Something Like Winter

  “Okay. Are you coming to bed?”

  “I’ll be there in a second. I just want to lock up.”

  There was an awkward pause, then Jace said, “Come kiss me goodnight.”

  Tim listened, the subtle sounds excruciating.

  “Is something wrong?” Ben asked.

  “It’s just—” Jace sighed. “Your eyes light up when he’s around. The same way they do when you look at me.”

  “I love you,” Ben said, almost with desperation.

  Jace’s response was gentle. “I know. Come to bed soon. Okay?”

  Tim listened as the living room lamps clicked off, one by one. He felt the quilt pulled tight, Ben tucking it in around him. Tim wanted to open his eyes, to pull Ben down on the couch with him, but he didn’t dare move. Then Ben caressed his hair, just a single gentle stroke as innocent as a mother’s touch. But of course it wasn’t.

  Tim listened to Ben’s sigh, his footsteps in the hallway as the wood beneath the carpet creaked, the bedroom door as it clicked shut. Then Tim got up and snuck out the front door.

  * * * * *

  Insects hummed, thriving in the humid night. Tim sat on the front steps, rolling a bottle of beer between his palms while Chinchilla slept on her side, enjoying the cool concrete. They could have been out back, next to the soothing waters of the pool, but Tim was waiting. Maybe it wouldn’t happen tonight, but the storm was coming. The only question was whether or not it would rain.

  Sure enough, Ben’s car pulled up half an hour later.

  “You’re either here to do something that you really shouldn’t,” Tim said, “or you came to say goodbye.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ben stood before him, not bothering to sit. This would be a short visit. “I wish we could just be friends.”

  “No, you don’t.” Tim managed a brave smile. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tim took a deep breath. “You think we would have made it? Say we never had the cops chasing us that night, that we kept on going. Do you think we’d still be together?”

  Ben thought about it, maybe considering the possibilities that could have been, but instead of answering he swallowed and said, “I have to go.”

  Desperation stole over Tim. He wouldn’t be able to breathe if Ben walked away. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Benjamin. I don’t have anything left.”

  “That’s not true. You have plenty.”

  “Did I tell you that I came out to my parents?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. They weren’t thrilled. If they were distant before—” Tim shook his head.

  “They’ll get over it. And if they don’t, then they can fuck themselves.”

  Tim smiled at this resurgence of Ben’s teenage attitude. That’s probably what he would have said if Tim had come out way back then. His parents would have flipped out, and Tim would have come sulking to Ben, only for him to say those very words. They can fuck themselves. Then their relationship would have continued, no worse for the wear. If only Tim could have understood that back then.

  “Don’t go back to Ryan,” Ben said. “You don’t need him. Or me. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  Tim shook his head. “I’ve always needed you.”

  “You might want us, but you don’t need us. You said I bring out the best in you, but all those wonderful things were already there, even before I came along. Live for yourself, Tim. Decorate the house with your paintings. Don’t hide them away. Don’t hide yourself away, either. There’s a whole world out there waiting to see you. The real you.” Ben fumbled with his car keys, already turning to leave, but first his eyes poured over Tim with sorrow. “You’re so beautiful, and I don’t just mean your face or your body.”

  “Don’t go,” Tim pleaded.

  Ben shook his head and walked away, slowly. Tim could leap to his feet, could spin him around and kiss him and tell him he had to stay. And maybe Ben would for the night, or maybe even a day or two. But eventually he would remember Jace, and his heart would break with what he had done. So Tim remained seated and watched Ben open his car door, pausing with his hand on the doorframe.

  “Until next time?” Ben said.

  Tim laughed, wiping away the tears in his eyes. “Until next time.”

  __________

  Part Five:

  Austin, 2008

  __________

  Chapter Thirty-three

  So much of attraction depended on balance. Not too skinny, not too fat. Not too young, not too old. Everyone had a different definition of the porridge that was juuust right. Tim was currently trying to find the perfect balance of scent. Cologne should be strong enough to be noticed, but not strong enough to make the eyes water. How many sprays was that exactly? Two? Three?

