by BA Tortuga
He nodded and let the smoke out in a long slow stream through his lips, feeling things start to soften a little. “You’re sleeping with him now?” Nice. He was a hottie, that one. “What’s his name again? Oh.” He hauled himself off the couch just long enough to stuff a towel under the front door and crack the window.
“Eddie. He’s a stud, not bad in bed either, and he isn’t stingy. My only complaint is that he’s tone deaf.” Oh man, that meant he wouldn’t last, but Calvin was pretty sure Timmy didn’t care about long-term.
“Right. Eddie. What an awful name. It’s so… Rocky Horror.” He grinned at Timmy. “We should do that sometime. Would you be into that?”
“I would love it. Can I dress up like Columbia?”
“Yes! I can go as Magenta. We’d rock that.” God, he was such a lightweight. Two hits and he was one happy camper. He picked up his pizza and sank back into the couch cushions. “Mmm. Thanks for the pizza.”
“You’re welcome. I was worried about you, a little bit.” Timmy snarfed down three pieces like he was breathing them in.
Timmy was sweet to worry. Timmy looked out for him, and that was way cool. Tucker took better care of him, but it was getting easier to just not think about him now. But as long as he was, what the hell? Like, really. “Listen, if an artist sees a stranger on the street and takes that… you know, that image home in his head, he can paint that, right? And what happens if that person realizes it’s him later? Can he, like, sue or something?”
He wasn’t clear on what he was getting at, but there was an injustice there; he was sure of it.
“I don’t think so. I mean, like, celebrities can sue if they’re making money saying ‘Here’s a painting of Bradley Cooper,’ maybe? But it’s not like a photo or something.” Timmy looked at him, frowning deep. “Is the Texan, like, stealing pictures of you to sell?”
Mmm. Tuck looked a little like Bradley Cooper. Wait. He was making a point.
“Pfft. No. He’s not an asshole.” He took a bite of his pizza, feeling every muscle in his jaw move as he chewed. So cool. “Okay.” He sat up and faced Timmy on the couch to make sure Timmy was listening. “Okay, so, he is a scary good artist, Tim. Like, wicked scary. And he was doing these sketches of me, and it made all the short hairs on the back of my neck stand up, you know? So I asked him not to draw me or, well, paint me or whatever. You following?”
“Sure. Yeah. That could be creepy, I guess. I mean, I don’t know. Are they, I don’t know, like, gross?”
“No.” He flopped back against the couch again. “They’re just… real. Like, too real.” Scary real. “Photographs of me have a distance to them. These don’t, you know? They’re….” What was the word? Like, too close. Like, none of anyone’s business close. He wasn’t comfortable with Tucker seeing him that way kind of close. Intimate?
“Visceral.”
“That. That, yes.” Nobody needed to know him that well.
See him that clearly.
“I’m sorry, man. That sucks. I’m guessing he said he wanted to paint you no matter what?”
“Not just that he wanted to, that he was going to. Even when I explained that it made me uncomfortable and asked him not to. I mean, I get that he wasn’t interested in selling them. He said they were for him. But that still feels….” He shifted around on the couch, trying to make the goose bumps go away. “And to just tell me that, like it didn’t matter what I wanted?”
“That’s not cool. I mean, I don’t know about how painting and shit works, but you can’t draw someone like that without respecting their wishes. It’s not like you do it in your sleep.”
“He gets a little… it’s not in his sleep, but it’s not always totally conscious either. It’s a trippy.”
“No shit?” Timmy got wide-eyed. “What? It’s like a trance or something? Because that’s just… whoa.”
He cut his eyes over at Timmy and frowned. “Yeah, it’s… really hard to explain.” Really hard. And if it was that hard for him to explain…. “Oh, tiger.” His heart sank right through the floor.
“Have another hit, man. Seriously. It’ll help. So… I take it this is a major fight?”
