see you at the end

Leander

I walk into the brick colonial that’s been in the Garrison family ever since the American Revolution.

In Northern Virginia you can’t go fifteen feet without running into a house that George Washington looked at, or walked by, or took a piss in. The Garrison house is supposedly one of them. My grandparents applied for the historic site plaque and now it’s proudly displayed at the front gate along with No Trespassing, No Soliciting, and the security company’s logo.

I find my mother—Melissa Page Garrison, Miss Virginia 2001—standing on the original wood floors, talking to the housekeeper, Florence. My mom was second runner up to Miss America and has said she’s glad she didn’t win, because she wouldn’t have met my dad and had her two wonderful boys. I’m not sure if she thinks we’re so wonderful anymore. And I don’t think she’s used that word in the same sentence as Lionel in years.

I can already see that my dad isn’t really in trouble. He’s nowhere around, likely in his office, and mom just said that to get me here. It pisses me off. I should have known. And I should have stopped off at the gallery first. Lena messaged me the other day to tell me a couple of people were interested in my painting, but no checks have been written yet. I could always make a website and sell the painting myself. Selling from a gallery just seems more legit, and maybe my parents would take it more seriously if I starting making money off my art.

And I’d be one step closer to helping Lionel get into a decent rehab.

I go into the living room, sit on the sofa, get out my phone, and wait. I consider going up to my bedroom to get some more of my clothes or take a nap, but mom soon finds me and sits across from me, poking around on her phone.

“How are you?” She says distractedly.

“I’m okay,” I say just as distractedly back.

“Listen. Your father and I need you to be here this weekend. We’re having a party for the donors.”

I look up from my phone. “Thought you said he was in trouble?”

Her thumbs move over the screen. It’s her usual thing, to have conversations with me while simultaneously doing something else. When I was a kid, she’d talk to me about my grades while doing her hair and makeup.

“He’s down in the polls this month because of that mess with Jim Webber.”

I get the eeriest of feelings. “Webber mess?”

She glances up from her phone. “Webber’s got the media in an uproar over what he said about those lesbians in Norfolk.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about. I quickly Google it on my phone. “How does that mean dad’s in trouble?”

“Your father’s approval ratings go down every time Webber does anything. He doesn’t need anything else hurting him right now.”

I find the article on Webber. Apparently, he supported a florist revoking their deal to provide flowers for a lesbian couple’s wedding. I’m not surprised. I wonder if Alex knew about it when he asked me to the damn opera.

“So, why do I need to be here?” I ask, even though I know why.

“Your father wants to introduce you to some people,” she replies slowly, trying to type at the same time.

“And he couldn’t just tell me that himself?”

She looks up at me.

“I’m not interested in meeting anybody. Is that seriously what you got me over here for?”

She sets down her phone. “Partially.” She crosses her legs, linking her fingers over one knee, looking at me until I set my phone down.

You can tell my mom was quite the beauty queen. I’ve never seen her slouch. Her hair has always been shiny and perfectly in place. People have said that Lionel and I resemble her more than dad, and if anyone was going to use this genetic advantage to further their career it was going to be Lionel. I may take after her too, but he has the brains. Or he used to.

Mom says, “I’d like for you to stop sleeping in that studio and start staying here again.”

I frown at her.

“It’s only a matter of time before the media gets a photo.” She adjusts her khaki pencil skirt delicately over her knee. “It won’t be good for your father’s image for people to see you’re staying in some…painting studio in that decrepit building in Old Town. God knows what they’ll assume, but whatever it will be, it won’t be anything good.”

I could make up some pretty good headlines easy. Senator’s son kicked out of family home? Senator Garrison’s other son living in a ‘decrepit building in Old Town’. Senator’s son seen going in and out of art building late at night - what could he be hiding?

They’ve all done the same things to Lionel. Only Lionel wasn’t exactly innocent of any wrongdoing. But that’s why I started sleeping there. To get away from all the drama. To get away from all the sappy sadness, fake concern, and weird outrage. Plus, I highly doubt any of those media people know who I am. And if anyone does, I’m not important enough to stalk.

“If anyone was that concerned over what I was doing,” I say, “then we’d have seen it in the news by now.”

She raises a perfectly threaded eyebrow. “You know as well as I do that it takes time, but sooner or later someone will see.”

“They’re too distracted with Lionel,” I mutter. And I am too, for that matter. Fucker left another weird note on my door this morning.

I’M WAITING. I WON’T MUCH LONGER.

Why in the hell does he have to be so dramatic just to get drug money?

“And I know you’re not interested in law or politics,” she continues, “but your dad would really like you to meet some of the other Senators and Representatives. It’s good to know people, Leander. Even if you don’t have the same interests.”

