“I want you to be happy,” Blake said simply. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Andre’s forehead. Andre closed his eyes, leaning into the touch, letting the warmth of Blake’s hands seep into his skin. They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound in the room the distant hum of traffic from the street below.
Later, after Blake had fallen asleep, his breathing deep and even in the quiet bedroom, Andre slipped out from under the covers.
He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, and walked out into the cool London night. The studio on The Cut was a fifteen-minute walk, the streets quiet and empty at this hour, the air smelling of damp pavement and the river.
He let himself in, flicked on the single overhead lamp, and stood in front of the large canvas. The fierce green, the bruised purple. It was chaotic, unresolved, full of conflicting energy.
He picked up a brush, dipped it in turpentine, and began to paint. He worked for hours, the silence of the studio wrapping around him, the agitation in his chest slowly bleeding out onto the canvas, stroke by stroke, until the sky outside the high windows began to turn the color of ash.
Chapter six
Greenwich
The call came three days after Wimbledon ended.
Blake had reached the quarterfinals, losing a tight four-set match to the eventual champion. He was resting, letting his body recover before the transition to the European clay for the Hamburg Open, when his phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.
The caller ID readLydia Harlan.
Blake stared at the screen for a long moment. His mother rarely called. When she did, it was usually to pass along a message from his father, or to inform him of a social obligation he was expected to ignore but acknowledge.
He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Blake,” Lydia said. Her voice was tight, the usual polished veneer stripped away, leaving something brittle and thin underneath. “It’s my mother—”
Blake felt a sudden, cold weight settle in his stomach. “What happened?”
“Grandma passed away this morning. A stroke. It was very fast, darling. She didn’t suffer.”
Blake's grandmother had been the only person in the Harlan family who had ever looked at Blake and seen a boy instead of an investment. She had smelled of peppermint and old paper, and she had secretly fed him sugar cookies when his father’s nutritionist wasn’t looking.
“I’m coming home,” Blake said immediately.
“The funeral is on Thursday. At Christ Church. Eleven o’clock.” Lydia paused, the silence stretching across the Atlantic. “Your father… he knows you’ll be there. He won’t cause a scene.”
“I’m not worried about a scene, Mom. I’m coming for Grandma.”
When he hung up, Andre was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a smudge of cobalt blue on his jaw, his expression concerned. “What is it?” Andre asked.
“My grandmother died,” Blake said, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. “I have to go to Connecticut.”
Andre crossed the room immediately, wrapping his arms around Blake, pulling him against his chest. Blake buried his face in Andre’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of cedar and soap, letting the shock wash over him.
“Mon coeur,” Andre whispered against his hair. “Je suis là.” I am here. “I will come with you,mon ange,” Andre said, his fingers combing gently through Blake’s hair. “I will pack my bag now.”
“No,” Blake said, pulling back slightly. “No,Andre. You can’t.”
“Why not? You should not do this alone.”
Blake sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. “Because my father will be there. He hasn’t spoken to me in over three years. If you come, he’ll make it about us. He’ll make it ugly, and I won’t let him do that at my grandmother’s funeral.” He paused, looking at Andre with a steadier expression. “And you have the Whitfield deadline. Fifteen pieces by September, Andre. You can’t lose a week flying to Connecticut.”
Andre’s jaw tightened. He wanted to argue — wanted to say that no deadline mattered more than being beside Blake when he was hurting. But he could see the quiet, immovable certainty in Blake’s eyes. This wasn’t a negotiation.
“Okay. If that is what you want. But you will call me. Every day.”
“Every day,” Blake promised.
