Fix It Up (Torus Intercession 3)

“How did you know he was a doctor?”

“Because he mentioned it, like, nine times in five minutes so I’d get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why he was better than me.”

“What?”

“Just…never mind,” he murmured, smiling as he ate his cake. “Nice man,” he repeated. “That’s the kiss of death right there.”

I wasn’t about to discuss my personal life with him. “You know,” I threw out casually, “maybe you could give a free concert in the park sometime. That’d be a nice thing for the community you live in, don’t you think? Invite Stig and some of the others.”

“It would,” he agreed, staring at me.

I tipped my head at him. “So I heard you have plans for tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

“Plans,” I reminded him. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I saw on your schedule that you have a fundraiser in LA to attend.”

“Oh yeah, it’s a charity event benefitting the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”

“Is there a theme, like at the Met Gala?”

“I went to that last year.”

“I know,” I said, leaning on the kitchen counter across from him. “I saw that outfit.”

His grin fired his eyes, making them shine, and the ease on his face, in his features, in his shoulders, his whole demeanor, was something I wanted to see become a permanent thing. When he leaned over, mirroring me, resting his chin on his hand, I almost sighed, but I swallowed it down. I had never wanted to connect with anyone more in my life. I wanted a permanent truce already; I was exhausted with fighting with him. I could finally understand how annoying I’d been to be around.

“There was a cape. Did you see the cape?” he asked me.

“I did see the cape,” I said, chuckling. “I don’t know that Big Bird yellow is your color.”

“Right? This was my contention as well.”

“So this thing in LA, is it like that?”

“It’s nowhere near that upscale, but I will not be in a suit.”

“A dress?”

“Somewhere in between, I suspect.”

“A kilt?”

“That would be too easy.”

“Okay,” I said, straightening up, not wanting to push my luck. “I am looking forward to seeing whatever this entails.”

“Well, you’re going to meet some new people tomorrow.”

“I look forward to that too,” I said, levering off the counter. Before I left the room, I turned and looked back at him. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” he said, sipping the milk as he finished his cake.

Turning the corner, I had to brace my hand on the wall. Amazing that right before you completely called it quits, suddenly, right before your eyes, there was growth and change, winter giving way to spring. I so hoped it would stick this time.

Right around noon, the following day, I was watching Brent welcome Nick’s publicist and stylist to the house, along with the fleet of people that needed to dress him, do his hair, and pick out the perfect jewelry, when it struck me what I could do as an offer of good faith. It was fun to watch the whole spectacle of getting ready for an event, but more than that, I enjoyed hearing everyone gush over how good Nick looked and what amazing shape he was in.

“When did you have these highlights done?” his publicist, Cissy Markum, asked him.

“It’s just from being outside in the sun all the time,” he told her.

“Well, your hair is gorgeous,” she assured him. “It’s so thick and healthy, and your skin—Jesus, Nicky, you’re supposed to share when you find a new product.”

It was called water.

He drank so much water, and Marisol had cut all red meat from his diet, as well as pork. There was only chicken and fish for him, and vegetables, and refined sugars were few and far between, unless the person who was supposed to be looking out for you brought it back from a food truck. I realized I was not part of the solution. Between Marisol, Callie, and Felix, just shy of twelve weeks had made a huge difference in him. He’d been lucky he didn’t need to shed pounds but, instead, put them on, so that now he was basically glowing with renewed vitality.

“I do feel different,” he confessed.

“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it,” she told him, eyes wide. “I had no idea you had those abs, honey. We’re going to make sure everybody notices how good you look, and maybe get you some modeling work on top of everything else. I bet GQ or Maxim might want to do a story on you. With how great the grounds look now; they could shoot the spread right here.”

“But this is my home and––”

“Ohmygod, maybe we could get Architectural Digest out here!” she squealed excitedly.

“I don’t think––”

“Has this place always been all hidden oasis?” she asked him. “Because I don’t remember it being so beautiful.”

“Loc made some––”

“And now I kinda want to move in here. I bet everyone’s dying to come spend time with you in your creative retreat.”