Sure it is.

Why doesn’t she just come right out and say it? I mean, what are second sons for if not to replace first sons when they prove to be defective or expire?

And I hate those fucking parties. I don’t want to put up with all the niceties and introductions. They bored me to tears when I was a kid, especially since dad was parading Lionel around, all gloating and grinning, and I didn’t really have anyone to talk to.

And is James “Jim” Webber not coming? Since Alex invited me to the opera and all.

I roll my eyes. Cross my arms. I act like I’m fifteen again. “I’ll go to the stupid thing. But I’m twenty years old. You can’t tell me where to sleep.”

Now it’s her turn to frown. “That’s very true. But it’s our money you’re using to pay the rent on that studio. And it’s our money that pays for your phone and your classes.”

For fuck’s sakes.

“I’ll stay here this weekend,” I say to her. “But that’s it.”

Mom glares at me.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt, “Why didn’t you come to the gallery last week?”

Her expression changes.

“You sure remember what I cost you, but you forget about the art show?”

It’s because I’m not Lionel. I almost say so, but her face looks pained. Before she can reply, Florence comes into the living room.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Garrison,” she says in her slight German accent. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a problem with one of the musicians.”

Mom turns to her. “What sort of problem?”

“The piano player you hired just phoned. It seems she has a family emergency and cannot play this weekend. She’s offered to return the entire deposit, but it’s very short notice.”

“Aren’t there lots of piano players around here?” Mom says, standing up.

“I’m sure. But it’s such short notice, ma’am.”

“I guess we’ll just have to keep looking.” She turns to me. “We’ll talk later, Leander.”

“Sure.”

I sit on the couch for another few minutes, thinking.

Then I go back to that decrepit building in Old Town.

***

On Wednesday, I get up to campus early.

Rather than doing something productive, like going into the library to study, I find myself walking in the opposite direction. I don’t have the syllabus within easy reach, but I’m pretty sure Dylan—excuse me, Mr. Atkins— has office hours right about now.

I kid myself as I walk toward the Fine Arts building in a leisurely stroll, as if I might not actually do this and I’ll just find a nook somewhere on the first floor and mess around on my phone until class time. I got an idea. I know it’s dumb, but I can’t help but keep walking right into something that may or may not just embarrass me in the end.

As I continue across campus, I get out my phone and bring up the browser. I dare myself to search Dylan Atkins. And what for? Maybe there’s a video of him playing piano. Or one of those websites that will have information about him, like his address, that I shouldn’t be looking for or even want to know.

Or maybe I’ll find something to jolt some sense into me, like a wedding announcement.

I hear someone behind me walking fast like they’re in a rush. I move to the side of the walkway to let them pass, but the hurried steps stop. I turn around. There’s no one behind me—except if you count a girl walking several yards away, talking on her phone. I look to my left and see an unoccupied bench. To my right is the parking lot. There’s literally no one around. I shake my head. Was it my conscience sneaking up on me?

When I get to Mr. Atkins’s office, he looks up from his phone in surprise. I note another button-up and khaki combination, only the button up is short-sleeved today. He really seems to like the color blue.

He smiles at me. My stomach flip-flops.

“Leander.” He sets his phone down. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a question. I take a seat. “It’s not really what you can do for me, per say.”

He looks puzzled. “Okay.”

“This is sort of weird,” I begin. “My parents are having a party this weekend and they need a piano player.” The expression on his face gets even more puzzled. “And…I mean, you play the piano, don’t you?” He’s staring at me warily, so I quickly add, “They’ll pay you, of course. I don’t know how much, but I can ask.” I get out my phone.

He holds up his hand. “Wait a second. What kind of party?”

I feel my face getting red. “A donor party.”

“Donor party?”

I feel my shoulders slump. “My dad is a, uh…senator. I kind of thought you might know that? Or figured it out from my name or something.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well anyway, it’s a party he’s throwing for his donors. My mom hired a piano player, but she apparently had something come up and they need another one. I just sort of thought you might be interested. Sorry if I’m like overstepping boundaries or whatever.”

He shakes his head. “I’m just surprised, I guess. No one has asked me to play anywhere in a long time.”

“Really?”

“I sort of got out of the habit after graduate school. What day is this, um, donor party?”

“Saturday. I think it starts around seven. I’ll have to ask my mom for all the details. I can email them to you.” I pause there, thinking about how to word my next question. “Or I can give you my mom’s number?”

“You can email me.” He glances over at his phone, then picks it up. “But, um, give me your phone number, if you don’t mind. Just in case.”

I don’t know what just in case he could mean, but I feel warm all over as I recite the numbers to him. He sends a text to my phone with a smiley face.

