by R. C. Martin
As I curled into the corner of my couch, I looked around at my humble abode. I’d lived there for just over a year. I moved in after I finished my junior year of college. Back then, it was pretty sparse. Of course, I had a vision for what I hoped it would look like, but I was limited to the wallet of a college student. After a bit of saving and more than a little patience—along with a few donated pieces from my favorite artsy men—I managed to turn my place into an eclectic and artistic space I could be proud of. Took time, but it felt like me in there.
I enjoyed my coffee until the last drop and then returned to my bedroom to get dressed. Very little effort was put into my outfit, my only objective to be clothed. After I slipped into a pair of tattered denim jeans and an oversized CSU t-shirt, I found my most comfortable sneakers and laced them up on my feet. I grabbed my purse, double checking for my keys, and then started for the door. I had barely reached for the knob when I got an idea. Deciding to make the best of my morning task, I turned on my heel and went to get my camera. My Nikon D5100 was strapped around my neck in no time, and then I was on my way.
It took me forty-five minutes to reach my car, but I couldn’t complain. It would have taken me a half an hour, but I got a little inspired with my camera along the way. The long stroll also gave me the clarity of mind to decide what I wanted for breakfast. There was nothing quite as delicious as one of Brandon’s signature blueberry crumble muffins.
Since Little Bird Café was only a block away from where I parked the night before, I left my vehicle as I continued to my destination. If I thought my wallet could handle it, I would have frequented the little coffee shop every day. And it wasn’t just the pastries I loved. The atmosphere was charming, and Brandon’s staff was the best.
Upon entering the establishment, I spotted Sarah behind the register. While I was a frequent customer at Little Bird going on more than a year, I’d known the blonde haired, blue eyed goddess for longer. For a short stent, she was a teacher at the same school as my sister. Regardless of how life had separated the two, they remained close friends. That morning, she looked as beautiful as ever, reminding me of my un-showered, hungover self.
“Teddy, hi!” she greeted as she spotted me.
“Hey.” The smile I offered her was genuine. Part of my happiness to see her was due to the coffee I had in me and the fresh air I gulped down over the past hour—but mostly it was just her. She was one of the sweetest people I ever met, and she exuded good cheer.
“What are you working on this morning?” she asked, pointing at my camera.
“Oh.” I shrugged, glanced down at the Nikon, and then back at her. “Nothing, really.”
She smiled, the expression lighting up her eyes, and nodded at me. “Yeah. Right. Nothing, which will likely find its way on display in an art gallery one day.”
I laughed, because I couldn’t help myself, and shook my head at her. “You sound like Harper.”
“Speaking of, have you heard from her lately?”
I propped myself against the front counter and shook my head once more. “No, actually. We’ve been playing phone tag all week.”
“Well, when you speak to her, tell that hussy she needs to get up here for a visit.”
“I will,” I replied on a chuckle.
“I presume you’d like your usual this morning?”
“Yes, please,” I murmured hopefully. “And a medium latte.”
“Coming right up.”
I was back out in the mid-morning sunshine less than five minutes later, and home ten minutes after that. By the time I made it inside of my apartment, my latte was hardly more than a memory—but it curbed my hunger long enough for me to clean myself up. I took my time under the spray of hot water, and it felt good to wash off the previous night.
Fresh from my shower, I towel dried my hair before I contained the tresses in another—albeit neater—bun. After I slipped into a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, I made my way to the kitchen, my need for that muffin guiding me there. I plated the pastry, then took it back to the main room and set it on the coffee table beside my laptop. Sitting with my legs folded beneath me on the floor, I powered up the machine and started on my muffin.
The weekend prior, Andrew and his wife, Carrie, let me do a photoshoot with their son, Steven. I spent all day with them and their adorable four-year-old, capturing as many moments as I could. I was hopeful I managed to get a few shots I could edit and frame for them. I didn’t consider myself a professional, by any means, but I loved the process from beginning to end.