  The balancing game continued. Stylishly messy hair sounded easy, but was found only in a narrow range between careless and completely crazy. And of course the old battle between overdressed and too casual waged on. Tim had opted for a dress shirt to go with his jeans before deciding this was trying too hard. Anything could happen when his guest arrived. Of course if the news was bad, all of this was superficial.

  Giving up on his appearance, Tim walked through the house, Chinchilla following dutifully behind as he inspected everything. Kitchen counters cleared? Check. Scented candles in the living room lit? Check. Big fat guy sipping champagne on the couch? Check.… God damn it! Not now!

  “What are you doing here?” Tim demanded.

  “I keep showing up,” Marcello said, “and you keep asking why. Thus our dance goes on.”

  “Seriously,” Tim said, wiping a ring of condensation off the coffee table. “This isn’t the best time.”

  Marcello’s crow’s feet crinkled. “I haven’t seen you this nervous in quite some time. He must be quite the looker. What’s the lucky guy’s name?”

  “Allison,” Tim huffed.

  Marcello stuck out his bottom lip and shrugged. “Always try new things, I suppose.”

  “It’s not a date. You remember Allison. You met her at that grill party a few years ago.”

  “Grill party?”

  “Yeah. Afterwards you said you’d been to children’s birthday parties with more debauchery.”

  “It’s true!” Marcello chuckled. “I remember now. She’s the pretty black woman who sang with Ben. Why is she coming over?”

  “I wish I knew. She called me yesterday and said she wanted to talk in person.”

  “Probably needs money,” Marcello said, pantomiming a yawn.

  “I don’t think so.” Tim felt his pulse pick up. “I bet it has something to do with Ben. Anyway, I need you out of here. Go on! You can take the bottle with you.”

  “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Marcello said. “I’ll make it quick. You know we have the gallery opening in two weeks.”

  It had taken ages to find an available downtown spot with all the right elements. Location, parking, lighting, wall space—and most of all—price. Finally, Tim had found someone sympathetic to their cause. The Eric Conroy Foundation would have its gallery, but it wasn’t opening as soon as Marcello thought.

  “Four weeks,” Tim corrected.

  “Ah, but the space will be ready in two, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste just because that Belgium artist is on holiday.”

  Tim checked his watch pointedly.

  Marcello continued unabashed. “You’re supposed to point out that we have nothing to exhibit. Well, I was thinking that painting you did of Eric would be a perfect piece to hang in the gallery.”

  Tim stared at him. “It’s in my bedroom.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “No, I mean, how the hell did you see that painting? Do you snoop around my bedroom when I’m not home?”

  “What else am I supposed to do with my free time?” Marcello said. “You have a gift, Tim. Eric raved about your talent, and the few paintings you’ve allowed me to see left me thoroughly im
pressed.”

  Tim’s face flushed. “Thanks, but I’m still changing the locks on the doors.”

  “I’ll find an open window,” Marcello assured him. “Anyway, instead of boring empty walls, why not exhibit your best paintings? You’ve worked hard for the foundation. Treat yourself.”

  “It’s a little self-indulgent,” Tim said.

  “You’ve worked hard,” Marcello repeated. “And it would make Eric proud.”

  And Ben, if he ever found out. “I’ll think about it. Now get out of here, you old windbag.”

  “Old?” Marcello said as if offended, but he smiled and took his leave.

  Tim was watching Marcello drive away when Allison arrived. Her hair style might be different and her clothes more respectable, but the expressive eyes and wide smile made her instantly recognizable. She sized him up on her way up the walk, nodding in approval.

  “You look good!”

  “Thanks.” Tim grinned. “You too.”

  “No, I mean really good! Last time you were so frumpy and scruffy.”

  “Thanks,” Tim said a little more firmly. “I’ve been working out. Uh, come on in.”