“I’ll need to find out if my fiancée has planned anything this weekend,” he says. “But I’ll let you know.”

“Alright,” I smile at him and get up. “See you in class.”

“See you in class.”

***

I look over my laptop at Mr. Atkins in front of the room, lecturing.

I’m just now realizing that he might meet my parents and it’s going to be embarrassing and weird. But I’m selfish. I want something to look at while I’m at this boring ass party. I should know better, though. A straight man with a fiancée and my teacher? It’s a triple whammy. The holy trinity of don’t fucking go there.

Maybe there’s a part of me that’s trying to make this difficult; trying to turn him off so I can stop thinking about him. So I can stop wondering just how insatiable he is.

But for right now, I can look.

I can look at him in front of the class, explaining the music of the High Middle Ages. The khakis are tight around his ass, and the light blue button up is tight across his chest. His biceps flex and bunch under the short sleeves when he takes his hands in and out of his pockets. People raise their hands to ask questions. He answers them. I don’t listen at all. I’m going to fail this class hard.

And then it’s like I blinked and everyone is shutting down laptops, winding up power cords, and zipping up bookbags. I slowly pack up, take my time, and wait for a middle-aged lady with anime characters all over her t-shirt to finish talking with—and flirting with—Mr. Atkins. I try not to get too jealous.

I check my phone and see two missed calls and some texts. They’re all from Lionel. I ignore them. The dickwad left another note on my door yesterday.

I CAN SEE YOU. CAN YOU SEE ME?

How fucking high was he when he wrote that?

When it’s all clear, I make my way over to Mr. Atkins. As he unhooks his laptop from the podium, one of the sleeves slips upward and I see…ink. A sharp line of black appears under the sleeve and joins another line, then disappears under the sleeve again.

“Hey, Leander,” he says.

“Hey.” I watch as he picks up his laptop and coffee mug, the sleeve shifting up further, revealing more, but still not enough for me to tell what it is. “I just wanted to say that you don’t have to play at my dad’s party thing. Like I don’t want you to feel obligated or whatever.”

“Okay,” he says, as we exit the classroom. “I don’t feel that way, though.”

“Good, because those donor parties are always lame and kind of suck.”

He laughs as he unlocks his office door and goes inside. I keep an eye on that arm, watching the sleeve pull up with his movement, but it never reveals enough. Would it be weird if I asked him about it? And if I did would he pull that sleeve up to show me? There’s perhaps an entire black-inked map under there, and he’d have to remove clothing to show me the whole thing.

My pants start to feel tight.

“Leander?”

My gaze shifts to his face.

“Did you hear me?” He says, sitting behind his desk.

“No. No, sorry.”

His left eyebrow raises slightly. “I just asked what makes the donor parties suck.”

“They just do. I’ve always had to go to them, so I’m biased I guess. They were just always super boring to me.”

He nods. “I can understand that.”

“But anyway. I just thought I’d say that. That you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

He turns to his laptop and types for a couple seconds. “Let me get back to you, all right?”

“Alright.” I decide to go before my libido and curiosity gets the better of me. “See you later.”

He looks at me, an interestingly soft light in his eyes. “See you later, Leander.”

***

Dylan

As soon as he’s gone, I do a Google search for Senator Garrison.

The first result is his website. The second one is a Wikipedia page. There are images of him on the sidebar, most of them recent and a few that look older. I bring up the Wikipedia page and read through it.

There’s mentioning of his sons with a former Miss Virginia. Leander is only mentioned once, after his older brother, Lionel. I intently read the paragraph where it mentions Lionel developed an opioid addiction and has been getting in legal trouble ever since. Most recently he was arrested for purse-snatching and avoided serving a jail sentence by promising to attend rehab. It says he checked himself out.

The rest of the results about Senator Garrison are mostly about the things he says. The controversial and obnoxious things he says. Mostly about guns, freedom, and gays. I think about that ring Leander had on his finger. Does his dad know? It seems like a bold thing to wear out in public with a senator father who has those beliefs.

I search for Lionel Garrison and there’s a list of news stories about him. In the mugshots he looks hollowed out, but I can tell he’s Leander’s brother. There’s an image of him and Leander, both of them young. Leander looks like he’s maybe thirteen or fourteen, and he’s standing slightly behind his mother and brother in what looks like one of those Hollywood pictures in front of a wall of ads. Although he’s smiling, he doesn’t look happy. Leander seems to just be there, in the background, not really wanting any attention.

I feel anxious now.

I’ve never really known anyone with their own Wikipedia page. Everyone in Leander’s family is kind of famous. He seems to be the only one that’s not.

I’ll have to talk to Brynn about doing this. I don’t always know ahead of time if she’s planned something with her parents. Aside from that, I’m not sure now. This seems…intimidating.

