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He snorts. “My ‘whatever’ …?”
“Your summer show thing, your school thing. I’ll be your muse guy, Quin. I mean, I already am, right?”
“I can do something else if it makes you weirded out. It’s fine, really, no pressure. I was just asking if—”
I reach over the table and take his hand.
He shuts up and stares at me.
“I want to be your muse.”
I see peace in Quintin’s eyes. He looks relieved and stunned speechless at the same time.
“Also,” I go on, “you don’t have to turn everything into a gym metaphor for me to understand. I get the bird thing. You’re basically saying that your work likes to shit on cars in parking lots.”
He cracks a smile. “Yeah, that’s it. Exactly.”
“See?” I run my thumb over his hand soothingly. “You don’t have to be afraid. I can keep up with your artiness. I think it’s amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d love to see what you’ve painted of me sometime.”
That’s when the fingers of his free hand start to drum along the menu. His foot starts to bounce in place under the table, too, though I’m not sure if it’s like a dog wagging his tail or a cat twitching his irritably.
“Maybe,” he says.
I frown. “Maybe?”
“I don’t like showing off my work like that.”
I lean forward. “Ooh … is someone getting shy now? That’s adorable.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
“There’s nothing to get all shy about. Besides, you’re an artist. Isn’t the whole point to show off your work and let others see it and get all moved and emotional?”
He snorts and tosses his menu aside. “I’ll let you see something when it’s ready, alright? No sooner.”
“Hmm.” I keep stroking his hand. “Am I the first nude you ever drew?”
“Nope. We did them in school. Nude model.”
Now that surprises me. I lurch forward. “Really? Okay, now I know you’re shitting me.”
“Nope.”
“How did you not pop a boner in the middle of class?”
“Because there’s more in the world than just muscles, pretty boys, and sex,” he answers somewhat tersely.
I love holding his hand. “Yeah? Enlighten me.”
“Enlighten you?”
“What else is in your world, Quin? Tell me everything. How does the world look like through your eyes?”
He gazes down at our hands, gnawing on his lip for a moment. “It looks … funny, I guess.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah, funny. Full of humor and irony and silliness.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at the pair of us now,” he says. “You’re … obviously a certain type of guy who can get anyone you want. Snap your fingers and every single guy on this island would be at your feet. One of them almost was the night of that pajama party.”
I’m not sure how to take that. “I’m … ‘a certain type of guy’ …?”
“And instead, you went home with me,” he says, “a very different type of guy you had no chance in hell of getting into bed with.”
“You need a different choice of words there, since getting into bed with each other is exactly what we did that first night.”
“We were on the bed, technically, not in it. And also you know exactly what I meant. You had no chance in hell of having sex with me, and vice versa.”
“Not no chance, apparently,” I murmur.
Just then, our sassy server returns, and we put in our orders. After she saunters away with our menus, Quintin and I stare at each other from across the table. I can’t help but wonder what the hell is going on in his mind.
“Are you okay?” I finally ask.
“Yeah,” he answers. “Why?”
“I just …” I shrug. “I’ve gotten a strange feeling from you ever since I picked you up yesterday. I don’t want to go prying,” I insist, spreading my hands. “It’s just that you are important to me, and I—”
“I am?”
That stops me. “Important to me? Yeah, of course.”
“How important?”
Is this what’s got him acting weird? Insecurity? “I … I don’t want to spend my day with anyone on this island but you. I love the time we spend together. You’re as important as the word means. Important. Really damned important.”
He makes an uncertain face, like his eyes and lips are squirming somehow. He doesn’t respond.
I sigh. “What is it?” I ask him, for a second losing my grip. “You don’t believe I care about you? Are you still bothered I didn’t answer right away about being your muse guy? I was just taken aback. Surprised. It didn’t mean I—”
“It’s my dad. He wants to pull me from the program. He wants me to go back home.”
That shuts me up.
That shuts me right up, completely, fully, utterly.
“Like, home-home,” Quin goes on. “That puts me … at approximately not just a simple ride down the causeway from you. He wants me to be my brother.” He drops his gaze to the table. “He wants me to be something I will never measure up to. I’m … just going to be a big, huge disappointment, rest of my little life.”
