Page 18 of Keep

The baseball cap from Tuesday night remained in his car. Chad’s assessment had stung a little, probably because it was accurate. He wasn’t trying to look straight, though. He was trying to be invisible.

Tonight, he wanted to be seen. At least by Chad.

He checked his reflection one more time in the rearview mirror, ran a hand through his hair—God, when had it gotten so gray at the temples?—and got out of the car.

The building had a simple intercom system. He found 2B and pressed the button.

A crackling voice came through, too distorted to identify. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Hank. I’m here for Chad.”

The door buzzed. Hank pulled it open and climbed two flights of stairs, his heart rate climbing with each step. Not from exertion, but from anticipation.

You’re forty years old. Get it together.

But his hands were sweating when he knocked on apartment 2B.

The door swung open to reveal a shirtless man with warm brown skin and dark eyes that were currently appraising Hank with undisguised interest. His dark hair was styled in an elaborate pompadour, and his smile suggested he was in on a joke Hank hadn’t heard yet.

Not Chad.

“You must be Hank.” The young man leaned against the doorframe, making no move to step aside. “Come on in. I’m Ricky.”

Hank reflexively extended his hand, suddenly hyperaware of every feature of his own face—the face that occasionally got recognized in airports, in restaurants, by Georgia constituents visiting DC.

Relax. This is Chad’s roommate, not a reporter.

“Yes. Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The words came out more formal than he’d intended, his nerves betraying him.

Ricky’s grip was firm, his smile widening as he finally stepped back to let Hank inside. “Chad said you were adorable. He undersold it.”

Heat flooded Hank’s face. He was blushing like a schoolboy, and he knew it, which only made it worse.

The apartment was small but tidy—a living room with a worn couch and a television, a galley kitchen visible beyond, two doors that presumably led to bedrooms. Posters on the walls, a bookshelf crammed with textbooks, and what looked like art supplies. It smelled like coffee and something cooking—garlic, maybe, and cumin.

He’s twenty-three and in school. Of course, he has a roommate.

Hank’s mind performed a dizzying time jump—twenty years backward to his own college apartment in Athens. The perpetually overflowing trash can, the couch they’d found on the curb. Late nights studying, early mornings nursing hangovers. He’d shared that space with three other guys, none of whom he’d kept in touch with after graduation—after Hank had carefully and deliberately constructed a life that kept him at a safe distance from certain feelings.

“Chad!” Ricky called toward the hallway. “Your beef is here!”

A muffled voice came back: “Two minutes!”

Ricky turned back to Hank, arms crossed over his bare chest. “He’s been getting ready for an hour. You’d think he was meeting the Pope.”

“I hope I’m not that intimidating.”

“Honey, you’re exactly that intimidating.” Ricky’s gaze traveled slowly from Hank’s face down to his shoes and back up. “Look at you. All tall and handsome and pressed. Like someone ironed you before you left the house.”

Hank glanced down at his button-down, suddenly self-conscious. “Is that bad?”

“It’s delicious. You’re like beef and broccoli—nutritious and satisfying.” Ricky’s grin turned wicked. “No wonder Chad broke his rule for you.”

Before Hank could formulate a response, Chad emerged from a hallway on the left, pulling a fitted gray t-shirt over his head. For a brief, glorious moment, Hank caught a glimpse of smooth skin, the lean muscles of his abdomen, the tribal tattoo curving over his left shoulder, and the trail of light hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

Then the shirt was down, and Chad was grinning at him, hair slightly damp, smelling like soap and something citrus.

“Ricky, stop traumatizing my date.”