I pick up my phone and get ready to shoot Brynn a text but I decide I’ll just talk to her later.

***

“Hell yes! That sounds awesome!” Brynn says a little too loudly in the baking needs aisle.

I look around us and see a stocker down at the end stacking bags of chocolate chips on a shelf.

Then I look at Brynn, feeling a bit disappointed. “I think it’s just going to be me. I don’t know if I can bring a guest, and I don’t think I should ask.”

She walks ahead of me and grabs a bag of almond flour. “Could you, though? If I can go to a senator’s dinner party and get fancy food and drinks for free, then I’m going.”

I lean on the handle bar of the cart, pushing it forward. I should have just told her I was offered a piano-playing gig, I was going to do it, and left it at that. Instead, I had to ask her about our plans for the weekend and when she said, nothing, why? I didn’t need to tell her everything, because I should’ve known she’d assume that I meant to take her. I seriously doubt I’ll be able to bring a guest.

And I honestly don’t know if I want to.

“This might be a good opportunity for you too,” she says as we go over to the next aisle. “I’m sure there will be a lot of politicians there. They probably have pianos.”

“Yeah, I thought of that,” I say, pushing the cart at a leisurely pace. “I’m not really sure if I want to do it, though.”

She grabs two cans of soup off the shelf and examines each one. “Why not?”

I almost tell her about how strange it will be to be in my student’s home and meet his family, but I don’t. It’s been on the tip of my tongue since classes started to tell her about Leander. I’m sure she’d remember him from the gallery, because how could you not? How could anyone forget that face? Or that painting? They both seem eternally linked together in their beauty and complexity.

And why am I thinking this about him? A guy. My student.

“I don’t know what kind of music they’d want,” I answer Brynn, adding a bag of rice to the cart. “And the Senator is sort of…sketchy.”

“Who is he?” Brynn leads us over to the meat and seafood. Her phone chimes and she looks at it. She types out a text.

“Craig Garrison.”

She glances over at me quickly before putting her phone away. She picks up some organic chicken. “Is he that old one that’s always complaining about gay people?”

“Yeah. More or less.”

“Who invited you again?”

I hold my breath as I try to think of how to say it. There’s no reason for me to hide anything from her. There’s nothing stopping me from accepting a piano-playing gig at an event one of my students will be attending. But I still can’t tell her the whole truth.

“One of the other instructors,” I say. “He saw the piano books on the shelf in my office and asked me.”

Brynn sets down the package of chicken and picks up another one. “One of the teachers there knows a senator? That’s pretty neat.” She puts the package in the cart and walks alongside me toward the seafood. “I bet they’ll have you play classy music. Jazz or swing or something.”

“Probably. But I just like knowing ahead of time.”

Brynn’s phone pings again, and she looks at it.

“Is that the museum?” I ask her, leaning over to look at the screen.

But she turns it away from me. “No. Just Beth. You know, from the other night? She’s having some personal problems.” Brynn types on the screen and moves away from me. “Oh, the salmon’s on sale.” She darts over toward the refrigerated case when it’s my turn to get a notification. I look at my phone and my stomach flips.

It’s a text from Leander.

My parents can pay you $200/hour.

My eyes widen at the number.

“You want to get a frozen pizza to heat up when we get home?” Brynn asks, putting a couple of packages of salmon in the cart. She takes out her phone again and looks at it. “Unless you feel like cooking something, because I definitely won’t.”

“Frozen pizza’s fine,” I reply.

I look at the text again. I don’t know how long donor parties usually last, but I would assume they’d want me for at least two hours. Brynn’s job pays better than mine, but weddings are expensive. So are honeymoons. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, ready to ask him about bringing a guest.

But I look up at Brynn, walking ahead of me toward the frozen food aisle. She’s got her coppery head bent down, presumably looking at her phone.

She would be bored. She won’t know anyone. She’d probably feel a lot like I did at the art gallery the other night.

I text Leander back. I can do it. Just let me know where and when.

***

Leander

I sit in the living room, tipping my cup of merlot back and forth.

I slump down on the couch when my mom walks in, her heels making a no-nonsense click-click on the wood.

“Can you go outside and keep a lookout for that piano player?” She peeks at the clock on the mantel. “He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. I hope he won’t be a no-show.”

“He won’t be.” I say with little conviction and sip the merlot. I shudder at the dryness of it.

I was excited, and then anxious, once he said he was coming. Excited because I’ll at least have him to look at all evening long. Then anxious because he’s going to have to listen to the bullshit all evening long. He’s going to see it all live—my life. He’s bound to have done an Internet search by now and knows all about us Garrisons with our addict, wannabe artist, beauty queen, and homophobe. We should star in a reality show. But it’s just as well my sexy music teacher see it all so he can start politely avoiding me. He should. He’s as good as married, and I’m being selfish.

