“I remember that about you, I think. Hedonist.”
“Says the man in the thousand-dollar suit.”
I chuckle. “Usually at least two.”
He tsks and sets our food on the counter. “Really, I’m nothing. Grew up Catholic.”
“Are you agnostic now?”
He gives me a big grin, clearly getting a kick out of this. “If I say I am, are you gonna make me say Hail Marys?”
“Nah, but I might baptize you in the shower next time.” My poker face is really good. His face stays neutral, but his brows bend, and I realize he’s not sure if I’m kidding.
I laugh, shaking my head. “No.”
“Sorry for my potty mouth.” Now it’s my turn to wonder if he’s kidding. “Really, though,” he says. He puts one of the cardboard to-go plates into the microwave. “Does it offend you religiously, my shitty language?”
I press my lips together. “No.”
“But is it shocking?”
“Everything about you is a shock to me, Vance.”5VanceI look at him, and he looks at me. Luke McDowell—standing in the kitchen of a San Francisco townhouse with me.
We take our food upstairs and sit cross-legged on the bed facing each another. He’s everything that I remember. Beautiful body and that dazzler of a smile. The sort-of shyness—quietness.
“Was it risky for you to come here tonight?” I ask him. “How does that work?”
His mouth dimples between bites of gyro. “Wore a hoodie.”
My heart gives a hard kick. “You still have that?”
He gives me this long look, and his mouth bends down…but then he smiles and rubs his hand over my calf. “It’s downstairs.” He takes a bite and doesn’t look up from my calf, where he’s tracing a circle as he chews.
I get a big bite of briam.
“This is good shit.” His eyes flit up to mine, and he smiles. “Good stuff,” I correct. “Dammit!” That gives him a good laugh. “How the hell do you avoid those words?”
He quirks a brow up. “How do you stand up on scaffolding all day?”
“It’s your job.”
“And it’s not yours, Vance.” He gives me a kind smile—one that says he doesn’t give a shit if I curse all damn day.
“I read ‘goddamn’ is the most offensive to you mega Christians. I’ll cut that one.”
He smiles wider.
“I bought your books.”
His smile falls off. “Which ones?”
“Both the ones from your church press.”
His dimples come out for a little frown before he eats another bite.
“Not a good thing?”
“It’s okay.”
“No mixing worlds?”
He looks at his plate, then brings his gaze back up to meet mine. There’s a little notch between his brows. “Did you read them?”
“Nope. Burned ’em both.”
He looks down his nose at me.
I chuckle. “Yeah, I read them. Read them both twice. Good stuff.”
He screws his face up, like he’s not sure if he believes me. I grab his knee, squeezing as I grin and then lean in to brush a kiss over his jaw. I rub my forehead against his scruff. “You smell just the same, guy. Maybe better because now I know what’s in that head of yours, and I get what the fuss is all about.”
I lean away, and he picks at his food, avoiding my eyes.
“Oh c’mon. Embarrassed?” I tease.
He looks at me with his eyes held sort of wide, and I tug on his leg hairs. “I liked the love stuff a lot. The focus on gratitude even though you didn’t really call it gratitude. But I was highlighting the part about forgiveness.”
His mouth pulls into a thoughtful slant. “Your father?”
I let a breath out. “Yeah.”
“I met with him last year—at the Capitol. Nearly drove me crazy not to say something.”
I laugh. “Like what?”
“Like he’s making a big mistake. Like he’ll be dead one day and never get another chance to know a good man he could call his son.”
I’m struck still, like one of my marble slabs. My eyes well up because I’m fucked up from my dad, and I’m an artist so the hurty shit hurts bad, and Luke’s face is so handsome and so fucking nice.
I lean down, rubbing my forehead. “Shit, man.”
“Yeah, I didn’t tell him he’s a fool. But I thought about you after that and checked your stories from a fake account.”
I’m grinning—because suddenly I feel almost shy. “Gosh, how thoughtful of you.”
“You stopped doing stories.”
I swallow and then take a bite so I can get a second. He moves his hand off my leg, like he can tell I need it. “I stopped doing Instagram,” I say.
“Because of me?”
“That would be a little fucking stupid, wouldn’t it? Somebody who hadn’t talked to me in years…”
His shoulders rise then fall. He rubs at his neck. It’s a tell of his. I noticed on his YouTube vids the first time that I ever watched them—back in fall 2016, when I found out who he was.
He says, “I’m sorry,” at the same time I say, “The app is glitchy on my phone.”