Blonde locks stand up in a wild array about his head, but he doesn’t seem inclined to care. “Fine. Just tell me why you’re here, then. Or let me guess. Mister Kinney has some marching orders for me as well.”
I shake my head. “No! No, not at all. I came here to talk to you about a possibility that I found for you. This comes from me, and it has nothing to do with Brian. It involves people I know. I’m the one who called and set things up and made all the arrangements. Pending your approval, of course.” I force myself to slow down, because I sound a bit desperate. Brian would never approve of a sales pitch being delivered like this. I polish off my wine before beginning again. “There’s a school – a private school, which caters to children with special needs. An old college friend of mine works in administration and she told me that they’re desperate for a new art teacher. Someone who’s good with kids and can take over the art therapy classes.”
He stares at me like I’ve suggested he start as the new gym teacher, instructing young jocks on the finer points of tackle football. “Ted, I don’t have a degree in art therapy. Or a teaching certificate. Or anything that I’d need for that sort of job.”
I nod to his objections as if they were enthusiastic agreements. “You don’t need a degree in art therapy. They’d actually prefer someone who just understands how to process emotion through art without being bogged down with a lot of theory. And you don’t need a teaching certificate, either, because you won’t be officially employed as an instructor. Your job title would be… artistic facilitator, I believe.”
He arches a brow.
“And the starting pay would be—“ I lean closer to murmur the number, and this time both his eyebrows shoot up.
He’s silent for awhile, as expected. He swirls the wine in his glass, drinks deeply, then returns his full attention to me. “That would make a big difference in my life,” he admits.
I nod.
“And I’d be doing something related to art, which would be nice.”
I nod again.
“And I am good with kids, aren’t I? I was good with Gus.” He smiles faintly at the mention of Brian’s son. “I miss him.”
I wait.
He gnaws at his lip for a moment before giving me a minute nod. “Okay. I’ll put together a portfolio featuring some of my work for them and… what’s the next step?”
“I’ll set up an interview time,” I reply with a smile. “Of course you’ll want to meet them and they’ll want to meet you but they’re already enthusiastic about you based on what I told them. I mean, about the attack and your recovery and how you switched mediums to accommodate your injuries and all of that. They think your story will be inspiring to their students.” I lower my voice further. “You accomplished amazing things. And these kids – I think they’d get a lot from working with someone like you, someone who’s been there.”
I’m half-expecting him to blow up at me again, but instead he merely finishes his wine. “That all sounds interesting. And convenient.” He smiles a smile that doesn’t come within a thousand miles of his eyes. “But I suppose that’s how things are done here, right? It’s all about who you know.”
I shrug. “Not just here, Justin. That’s how it’s done everywhere. Didn’t Brian ever tell you that?”
He laughs. “If you think he’d ever tell me something like that, then maybe you are just his employee.”