“Leander, go outside.” The Beauty Queen goes over to the window. “Do you have his number by chance? Sometimes Google Maps sends people the next block over.”

“I’ll text him in a minute,” I mutter.

I don’t even get to have Alex tonight as a consolation. Once I told him I was passing up the opera for this, he got kind of mad. Well, mad in his very Alex way, which just basically means he ghosted me.

Whatever.

I think I made a big mistake anyway.

“Leander! Go. Outside.”

I go outside. Party guests haven’t started arriving yet, but the other musicians have. I can hear them in the backyard, warming up. The caterers are here and a couple bartenders. I watch some of the servers pull dishes and serving ware out of the back of a van. A couple of them joke with one another as they work, all smiles, and one girl checks the alignment of her tie and vest in the side view mirror.

My head is swimming a little bit from the wine I shouldn’t be drinking. I have a strong desire to paint this scene. Maybe not exactly like this. Probably in my own way, in my own haphazard, unintelligible way, and I’d probably keep that painting for myself. I think I’d call it, prelude to a shit show.

I wander over to one of the servers, pulling a tray of uncooked croissants from the van. “Wanna trade?”

He pulls his head back slightly, his wiry brows pinching together. “I’m sorry?”

“Let’s trade.” I point to him and then to me. “I’ll serve all the stuck up twerps and you can wander around here like a useless, spoiled douche.” I raise my glass. “Deal?”

He pulls his head back even more and looks around. “Is this a prank?”

“Leander.” I hear my dad coming up behind me. “Don’t bother these people. They’re here to work.”

I turn to him. He’s all dressed up in a nice suit with a vest. He typically likes the media to catch him with his sleeves rolled up, like he’s Getting Down to Business for America. But I guess this is a special occasion. “Why do you call them these people?”

“Leander.”

“Mom wants me out here to look for the piano player.”

“Piano player?” Dad looks like he legit doesn’t know what that is.

“Mom hired a bunch of musicians. Don’t you hear them warming up?”

“I thought it was the record player.”

“Nobody plays records unless they’re hipsters.”

Dad looks grumpy. He’s got that look people retweeted and made a meme out of when he was sitting next to Kristi Avenham on the Senate floor. One of the news outlets got a picture of them listening to some filibuster bullshit. Dad was glaring over the frames of his glasses perched on the end of his nose, frowning like a grumpy toad. And Kristi was next to him, wearing a wide smile, complete with dimples, looking at whoever was in front of them with great interest.

It turned into a Baby Boomer vs. Millennial thing and then Gen X vs. Gen Z thing and a then mixture of all four. Now it’s a mix of just about anything you could compare. People are really creative.

“There’s some people I want to introduce you to,” dad says curtly. He looks me over with a bit of annoyance.

I brazenly wore the Calvin Klein suit I bought at Tyson’s Corners a few months ago. It’s light pink. The silk shirt I wear under the blazer is black and I left the top four buttons undone so you can see the silver chain around my neck. If you’re really observant, you’ll see the double circles with arrows symbol on the pendant.

I wonder if Mr. Atkins will be observant.

My dad isn’t. “Branfield knows one of the staffers that helps vet all the White House interns.”

“No thanks.” I take another shuddering sip of the wine.

Dad grabs the cup from me and sniffs. “Who gave this to you?”

“Nobody.” I take the cup back, and take a big gulp and try not to gag.

“Go pour that out in the sink.” He turns to go toward the backyard gate. “I don’t need another addict son.”

“Yes, sir,” I salute him, sardonically, and wait until he’s out of sight before I take another couple of gulps. I feel a swaying, swimming bit of pleasant dizziness as I go into the kitchen.

It’s busy in there as the caterers set up and Florence directs. I dodge a couple of servers to get some ginger ale from the fridge. Down at the end of the kitchen counter I spot a bottle of bourbon.

“Don’t mind if I do,” I mutter to myself as I strategically pour some in my cup on my way outside.

As I walk out, I spot mom and dad over in front of the house, standing by the turnaround driveway. There are a couple of cars parked and a couple more pull in. Early bird guests are arriving and still no sign of our piano player.

I don’t know what kind of car Mr. Atkins drives. I should be a better infatuated stalker. I pull out my phone and see it’s twenty minutes to seven. He’s really late. I feel a ripple of worry as I sip my drink. I pull up the Metro app to see if there’s been any delays, but there are none. I wander over to my parents.

“I won’t, I won’t,” my dad is mumbling to my mom. “I’ll try not to.”