“Good idea.” He took the bong and lit the bowl, then inhaled deeply, the burn at the back of his throat reminding him there was a price to pay for everything. He took his time, tipping his head back to rest before finally letting it out of his lungs as the buzz hit him. “Yeah. It was a major fight. I don’t want him to paint me, but he’s not going to stop. Where do you go from there?”
“I got nothing. Sorry. He seemed like a fun guy.” Timmy handed him an olive.
“He is so much fun. Fearless and unashamed. Up for anything, especially if it’s something new. And you can apply all of that to the bedroom too.” That and a whole host of other things, like Tucker’s eyes and his smile and the studly hair on his chest. He sighed, smiling, eyelids heavy. “Yeah. Major fun.”
“Well, you got that, at least, and you’re smiling.” Timmy patted his hand. “Fifth Element?”
“Yeah, put it on.” Did he have that? He wasn’t sure what he had right now, other than a really beautiful high and funds for pay-per-view. That’d work okay for now.
Timmy grabbed a smallish box, tossed it over. “This was hand-delivered. What’s in it?”
“Nosy.” Calvin caught it and turned it around in his hands. “I don’t know. It has a New York return address.” He sat up and put the package on his knees, then tore off the brown paper wrapping around a recycled box.
There was a packing slip that he threw aside. That was like cheating. There was a light little package wrapped in Bubble Wrap and paper. Look at all that stuff. He worked the tape off and came face-to-face with Tucker’s little tiny painting from the gallery.
Hope.
“Oh.” He held it carefully in his fingers like it was fragile, and it occurred to him that in a lot of ways it was. He sat with that idea for a minute and was just stoned enough to see all of them at once. He stared at the little painting, his mind going in several directions, and waited for the room to stop spinning.
“That’s neat. What is it? Did you order it?”
“It’s Hope.” He felt Timmy’s eyes on him and realized that would make no sense. “It’s one of Tucker’s. It’s called Hope.”
“Oh. That’s cool? I mean, is that cool?”
He picked up the packing slip and found a note.
It’s time for me to go back where I belong and get out of your hair. Hold on to this for me, please. Someday I’ll visit both y’all. I love you, honey. I’m sorry I can’t be better. T.
“No, wait.” He flipped the note over like maybe it said something better on the other side, but of course it didn’t. He read it again, the hazy state he was in making it hard to follow… go back where I belong… someday… what?
Okay. So whatever, then. He put the painting back in the box with the note and pushed the box across the coffee table.
“Did you find the movie?”
“Yep. You ready?” Timmy shot him a grin and plopped down beside him.
“Yep.” He found a grin for Timmy as well and reached for the bong.
IT WAS bright as anything when Calvin woke up. He squinted and shielded his eyes from the streak of sunlight, and stretched. Now that he could see a little bit, he realized that not only was he on the couch, but he’d been using Timmy’s thigh as a pillow. He gingerly lifted Timmy’s protective hand off his shoulder and got to his feet.
Poor Timmy was sacked out sitting up, and his head was at a horrible angle for sleeping. Calvin figured he must really be out.
He set up the couch pillows at one end and discovered Timmy was remarkably easy to move. He got his roomie settled and put the weird crocheted blanket one of Timmy’s old boyfriends had made for him over Timmy’s legs.
It was a shame Eddie couldn’t carry a tune; he really couldn’t do any better than Timmy.
He spotted the box from Tucker on the table and picked it up and carried i
t into his room, the weight of the box having nothing to do with the tiny little painting inside.
He couldn’t remember seeing the end of the movie, and he was pretty sure it was dark out when they’d started it. Other than that, he had no real sense of how long he’d been asleep. He put the box on his bed and found his phone—8:37 a.m.
He started to ignore the fourteen texts from Michael but then thought better of it and skimmed them before giving his agent a call.
“Calvin! My God, where have you been? It’s about time you got back to me.”
“I… I was sleeping. What’s up?”
“Well, listen. I have a shoot for you on Monday and another toward the end of the week. They’re going to let me know.”
Work. Nope. “Cancel it.”
