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Maybe I could still have it, if I wanted it.
“I haven’t seen that one,” Devon mused in my ear. “I don’t pay attention. I probably look like an asshole.”
“You look like the hottest man who’s ever worn a suit,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I could think them. I was still staring at the picture, and it was making me feel possessive. Crazy possessive.
He laughed, the sound echoing straight down between my legs. “I’ll remember to wear a suit more often when you’re around.”
“About that,” I said. “About me being around. I’m working on something.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“Mom had my old art projects stored in her spare room,” I said. “Including the final project I did before I failed out of school.”
“You mean the photos you took and painted over.”
He remembered. “Yeah, those. It’s been a while since I looked at them. I thought I’d hate them if I looked at them now. But I pulled them out, and I realized I still like them. A lot.”
“That’s good,” he said.
“It is. I realize now that dropping out of school made me lose all my confidence. It made me give up on my art, and I didn’t have a reason to. My art is what makes me happy. So why would I ever give up on that?”
He was quiet, listening.
“And so I went online,” I continued, letting the words gush out, “and there’s a gallery on Market Street. Just a small one. And they had a listing for an open job as the head of their graphic design department. So I applied.”
“All right,” he said. “So what are you going to do when they hire you? Because of course they’re going to fucking hire you.”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “They haven’t even called me yet. But I just think—even if this doesn’t pan out, I’m going to keep trying. I’m going to find work that makes me happy, even if it takes some time. This time I’m not going to settle.”
“Don’t settle,” he said. “Not ever.”
I pressed my fingertips against my mouth. I heard the front door open—Mom was home from her grocery run. I couldn’t have this conversation with her in the room. “I have to go,” I said.
“We’ll talk,” Devon said. And then he hung up.
Late that night, I texted him. I was alone in bed in my mom’s spare room, the sheets cool against my skin. I couldn’t get the news story out of my mind—that boat, full of drugs, floating in the harbor for the cops to find. I have work to do, Devon had said when he’d left that morning. I hadn’t known what he had in mind. I hadn’t even been able to imagine it. It had been unsettling and thrilling at the same time, that I had no idea what the man I was in love with was about to do. And I had run from the feeling—from the fear it gave me, but also from the excitement it gave me. The feeling like I was on a roller coaster that was going over the top.
I’d thought maybe he would beat someone up. Instead, he had somehow sent that boat floating in the harbor so he could take down almost every drug dealer in San Francisco in one perfect cut. He was amazing. He was fearless.
Still, guilt wracked me. I have a question, I wrote him.
His reply was immediate. What is it?
I licked my lip. Why did you do it?
Why do you think? he wrote.
I blew out a breath. He couldn’t have just done it for me. You could have been arrested. Killed.
The dots moved on my phone. Both true.
He wasn’t getting it. How much did it cost you? I asked.
Whatever the price was to keep you safe, he answered.
I rolled on to my back. I was here in LA, and he was in San Francisco. A situation of my own making.
I’d needed space, time to think. Time to heal from my wounds, and time to rearrange things in my head. All of that was true.