Mom sees me. “Well? Any luck?”

I pull up his name in my contacts. “I’m texting him now.” As I’m typing in a where are you message, I hear a distant female voice.

“Hi Melissa! Hi Craig!”

I look to my left and see Kristi Avenham approaching, family in tow, holding a big gift in her arms and a big dimply smile. The wrapping paper has multi-colored balloons all over it and a huge bow. Obnoxiously huge.

“What the hell is she doing here?” Dad says low enough so only mom and I hear.

“I couldn’t not invite her,” mom whispers. “It wouldn’t look right.” She pauses and says even softer, “And Meadow is about Leander’s age…”

It takes my dad a second or so to get it. “Over my dead body!”

I have a moment where I want to ask him which one he’d prefer: dudes or Kristi Avenham’s liberal daughter. I bet money his brain would short circuit.

I look up from my phone and smile at Meadow with all the suaveness I can muster, “What’s up, Meadow?” I wink at her.

She smiles and waves back. I upnod to her twin brother, Malik. He upnods back.

Kristi and her husband adopted Meadow and Malik when they were babies. And those two are freaking geniuses. They skipped a couple grades, went to Governor’s school, and now they’re high-achieving sophomores at William & Mary. They’re also applying to be Rhodes Scholars because they want to be the first pair of twins to get it. If I were into girls, Meadow would be my kind of gal. And if Malik were into dudes, he’d be my kind of guy.

Well. He might have to take second place to someone else right now.

Mom greets other party guests that walk by as Kristi and her husband, Mike, stop in front of dad. Kristi stands so close to him that her big gift keeps poking him in the chest.

“A very Happy Birthday, Craig,” she says cheerily.

Dad manages to give her a tight smile. “It’s not my birthday, Kristi. This is a party for the donors.”

“Oh,” Kristi frowns. “I could’ve sworn it said 97th birthday on the invite.” She’s speaking louder than necessary and moving closer to dad with her big gift to poke poke him each time he takes a step back. “I was telling Mike, it’s so lucky it’s such mild evening. No rain or anything. I know otherwise it would irritate your arthritis.”

“I don’t have arthritis,” Dad says through his tight smile. “As you know, us old codgers aren’t so sensitive.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Kristi says as her husband starts ushering her inside. “I was worried, you know, about your mood since I know supper time was five hours ago!”

Mike manages to get Kristi and the big gift inside right before dad hollers after her, “Yes, of course! And don’t be too disappointed that there’s no avocado toast!”

I take a sip of my drink and offer my arm to Meadow. “Good one, dad.” I lift my cup to him as I walk past him. I can hear him grumbling to mom behind us as we go inside.

“Am I going to be your beard tonight?” Meadow says lightly.

“Just this once,” I reply.

Malik appears on the other side of her. “And what am I supposed to do?”

I pretend to give this some serious thought. “Wing man?”

He laughs. “Got your eye on somebody already?”

“He’s not here yet,” I blurt out, then wince. Fuck alcohol. I take another drink.

Meadow’s eyebrows raise. “Did you invite somebody?”

I check the time on my phone again. It’s almost seven. I’m really concerned now. “Kinda sorta. Excuse me a sec.”

I unhook my arm from Meadow’s and check my texts. No reply. I’m ready to call him when I hear the music start playing inside.

And jazzy piano notes tinkling through the air.

I shove my phone in my pocket and go into the living room where I see him, Mr. Atkins, sitting at the baby grand, playing along with the other musicians. Both doors to the living room are open and so are the French doors to the patio so the music travels all through the house and outside.

I stare at the back of his head for a few seconds, stunned. Have I drank too much already? How the hell did I miss him?

I go into the living room and have seat where he can’t see me, but I can see him from the side. There’s sheet music on the stand in front of him. He glances occasionally from that to the other musicians. He’s wearing a sharp suit and a deep burgundy tie. It fits him well. There’s no chance I’ll see a peek of that tattoo, though. Regardless, my gaze travels all over him, getting as much of an eye-full as I want, while I sip my drink and tap my foot to the jazzy tune.

There’s a lot of people here now. The noise of conversation competes with the music. A few people say hello to me and smile. In a few of those smiles, I detect a glimmer of sympathy. I’m pretty sure it’s sympathy over Lionel, because that’s all anyone thinks about when they see me. My brother invades the very perceptions of me by people I barely know. I couldn’t possibly be thinking about anything else—like getting the piano player naked—besides poor, stupid Lionel. My jaw clenches, and I take a big drink.

The jazzy tune ends and people applaud. Mr. Atkins catches sight of me. He smiles at me and nods. I raise my cup to him, smile back, and finish the last my of my drink. If I were wasted, I’d probably stumble over to him and ask him to show me his tattoo.