“What? Calvin—”
“Okay, cancel Monday, and I’ll let you know about the other one.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m not feeling well.” He’d look like an alien on Monday, eyes all puffy, pizza tummy.
“Calvin McIntire, never in the history of ever have you said no to a job. Whatever it is, suck it up, sober up, and I’ll see you on Monday. Car at 6:30 a.m.”
“Fuck you, Michael.” He was sober.
“You’re welcome.” Michael hung up.
He tossed his phone on the bed and pulled Tucker’s note out of the box, sitting down on the edge of the mattress to read it again.
It’s time for me to go back where I belong and get out of your hair. Hold on to this for me, please. Someday I’ll visit both y’all. I love you, honey. I’m sorry I can’t be better. T.
He’d known Tucker would eventually go back to Texas; he just never imagined it would be this way. He’d certainly never imagined there would be any issue they couldn’t compromise on. So was Hope for him or for Tucker now? Which one of them was all that gray and which the bold red line letting the light in?
He put the painting on his comforter and took a picture of it with his phone, then texted it to Tucker, followed by:
I’ll keep it safe, tiger. Luv u2
Calvin didn’t wait for a response. He knew he wouldn’t get one. He set the painting on his nightstand and went to take a long, hot shower.
Chapter Fifteen
EVERY DAY Tuck sent a picture to Calvin. No words. He didn’t have anything to say. But he sent a bluebonnet, one of the roses, the pool. It was easy.
Tuck thought the only things that were easy these days was that daily picture and his work. He’d flown home and slept for three days, and then he’d gone back to work.
The barn was filled with paintings—ghosts and vicious, violent demons tearing things apart, biting and slicing, spilling bile like cheap wine. He spent hours exploring the expressions of agony, of emptiness.
Of shame.
When he wasn’t painting, he swam. One lap after another until the demons started looking over the edges of the pool, reminding him why he was still alive.
The work.
He sat at the edge of the pool, breathing hard, watching the sun rise. You couldn’t capture that on a phone. That you had to paint from memory.
Too bad he didn’t do landscapes.
He snapped a photo of a cardinal, bright red and fearless on one of his deck chairs. There. That was beautiful.
He had decided on some new rules, and the main one was only show the bright parts. The real stuff belonged on the canvas. Another one was about keeping the main gate locked so no one could get in. He wasn’t taking visitors.
Tucker sent the image to his lover, then smiled and stood up and headed toward the barn.
SPRING WAS finally settling on New York for good. Calvin left his apartment in his favorite floral leggings and a purple tunic and no fucking coat. Hallelujah. He still had his stompy boots on, though. He loved them all year long.
He’d just finished his volunteer thing at the library, and he was sitting on the library steps playing Angry Birds on his phone while he soaked up some sun.
People walked up and down the stairs, and when a pair of heels stopped in front of him, he blinked, and looked up into Tucker’s agent’s face.
“Marge.” Here on the library steps. God, he missed that tiger. He put his phone away and stood up. “Uh. Hi….” He wanted to hug her. He really, really wanted to hug her, but he didn’t, because maybe that would be weird under the circumstances, and maybe she was upset with him or something. But he really wanted to. Seeing her was the next best thing to seeing Tucker.
“Come here, kiddo.” She squashed him in a hug, like he was an old friend. “How are you doing? Working hard?”
“Like a fiend.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not cry. Good thing for him she was okay with lingering over their hug a few extra seconds too. God, every time he thought he was fine, he discovered he was so not fine. “Keeps me busy.”
“Good. Busy pays the bills. I’m going to grab a drink, something fruity and wonderful. Want to join me?”
“Yes, please. I would like that.” He offered her his arm.
“I would too.” She took his arm, letting him help her down the stairs.
“So, how have you been?” I’ve thought about calling you a dozen times at least.
“Busy. Trying to keep my artists in pennies. Have you talked to Tuck?”
“Talked to him, no. I get a text from him every day, though. Pictures.” Pretty things. Texas things. Things Tucker liked about being home, Calvin assumed. He really wasn’t sure how he was supposed to take them.