Geoffrey was always telling me I possessed enough talent to earn a living photographing people. While art was my life, my photography was just a hobby. The pieces that surrounded me at the gallery—that was real art. Working for him and Andrew at Mountain Time Art was my dream come true. Any images I might have been able to capture through my lens was just good for the soul.
It wasn’t unusual for me to lose time in my work. Without even realizing it, I whiled away the entirety of the afternoon editing photos. My apartment was quiet, save the click of my mouse as I sharpened and cleaned up images. It was peaceful. A loud knock on my door jarred me from my solitude, and it was then that I became cognizant of the time.
I eyed the small plate beside me, sprinkled with the crumbs of a muffin long forgotten, and a pang of hunger hit me. It was like the world stood still for a while, and a single knock brought me back to reality. I was pushing myself up onto my feet when another round of rapping sounded against my door. This time, the announcement was followed by his voice.
“Freckles, it’s me.”
The sound of him made me quicken my pace. I twisted my locks free and swung open the door without hesitation. “Hey, you.” I gave him a quick once over in an effort to get a sense of his state of being.
It was unlike Geoffrey to look anything other than stylishly disheveled. He was quite handsome, in a very aryan manner. He had a head full of blond hair, which he wore in such a way that was messy but sexy at the same time. He also took exceptionally good care of his body. I called him my Viking, because he was built like one. Except, in that moment, he just looked broken, dressed in a pair of old sweats—his blue eyes sad and red-rimmed.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, not unkindly.
“Last night, he was a fuck face,” Geoffrey mumbled. “Today—well, he’s still a prick, but he’s my prick. And he’s gone. But—I can still smell him in the bed, and see him in the shower, and hear him in the kitchen and I just…”
His words trailed off, but I didn’t need him to say any more. I reached for the paper sack in his grasp, then took his hand in mine as I pulled him inside.
“What’d you bring me?”
“A pint of coffee ice cream. The vanilla’s for me.”
As I shut and locked us in, he made his way to the couch. I trailed after him and peeked into the bag. A quiet chuckle tickled my throat when I spotted The Notebook, Crazy, Stupid Love, and Blue Valentine keeping company with our ice cream.
“Babe, you know you don’t like these movies, right? Are we just ogling Ryan Gosling tonight?”
He shrugged when I looked over at him, and that was all the answer I needed.
“Okay. Well, we should probably order in,” I informed him as I headed for the kitchen. “We’ll get sick if all we eat tonight is ice cream.”
“Pizza’s on its way. Double pepperoni.”
I stopped and peered back at him from over my shoulder. He wasn’t looking at me, his attention zeroed in on his lap, but I didn’t need to see into the windows of his soul to know how badly he was hurting. And yet, in spite of his pain, he had brought my favorite ice cream and ordered my favorite pizza.
He was right. Reeve was a fuck face, with no idea who he’d thrown away.
Without further delay, I made my way to my silverware drawer and plucked out a couple spoons. When I returned to join Geoffrey, I unpacked the sack, nudging his leg with my own as I handed him his pint. He accepted, and I p
icked up Blue Valentine.
“He’s kind of an ass in this one,” I said, opening the case. “But I think it best we steer clear of traditional romance tonight.”
After I got the movie started, I joined my favorite guy on the couch with my gifted treat. Even though there was plenty of room on the opposite side of him, I wiggled my butt into the space between him and the arm of the sofa, stretching my legs over his lap. He didn’t even flinch. Neither did he pay attention to the film as it began to unfold.
For a few minutes, my gaze flicked between my ice cream, my best friend, and the television. Geoffrey appeared as though he wanted to drown in his softening pint of vanilla. I wiggled my legs atop his, in an effort to get his attention.
“What are you thinking?”
He shook his head slightly and shoveled his spoon into his mouth, like he had no intention of answering me. I waited anyway, sure he’d tell me.