The music starts up again, and Meadow comes over with a plate of food and a cup of soda.

She sits on the sofa next to me. “Enjoying the view?”

I shift my eyes over to her. “How did you know?”

“Know what?” She takes a bite into a bacon-wrapped fig.

I steal one from her plate. “Are you talking about someone in this room?” I take a bite and realize how hungry I am. I haven’t eaten in hours and had all that alcohol.

She gives me a funny look. “I was talking about the windows. It’s pretty out there with all the lights.”

I grab another bacon-wrapped fig from her plate as Malik comes over, taking a seat beside us.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Meadow says, smacking my hand when I try to take more food off her plate.

“What question?” I say, as I reach for Malik’s plate but he pushes my hand away.

“Were you enjoying the view of someone in this room?” Meadow smiles.

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“The piano guy?” Malik says idly in between bites.

I stiffen and feel both of their eyes on me. I see my dad coming over in my periphery.

He gives Meadow and Malik a weak smile. “Come over here, Leander. I want you to meet someone.”

I’m actually grateful for the interruption. I grab my empty cup and walk alongside dad out of the living room.

“What was in there?” He says suspiciously, nodding at the cup.

I smile broadly at him. “Just some ginger ale, old man.”

“For Christ sakes,” he hisses, pulling me into a corner. “Are you drunk?”

I shake my head, but it releases a wave of dizziness.

He snatches the cup and sniffs it. “Dammit, Leander. You know I could go to jail. Or be fined to death, and there are people here tonight that would love it too. That’s all I need—one of these sharks calling up CNN to let them know my other son is a drunk.”

“Other son, huh?” I don’t know if I’m drunk. Maybe just pleasantly buzzed. Either way I’m sober enough to notice that clear and specific distinction. It hurts a little bit. I don’t want it to.

It must be all over my face. Dad closes his eyes for a second then opens them. “I didn’t mean—”

“Craig.”

He turns around and I see Kristi approaching us. She gives me a wink and a smile. I don’t even have to see dad’s face to know he’s scowling at her.

And she could clearly give a shit as she says congenially, “Lennox wants to have a few words with us about the infrastructure bill.”

“I’m sure she does,” dad says irritably.

“But it’s his birthday,” I hear myself saying, solemnly.

They both look at me, and Kristi turns to go. “I’ll meet you over there. See you later, Leander.” She winks at me again.

Dad turns to me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I stare at him. “What?”

“She’s going to see you later. For what?”

I roll my eyes. “See me later at the party, dad. Jesus.”

He purses his lips and side-eyes me. “I’ll be right back. Go get some coffee.”

I try to walk normally over to the kitchen where I get a nice steamy cup with just a little bit of cream. I go over to the baby grand and stand beside it. I still feel a little dizzy so I sip the coffee. It takes a few seconds for Mr. Atkins to notice me. When he does, he startles and messes up a little bit right before the song ends. He shifts through the sheet music in front of him.

“Do you just have all of them memorized?” I ask him.

He glances over at me and smiles. “No. I mean, some of them I remember learning a long time ago. But no. I still need the music.”

“Hey,” the trumpet player says to him. “We’re going to take a break. We’re going to do ‘All of Me’ when we get back.”

Mr. Atkins nods. “Okay, sounds good.” He turns to me and smiles. “Perfect timing.” He gets up from the bench and stretches a little. “That coffee smells good.”

“Come on. I’ll get you some.” I lead him to the kitchen. “I didn’t see you come in. I was looking out for you.”

“Yeah, I was late,” he says with a sigh.

I turn to look at him. “Did you get into an accident or something?”

“No. It’s not really important.” He follows me past Florence’s watchful gaze over to the coffee pot. He looks around and leans toward me a little. “Don’t tell anybody this, but I’ve never voted for your dad.”

I smile. “I’ve never voted for him either.”

“Really?”

“Nope.” I find a mug and pour. “And I never will.” I hand him the mug.

I didn’t mean to put it quite that way, and I can’t read the expression on his face as he takes the mug from me.

“Cream and sugar?” I ask him.

“No, black is fine.” He takes a sip. “It must be awkward to not vote for your own father.”

I don’t know what to say for a second or two, and I wish I hadn’t drank anything. “It’s not really awkward. I think he knows, actually.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I think he might know I’m not the kind of voter he caters to.”

“What do you mean by that?”

I wonder if Mr. Dylan Atkins has noticed the symbol on my necklace. I seriously doubt anyone has, which is funny. I wouldn’t consider myself in the closet—and if Alex were here, he’d probably be blowing me in one—but sometimes I think if someone really doesn’t want to see something, then they won’t. It will become a permanent and willful blind spot.

