Page 47 of Keep

“Hank.”

“I look the same.”

“No, you don’t.” She took Owen from him and balanced the boy on her hip, still studying him. “Come inside. Lowell’s finishing something in the barn. I made pimento cheese.”

“You made pimento cheese?”

“It’s cheese and mayonnaise, not a declaration of love. Don’t get sentimental.” But she was smiling, and Hank followed her inside, feeling oddly transparent.

She always could see through you. That was the problem, and the gift.

The kitchen was cluttered in the way of houses with toddlers—Owen’s artwork magnetized to the refrigerator, a basket of toys in the corner that had clearly migrated from its designated territory. Owen made a beeline for the basket and settled in with a plastic stegosaurus, narrating an elaborate scenario that seemed to involve the dinosaur going grocery shopping.

Shelby handed him a Sweetwater 420 without asking.

“It’s barely noon,” Hank said, taking it.

“Noted.” She took one for herself and dropped into the chair across from him. “So. I have heard about this person—Chad—exactly once, over the phone, with approximately zero usable details. You gave me a briefing memo, Hank—name, age, occupation—like you were staffing a committee. I need actual information. What does he look like?”

Hank turned the bottle in his hands. “He’s... young.”

“You mentioned. With a tone of voice that suggested you were turning yourself in.”

“Blond. Blue eyes. About six feet. Lean.” He stopped, aware that he was listing physical attributes like a police report. “He’s an art student. Senior at GW. Corcoran. He paints—actually paints, Shelby. He’s talented. There’s this piece he did, abstract, two figures—First Kiss. He let me have it.” The painting was back in DC, propped against the wall of his apartment, waiting. Chad had said a couple of weeks for the varnish to cure before he’d hang it. Hank had caught himself checking the wall for it every morning anyway, as though it might appear on its own.

“He let you have it?” Shelby’s eyebrow went up. “A painting?”

“I offered to buy it. He said I could just have it.” Hank heard how that sounded. “Don’t read into it.”

“I am absolutely reading into it.”

“He works at a bar in Dupont Circle. Bartends to pay for school.” He took a pull of his beer. “He’s been hurt before. An ex with substance problems. Another situation that went badly. He has reasons to be cautious, and he’s giving me a chance anyway, and I’m—” He stopped. Studied the beer label.

“You’re what?”

“Trying very hard not to mess it up.”

Shelby watched him with something he could read perfectly but didn’t want to name.

“And the physical part?” she said. “The thing you were terrified about? How did that go?”

Heat crept up his neck. “It went well.”

“Well. Again, you sound like you’re reviewing a committee hearing.”

“It went... very well.”

“Henry Fortner.” She leaned forward, eyes alight. “You are blushing.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“You are crimson.” She pointed at the counter. “You are the color of that tomato.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“No. We cannot.”

Hank rubbed the back of his neck. This was Shelby. She’d seen him through everything—the stilted intimacy during their marriage that had confused them both, the midnight phone calls after the divorce when the loneliness was a physical weight, the afternoon two years ago when he’d sat in this same kitchen and finally said the word gay out loud. She had earned this.