Page 87 of Keep

He stared at the ceiling. His apartment was dark except for the light above the stove. Across the room, the painting was barely visible—just a shape on the wall. He’d avoided looking at it. But he knew it was there.

There was a water ring on the coffee table. He should wipe that up. He should turn on a lamp. He should change out of this rumpled suit, or at least take off the tie he’d loosened four hours ago. He should do any number of things that a functioning adult would do when expecting company.

He didn’t move.

The buzzer sounded.

Hank was on his feet before the echo died, crossing to the intercom and pressing the button. “Come up.” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. “I mean—yes. Come up.”

The elevator was slow. He stood in his doorway, hand on the knob, counting seconds.

Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

The elevator chimed.

Footsteps.

And then Chad was there.

His blond hair was dark with rain, plastered to his forehead. His jacket was spotted with water. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“Hi,” Chad said.

“Hi.” Hank heard himself and tried to assemble something more coherent. “You’re wet. From the rain. Obviously, from the—come in. There are towels. Or bourbon. I have bourbon.”

Chad’s mouth twitched. “Bourbon sounds good.”

“Right. Yes. Bourbon.” Hank stepped back, and Chad walked past him into the apartment.

Chad stopped a few feet inside. He was looking at the wall.

Hank watched him. In the dim light from the stove, the painting was all shadow and suggestion—the shapes softer than in daylight, the colors muted to gray. Chad stood there for a long moment, not speaking.

Then he turned.

“You kept it there,” he said.

“Where else would I keep it?”

Chad shrugged. Smiled.

“Bourbon,” Hank said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “Sit down. Please.”

He poured two glasses of Maker’s Mark and brought them to the couch. Chad had sat on one end, jacket still on, hands pressed between his knees. Hank sat on the other end.

“Thank you.” Chad took the glass but didn’t drink. “Hank, I⁠—”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“Let me.” Sharper than Hank had expected. Chad winced. “Sorry. I just—I need to say this, and if you’re nice to me right now I’m going to fall apart, and I’d rather fall apart after I’ve explained why I’m a complete asshole.”

Hank closed his mouth. Waited.

Chad stood, restless, taking a few steps and then turning. “I saw the photograph, and I panicked. You’ve spent your whole career building something. And I’m just an art student with questionable judgment and nothing to offer except—” He stopped. Tried again. “I thought if I disappeared, maybe you could fix it. That I was the liability.”

The words settled between them.

“You stopped answering,” Hank said quietly. “For nine days. I called, and you didn’t—” He shook his head. “I didn’t know if you were okay. I didn’t know if you’d decided I wasn’t worth⁠—”