I look at Mr. Atkins standing next to me. There’s a lot of noise in the kitchen around us, but I still keep my voice low when I say. “My father and his colleagues are not, um…gay-friendly.” I think I see Mr. Atkins’s cheeks getting pink. “I’ve never told my family. I don’t know if they’ve figured it out.”

“Oh.” There’s a strange expression his face. He almost looks frightened. “Thank you for the coffee,” he says, turning like he’s going to walk off. “It hits the spot.”

There’s a cold feeling in my stomach. The kind I get when I’ve turned a page and seen something I can’t unsee.

Dad’s probably prowling around looking for me while Kristi follows him, making some remark about interns being slave labor and dad telling her to go take a selfie. I feel like I’m going to be abandoned.

“Hey,” I call out to Mr. Atkins before he can walk away.

He turns to look at me.

“Can I show you something?”

***

I’d have made sure the garage was clean if I knew I was going to be doing this.

But I’ve had alcohol, and I’ve just told my teacher a semi-secret.

Most of Mr. Atkins’s attention is on my unfinished paintings, though. They’re ones I started over the last few years and never finished. I would just move them out here to the garage, thinking I’d get to them again one day. That day never seems to come.

He looks at each one, a slow smile growing on his face. “Is this where the magic happens?” He looks at me. “Is this where you painted that one at the gallery?”

“I rent studio space actually.” I point to a cleared spot by the garage door. “But I used to paint stuff over there. When I was a kid.”

“How long did it take you to create the one at the gallery?” There’s something soft in his tone. When I look at him, that softness is in his eyes too.

“It was a while.” I nudge at a broken paintbrush with my shoe. “I couldn’t work on it every day. Had a lot of stuff going on.”

He nods with understanding, drinking his coffee. The scent of it intermingles with the faint smells of paint and gasoline. I can feel it leaving an imprint on me right now so that when I happen to encounter this very distinct combination again, I’ll think of right now.

Mr. Atkins examines another unfinished one. It’s almost like taking off all my clothes and letting him see what’s under them, or letting him peer into a part of my mind I don’t like to look at myself. He’s seeing something raw. He’s seeing something unrefined and before I’ve had a chance to give it a name.

He looks at me. His smile is shy. “You’re really incredible.”

His words go to the wounded place my dad’s other son comment flayed open and covers it. I duck my head. “Thanks.”

“That probably doesn’t mean much coming from me,” he says almost apologetically. “Without the expertise.”

I have to pretend I’m straightening up some junk on a table to keep from looking at his face. “It means something. I mean, isn’t music also art?”

“Music has a formula. Even if it’s intuitive, you still have to know the basics. But this,” he pauses. “There’s no formula, right? No rules.”

“It’s a language,” I say, still avoiding his eyes. “Only it’s visual and not reality. But it kind of is reality.”

“I can see it.”

When I look up from the table, he’s not looking at the paintings. He’s looking at me. I get the sense that if this table wasn’t in between us, he’d be standing closer to me. Or me to him. It’s already pretty close. Closer than needed. He’s looking at me as if he just realized something that may or may not be disappointing.

I bet if I asked him now what I asked him at the gallery, he’d answer me. I know what he’d say too. I can feel the words starting to form and emerge from my mouth as the answer pieces together in his eyes.

You’re insatiable.

“I don’t know if I’ll sell any or not,” I admit, placing my hand on one of the canvases.

“You want to?” His voice is softer. He places his hand next to mine.

“I need to.” My thumb makes a move, next to his, the nail grazing his knuckle ever so slightly.

I hear him exhale. His eyebrows pinch together, and he looks at me with a question in his eyes. Before either of us can say another word, Meadow appears behind him.

“Your dad’s looking for you.” She says.

Mr. Atkins has taken a few steps back, away from me.

“He can keep looking,” I say.

Meadow tilts her head, glancing quickly at Mr. Atkins. “He seemed kind of mad.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. I’ll come in a sec.”

She smiles primly at me, glancing once more at Mr. Atkins, before she leaves.

“Actually,” Mr. Atkins says, drinking down the rest of his coffee. “I think break time is definitely over now.”

This wasn’t enough, I think, as I walk back into the house and offer to put his empty mug in the kitchen for him. He goes back to the piano and after a minute or so, I hear the swinging jazz music starting up again. I stay in the kitchen for a couple more minutes, feeling as if I need to catch something.

My breath. My thoughts. I don’t know.

Eventually, I wander back in and sit down in between Meadow and Malik. I catch a glimpse of Kristi’s obnoxious gift on the dining room table with the giant bow.

“What did your mom get my dad?” I ask Meadow.

She looks at me as if I should know. “A boomerang.”