  He led her to the living room, desperate to confront her in the hallway and demand to know if Ben was all right. Once seated, she mercifully turned down the offer of a drink, and Tim could hold back no longer.

  “How is he?”

  Allison did one of those slow, bobbing nods, like she wasn’t quite sure of the right answer. “He’s fine.” Then she sighed. “Can’t we do small talk first?”

  “You’re killing me,” Tim said, taking a seat himself.

  “Okay.” Allison took a deep breath. “Jace passed away.”

  “What? How?”

  “Aneurysm.” Suddenly Allison looked much older. “We had a bad scare but they caught it in time. He made it through one surgery and things were looking hopeful—” She shook her head, unable to continue.

  Tim’s stomach sank. “I’m sorry. Ben must be in terrible shape.”

  “He’s doing better,” Allison said. “It’s been a couple of years now.”

  “Since Jace died?”

  Allison nodded.

  Tim felt dizzy trying to consider all the implications. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I didn’t want you to… Never mind, it’s not important.”

  “What? Say it.”

  Allison looked at him squarely. “I didn’t want you to think it was convenient.”

  “It’s not convenient.” Tim felt his temper rising. “When it happens to you, when someone you love is suddenly taken away, it’s never convenient. When Eric died—” Tim shook his head. “Part of you dies along with them. That’s what it feels like.”

  “Sorry,” Allison said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Tim sighed. “It’s okay. I’m not upset at you. I just hate thinking of what Ben must have gone through—is still going through.”

  “He’s doing better.” Allison bit her lower lip before continuing. “These days when you mention Jace, he smiles. I think he’s over the grieving as much as anyone can be. But he’s lonely. I know he is. All he does is work.”

  Tim could relate.

  “He never goes out or talks about meeting anyone.” Allison raised her eyes. “Except you. Sometimes he still talks about you.”

  “I’m here,” Tim said without hesitation. “If he needs a shoulder to cry on, I’m always here.”

  “He’s done enough crying for a lifetime,” Allison said. “Do you still love him? I mean really really love him.”

  Tim didn’t hesitate. “More than anyone in my entire life.”

  Allison nodded. “Then maybe you should get me that drink. We have a lot to discuss.”

  * * * * *

  The Eric Conroy Gallery, located on Second Street, was the ideal space for exhibiting art. Long narrow rooms—barely more than hallways—lined three sides of a big space perfect for sculpture or installations. The previous tenant had used the biggest room to sell designer shoes and the narrow rooms for inventory. The layout would have been a nightmare for most other retail stores. Tim had discovered the location after the shoe store went bust, but the rent was too expensive, so he turned it down. After half a year on the market, the owner called, eager for Tim to take the property at a reduced price.

  With weeks of renovation complete, the former shoe store had been transformed into the perfect blank canvas. Neutral white walls and track lighting guaranteed the art would pop. They even pulled up the cheap carpeting and brought the wooden floors underneath back to life. Tim had worked alongside the contractors, leaving nothing to chance.

  So when Marcello suggested not letting that extra week or two go to waste, Tim would have agreed simply to show the public how beautiful the gallery turned out, even if his paintings weren’t on display. But Allison thought it had romantic potential.

  Romantic! What a cheesy, stupid word. Tim scarcely believed romance could be part of his life again. As opening day neared, he began to have serious doubts. Not about his own feelings. He wanted to see Ben again more than anything. But he was scared of what losing a spouse could do to a person. Maybe Ben would look right through him, thinking only of Jace.

  Tim was willing to risk it one more time. Hell, he’d try a million more times, if that’s what it took. He worked hard at making his first exhibition the right place for them to meet again. He was opening his life to the world, so he didn’t choose just his best work. He chose paintings from every stage of his life, even childhood. This meant putting some very humble pieces on display. Somehow this felt more honest and less pompous.

  Tim managed most aspects of the Eric Conroy Foundation now, but publicity for the gallery opening he left to Marcello and his expertise. Aside from begging him not to use shirtless cocktail waiters, Tim had complete faith in his abilities.

