Page 25 of Keep

Once she was gone, Hank leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Peanut Butter Bacon Burger? I may have to steal a bite.”

“I intend to share. But only because I want a taste of your meatloaf.”

“You make it sound so provocative.”

“It was my competing entrée selection.”

“Then you may have some of mine with pleasure, my dear.”

Chad grinned. The formal phrasing should have sounded stuffy, but coming from Hank, it was almost courtly. “You really are a Southern gentleman.”

“Are you referring to my manners or my accent?”

“Both.”

Hank accepted the water glass Marsha set down. “My mother taught me manners. Can’t really help the way I talk, though.” He took a sip. “But we’re in the South, remember? DC is such a transient city—people tend to forget it’s Southern, with regard to the Mason-Dixon line. Northern Virginia seems to believe the South begins somewhere around Richmond.”

“Or west of Vienna,” Chad said. “Manassas—or Manasshole, as I like to call it—is definitely the South. Every corner has a commemorative plaque about some Civil War general or battlefield.”

Hank’s expression softened. “Yeah. It’s a wonderful country, but it has its closets too. Full of skeletons.”

The metaphor wasn’t lost on Chad. He took a sip of water, turning his glass on the tabletop.

Here we go. Into it.

“My mother’s still there,” he said. “In Manassas. We don’t talk much. She’s—” He reached for the right word and came up short. “Religious.”

“And your father?”

“Never knew him. Celia—my mother—was wayward in her youth.” He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, the sarcasm sharpening it into something that almost passed for casual. “She had me, then found religion as a means of—salvation? Unfortunately, it was one of those religions that tends to focus more on sin and sodomy. You know. Abominations and all that jazz.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“A lot less of that, actually.”

Hank shook his head. “I’m not religious at all. My mother would probably be rolling in her grave at my mention of it.” His fingers traced patterns in the condensation on his water glass. “It’s just—I see too much of the money and politics behind that stuff to put any faith in it. I feel more connected—or spiritual, if you will—listening to Beethoven or Brubeck.”

“Same.” Chad leaned back in his chair. “I mean, I don’t know those composers the way you do, but art in general is where I feel my place in this world.”

Hank reached across the table and squeezed Chad’s hand—brief, grounding. “Well. We have something in common.”

Marsha returned with the appetizers, setting the dishes in the center of the table along with small plates. Neither of them reached for the plates. Instead, they ate from the communal dishes, forks crossing, sharing bites, the accidental knuckle-brush and eye contact that held a beat too long.

The loaded tater tots were obscenely good. Crispy potatoes drowning in cheese, bacon, sour cream, and chives. The deviled eggs were creamy and tangy with just enough paprika. The fried cauliflower was perfectly seasoned.

“Oh my God,” Chad said around a mouthful of tater tots. “This is dangerous.”

“Right?” Hank speared a piece of cauliflower. “I’m going to have to walk home to work this off.”

“You live near here?”

“Not too far. Capitol Hill area.” Hank paused, and Chad caught the slight tension in his shoulders—a shift, barely perceptible, the kind of thing you learned to read after three years behind a bar. “As far as the South and those plaques you mentioned—relics, rebel flags, and whatnot—Georgia’s the same. Some people can’t let go of the past, even a shameful one. Personally, I like it here. It’s very diverse, a wonderful mix of culture. I’m considering relocating here once I⁠—”

He stopped. Like a door slamming.

Chad set his fork down. “Wait. I thought you lived here.”

“I, uh—didn’t I tell you I still have a home in Georgia? And a place here? I work here, but sometimes I go home on weekends.”