“I gave that man two years of my life, and he just traded me in for a younger model. I’m old and—”
“Hey,” I interrupted, bending my leg so I could jab my knee into his chest. “You are not old.”
He arched his eyebrows, his gaze locking with mine as he replied, “Baby girl, you don’t know the meaning of old. I could be your fucking father.”
I laughed. There was no stopping it. He was being wilding dramatic.
“Aside from the fact that you’ve never even attempted to make a baby—let alone at fourteen and a half—being thirty-seven does not make you nearly old enough to be my father. So, like I said, you’re not old. And just because Reeve didn’t appreciate you doesn’t mean you won’t find someone else who will. You’re a catch. If you weren’t so gay, I’d be all over your ass.”
“Please,” he muttered around a bite of ice cream. “You’ve never been all over anyone’s ass, so don’t give me that.”
I gaped at him for a moment. While it was true I hadn’t dated anyone in the time that spanned the duration of our friendship, I still—low-key—resented his comment. Before I could think of a smart retort, we were interrupted by another knock at my door.
The movie played on as I signed for the pizza and stowed our ice cream in the freezer. I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels I kept in the kitchen and tore one free as a plate for my first slice. As I chewed a large, gooey bite, I returned to my previously occupied spot. It didn’t go unnoticed how Geoffrey seemed to have no real interest in dinner. I was still thinking about his previous statement when he started to trace his finger along the exposed artwork on the side of my right thigh.
My dreamcatcher.
The ink started at my hip. The top ring, covered by my shorts, spanned the width of the outer side of my leg. Attached were three smaller circles that dangled a little below. I didn’t need to look at it to remember the intricate details. The crisscross webbing in each ring was done in black ink. Hanging from the smaller rings were the feathers—each of them shaded in vibrant hues of teal, royal blue, and dark purple. The entire piece extended until inches above my knee. It was my first of many tattoos—each of which I hid from the world. I only ever displayed my scars to those who truly loved me.
“Do you think if I sleep with you tonight, this thing will catch my dreams? I swear, every time I close my eyes, he’s there.”
“Oh, babe,” I murmured softly. I leaned toward him and cupped my hand around his cheek, turning his face until he was looking at me. “Geoff—”
He interrupted me with a soft peck on the lips. “Don’t, okay? Just—let me stay?”
“Of course,” I said. Still holding his face, I returned his kiss with a kiss of my own before I insisted, “Stay as long as you’d like.”
Chapter Three
With my elbow buried in my pillow, and my cheek propped against my fist, I watched him sleep. He appeared even larger than normal lying next to me. My bed was hardly big enough for the both of us, but we made it work. There was no chance I would have accepted anything less.
I thought back to the first time I laid eyes on Geoffrey Fink. Andrew had recently opened Mountain Time Art Gallery, on the corner of Mountain and Mason, and I was so anxious to get a peek at the collection he curated. It was the first semester of my junior year at Colorado State, where I studied art history, and I knew I needed to be thinking about trying to line up an internship of some kind. Except, school was the farthest thing from my mind the first time I stepped foot into the gallery.
A striking, blond man—who looked dashing in his navy blue suit—came up to me and asked if he could help me in any way. My answer was no, of course. I couldn’t afford a single piece of their collection, but that truth didn’t bother him. Even more, he wasn’t put-off by my presence as I lingered and admired. He didn’t see me as a wasted opportunity for a sale. He was kind, even taking the time to speak to me about the artist who painted the piece that caught my eye. Geoffrey was half the reason I went back again and again.
I knew, from the outside looking in, our relationship appeared quite strange. He was more than a decade older than me, and far more mature than any of the peers who should have occupied my circle. Though, I never could bring myself to care about appearances. Truth of the matter was, he coaxed me outside of the shell in which I’d hidden myself. I trusted him; and in ways that could only be explained by the profound beauty and expression of paint on canvas, he understood me. He saw me. And when he looked at me, I wasn’t afraid.