  The big night came all too soon. The gallery preparations were enough to occupy his time, but Tim had also been busy finishing a new painting. He barely completed it in time to hand over to Allison. Now it was all up to her, because Tim found himself waiting in a near-empty gallery as the sun began to set. Opening night. What would people think? Would they sneer at his art, turn up their noses and walk away? Even worse, what if they laughed at his efforts? Or didn’t show up?

  The gallery’s first visitors were an elderly couple. Tim kept his distance, watching them move from painting to painting before his curiosity got the better of him. Approaching them, he introduced himself and was rewarded with compliments. The old man’s father had been a painter, and some of Tim’s work brought back happy memories. While Tim was talking with them, more people came in. Before long, visitors were coming and going from the gallery in a steady stream. Some left unchanged by the experience, but others stuck around, honoring Tim with their time and questions.

  “It’s past eight,” Marcello said, sidling up to him. “You were supposed to give a speech at seven.”

  Was it so late already? Tim glanced around the gallery. Still no sign of Ben and Allison. Maybe she had told Ben their plan and he had declined.

  “Speech,” Marcello prompted.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m coming.”

  Tim made his way to the main room, checking each face in the crowd but not finding the one he wanted to see most. The larger space was much easier to navigate, since nothing was installed in the center of the room yet. Tim went to a microphone and small amplifier that waited for him next to the free drinks. That would keep the attention on him, even if people were just waiting for him to get out of the way.

  Tim picked up the microphone, wondering how to capture everyone’s attention and opted for a classic. “Is this thing on?” Horrible reverb shot from the speakers and crawled up dozens of spines. That did it! Every head turn toward him.

  “Whoa! Too loud. Sorry.” Tim adjusted the amp volume and grinned sheepishly at the crowd gathering in front of him. “Uh, I’m really glad you all decided to be here. I’m not really good a
t speeches, so bear with me.”

  A burble of laughter came from the crowd, thanks mostly to the free champagne.

  “The art you see here is about twenty years in the making. I’m sure most of you have seen my crowning achievement, ‘Frog Goes Sailing on Boat’?” Another round of laughter. Hey, this wasn’t so hard! “That’s from when I was eight and is the first painting I ever did.”

  Tim searched the crowd. If Ben was here, wouldn’t he be right up front?

  “I owe this art to a lot of people. The subjects in each piece, of course. My dog Chinchilla, or Eric, who was a father, a hero, and much more to me. Even strangers, like the old woman I saw lying in the grass at the park, staring up at the clouds and giggling like a little girl at what she saw there.”

  Tim licked his lips, eyes sweeping the crowd once more. No Ben. Well, if he was here, Tim could only hope he was listening.

  “So many people have inspired me, but only one gave me the courage to show my paintings to other people. I hope he’s here somewhere tonight, and as I finish this clumsy speech, I’d like you all to clap for him, not for me. Thank you, most of all, to Benjamin Bentley.”

  The resulting applause was impressive. Tim turned off the amp and gave an awkward little bow. The room began to clear, but some visitors remained behind to speak with him, asking him about certain paintings or even prices. The attention was wonderful. Why had he fought against this for so long? But as good as it felt, Tim kept searching the room, kept hoping. Then, in the center where a sculpture or some other work of art should be, was the ultimate masterpiece.

  Ben looked small and uncertain, but still very much himself.

  Tim ran to him and scooped him up in his arms, spinning him around. “I’m so glad you’re here!” Tim set him down reluctantly. He could have run off into the night with him. Soon enough… “And even more glad that you’re late! I just gave the most embarrassing speech!”

  “I thought it was really good,” Ben said with a hint of mischief.

  Tim felt his face flush, but this was all positive. Ben wasn’t broken or morose. A little more reserved, maybe, but still his Benjamin. And he was here! “I thought for a second that Allison had changed her mind,” Tim said.