“Huh.” Her lips twisted, and she looked worried. “At least we know he’s taking pictures, then.”
“You haven’t talked to him?” Calvin steered her into a pub with some outdoor tables and handed her his phone. “Go ahead and scroll through them.”
“Ah, the pool. He had that put in his first year. Nothing of the house or work, though. He does have a grand view.”
“I’m not sure why he’s sending them. I don’t understand what he’s trying to say. I’m not even clear why he’s contacting me at all.” He picked up the cocktail menu and had a look. Something fruity did sound good, and he was working so much these days that he could afford a few frivolous calories.
“Do you want him to stop?” She handed him his phone back.
He handed her the drink menu in trade. “No. And it’s not like I’ve asked him. I don’t text him back.” He’d thought about it, sending pictures of the city, the subway, the library. He’d also thought about saying hello and asking about the pictures, but he hadn’t done that either. “But I miss him.”
“I do too.” She offered him a sad little smile, then looked at the menu. “I’m going to get a vodka lemonade, I think.”
“Ooh. Make that two.” He reached over and took her hand. “Marge, I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what I can say. I asked him for something I needed that he said he couldn’t give me, and there was no compromise. That was just….” He sighed. “It’s still pretty raw, Marge, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, you don’t have to explain. He told me it was his fault. I went to the studio and closed up for him after he went home. I haven’t spoken to him since that morning. I was just glad to see you, hmm? You look good.”
Calvin had thought of it as Tucker’s fault at first too. And then sometimes he didn’t think it was about anyone’s fault; it just was what it was. But he mostly blamed himself for being neurotic and irrational and sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. But honestly? Neurotic was kind of hardwired in him, and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.
“Thank you. I’ve been working so much I really have to take care of myself so I don’t burn out, you know? Parts of my work are twenty-four seven.” He didn’t go out. He didn’t stay up late. He hadn’t smoked anything with Timmy since that week after Tucker left. He just worked and slept. “You look great. I love the scarf.”
“Thank you. I love purple. It makes my eyes shine.” She beamed, winked over, her eye shadow sparkling.
“It really
does.” Marge didn’t share any blood with Tucker, he knew, but something about her mannerisms and the look in her eyes reminded him of Tucker anyway.
“Oh.” He picked up his drink as soon as it arrived at the table. “Are you setting up another show anywhere for Tucker?”
She shook her head, her earrings jingling. “Not for a while. I have to wait for Tuck to paint a new series, and he hasn’t sent me any images.”
“Oh, right. He’s got to be working, though, don’t you think? I mean, he has to work.” That had been his point about those damn portraits of him, after all, and even before that, Calvin had seen firsthand a little of how driven he could be. Speaking of…. “What about the paintings he did here?”
“He destroyed the new ones. All of them.” She sighed softly, shook her head, and took a deep drink. “I’m sure he’s working. He’s not dead. He’s just not talking right now.”
What? “All of them? Everything?”
“Apparently. We had one hell of a mess to clean up.”
Tucker didn’t want any reminders of his work here in the city. Maybe not of the city at all. That gave Calvin some clarity, didn’t it? And it explained the texts too. Life in Texas was better. He was destroying more than just paintings.
Calvin shook his head. “Well, that’s pretty telling, huh? Screw him.”
“It is, I suppose. He destroyed a month’s worth of work because he was….” Marge stopped, took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together like she was collecting her thoughts. “Believe me, kiddo. He’s punishing himself more thoroughly than any ill wishes could. I’ll ask him not to bother you anymore.”
“No. Thank you, Marge. I’d prefer you didn’t. I’m an adult. He’s an adult. It’s possible neither of us is acting like one just now, but that’s on us. This will work out however it does. The last thing we said to each other was ‘I love you.’ It’s really fragile, and I’d just rather let it breathe.”
“Fair enough. Just… he’s a good man, kiddo, and I know he wanted to be what you needed. He did his best.”