Gazing upon him, he lost in the peace of quiet slumber, I sent up a silent prayer for him. I hoped his broken heart would be mended—that the pain he felt would not rip away the parts of him which made him so wonderful. I prayed the memory of Reeve would not darken his spirit, but that he would come alive again. More than anything, I didn’t want him to get stuck in his sorrow. I knew, all too well, what that felt like.
I reached over and brushed an errant strand of hair from his forehead. As I did so, he opened his eyes. His baby blues found my hazel-brown irises.
“Are you watching me sleep?” he asked. His voice was gruff and gravely from lack of use.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Creep.”
I giggled groggily as I pushed myself into a seated position. My messy mane fell down my chest and back, and I swept a few strands behind my ears. “I’ve actually been thinking we need to get you out today. No beer, no ice cream, just good ol’fashioned fresh air and sunshine.” I leaned toward him and gently shook his shoulder as I suggested, “Let’s go on a hike up Horsetooth.”
He scrunched his brow at me and grumbled, “You’re not going to let me say no, are you?”
A grin stretched across my face as I shook my head at him. I giggled again, pressed a quick kiss against his forehead, and then climbed out of bed. With my back turned toward him, I stood in front of my dresser and used my reflection casted in the vanity mirror to pull my hair up into a ponytail.
“Maybe I should get a tattoo.”
My arms were still up, my fingers lost in my ginger tresses, when his declaration brought me to an abrupt halt. I shifted my gaze to catch sight of his reflection, and I saw him eyeing my naked shoulders. I knew, without even having to think about it, the spaghetti strap tank top I wore covered most of my back piece—but not all of it. The little black birds, inked in flight, were scattered from my spine to my right shoulder blade.
I forced myself to finish my task and then turned to face him directly.
“You don’t want a tattoo,” I told him, folding my arms across my chest. “You’ve told me—repeatedly—you’d never ink your pure canvas.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it would help dull the pain. It did for you, didn’t it?”
We stared at each other for a moment, and I didn’t hasten to fill the silence. I let it linger, hoping the residue left in his mouth from his flippant comment would turn bitter. Only, the longer we stared at one another, the more cognizant I became that it wasn’t my closest friend who spat those words—it was the ache in his heart. He wanted a cure, but we both
knew love didn’t come with such a thing.
“My ink is not about Justin, and you know it. I get it that your heart is broken and you’re looking for any distraction that’ll help you get through just another day, but doing something you swore you never would? It’s not the answer, babe.
“Look…” I freed a sigh and crawled back into bed with him. “Every piece of art on my body is about me. Justin broke more than my heart, Geoff. He took my body. He stole my peace of mind.” I casted a pleading expression at him, desperately hoping for him to hear me—for him to remember what he already knew. “My tattoos are my battle scars. My victory marks. I needed to reclaim ownership of what was always supposed to be mine.
“You’re different. This is different. You’re still you.” I paused and bent over until my forehead was propped against his. “Today, we’re going for a hike. When you’re over Reeve, when you’ve moved on, if you still want a tattoo, you know I’ll be right there with you holding your hand. But I risk losing my best friend if I let you do something that crazy and spontaneous. One day, you’d wake up and hate me for not making you see reason.”
He chuckled, and it brought a smile to my face. I brushed my lips across his cheek and then righted myself as I added, “Besides, Generation Ink is closed on Sundays. There’s no way in hell I’d let anyone but Trevor touch you. So, enough of that.” I reached around him and smacked his backside. “Get your ass up. I’ll go make us some coffee.”
Chapter Four
Judah wiped the sweat from his brow as he climbed off his Peloton stationary bike. Still short of breath, he made his way toward the large television screen, mounted on the wall above his free weights, and powered off the electronic. High from the endorphins that came by way of an hour in his at-home gym, he ascended from his basement and into the still early hour of his Monday morning.