Page 39 of Rescued Duty
Chapter 16
Ethan
“I still can’t believe you trusted me to carry those.” I step further back from the cluster of glass sculptures Blue is carefully arranging in the middle of the gallery’s third floor.
“You haven’t broken even one tiny thing.” Blue nips at my neck as he walks past to twist one of the sculptures slightly to the left.
“Not this time.” I laugh in relief. “But I think this was a one-off for me. In the future, I’ll follow two steps behind you for moral support rather than carrying anything expensive and fragile.”
He chuckles quietly. “It wouldn’t have been the end of the world if you’d have broken something, darlin’.”
Even standing here in public doing something perfectly normal and innocent like arranging artwork, a shiver of pleasure runs through me when he calls me darlin’.
“Maybe not, but I still think it’s not worth risking a heart attack a second time.”
Blue just grins as he closes the small gap between us, taking my hips loosely in his palms and pulling me close to lay soft kisses along my jaw. “If I ask you to go find Max downstairs so I can make sure this layout works for her and we can head home, is that going to stress you out too?”
“No.” It comes out as a moan as I lean closer, letting my lips brush across his for a moment. “That I can do.”
I pull away slowly, reveling in the way the taste of coffee from his lips and the scent of apple, always so present in his brilliant turquoise hair, both linger. His fingertips cling to my hips even as I step back, as though he’s reluctant to release me even for a moment, and with a deep, deliberate, contented sigh, I steal one more kiss before spinning away to find Max.
I’m startled by the large metal sculptures in the main room of the gallery when I make it down the stairs. They weren’t there last night when I left work, and somehow, I’d been so focused on not dropping the box holding three of the eight sculptures we just set up whenwe arrived, I apparently didn’t even notice gigantic metal spires taking up the majority of the room, so I definitely win a prize for best observational skills.
There is something about them that draws me in, and I find myself standing close, staring at them the same way I lost myself in Blue’s work the first time I visited the gallery. Nothing about them is anything like Blue’s work, but they captivate me all the same. Blue’s work is defined by delicate swirls coupled with harsh planes and spikes of darkness so perfectly balanced that they feel as if the emotions they contain might spontaneously burst free, shattering the glass that contains them at any moment. It feels like the light and the dark need one another to survive. Like the sharp edges and soft curves of the glass are connected by spiderweb-thin strands that could be snapped by a whispered breath, and everything would fall to ruin.
These sculptures are large and imposing, and it feels like they were made to steal the breath from the viewer’s chest. They are shining steel and harsh edges, but there is a gentle flow to them that tempers the work and leaves me feeling love and peace and compassion. It feels like if I were to stare at them for long enough, I’d never feel lost again.
“They’re stunning, aren’t they?” Max’s voice pulls my attention away from the swirling steel.
“They’re astonishing.” My voice sounds almost reverent, and her smile grows at my response.
“The artist doesn’t let us display many pieces. I’ve known him for a long time. I knew his father, actually. He was a great painter in his own right, and they were very close before the father’s passing. They used to work in their studio together, and I love seeing his son follow in his footsteps.”
It’s such a simple thing, a tableau that no doubt has played out in many homes in many families across the centuries, but the idea of an artist capable of creating something so beautiful having learned to transfer his emotions into his work from his father is so tender and heartfelt that it breaks me just a little. It speaks to the part of me that is constantly wondering if it might be possible to build a new relationship with my own father and whether there is some common ground that might connect us even though we’re both different men than when we parted. He’s always written regularly, and it worries me that I haven’t received any letters from him in almost a year. I don’t have his phone number anymore, something I’ve regretted for a while now. A few weeks ago, when I told Blue that it was unusual not to hear from him for so long, he encouraged me to write, and I laid my heart on the line in that letter. I apologized for being so distant for so long. I gave him my address in Seattle and asked for his number. I know it takes mail a long time to reach a remote little town in Alaska, but it’s getting harder not to worry about the fact I’ve yet to receive a response in return. If I don’t ever hear from him again, I hope it’s because he’s finally given up on me, not because something has happened to him. After all this time apart, that would be easier to bear.
“I think the artist is still here somewhere…” Max trails off as she spins to look around the room.
My gaze follows hers when she waves her hand briefly, calling whoever it is she spotted over to us. I don’t pay them much attention, choosing instead to shift my attention back to the sculptures that stand in front of us. Whoever she gestured to will be with us in a moment, and I’m still lost in the beautiful thought of this artist and his father connecting over shared passions and hopes and fears. I’m still lost in the painful whirlpool of emotion that is the reality of my relationship with mine.
When a man’s form steps out from behind another of the huge works and into my field of vision, my heart stops beating inside my chest. I know the man standing before me. I know his name is Namid and that he’s the man my father considers a second son. Even though I’ve held my father to only letters for years now, he’s always included pictures of them around the holidays, and they’ve always looked happy. They’ve always looked like a family. I know deep down that my dad hasn’t replaced me, but the sight of this man walking toward me steals my breath and my rationality. How is it possible that he’s here, in the same state, in the same city, in the same gallery I am? He can’t be the artist Max is planning to introduce. As far as I know, the man my father took in when he was found with nothing and no one, never regained his memory. He wouldn’t have learned to create sculpture at his father’s side.
The man briefly turns away, speaking words I can’t hear as he gestures to someone still hidden by twisted steel. A hand appears first, fingers lacing with Namid’s, before two men with gentle smiles begin walking toward Max and me.
The room is spinning, and the walls are closing in. The men’s smiles seem to falter as they get closer, and the man I've seen in my father's letters is in front of me, reaching toward me with concern in his eyes as I stand frozen in place. Does he know who I am? Does he know the man at his side, whose hand he was holding before I drew his attention, is mine? Does he know that man is the first man I ever loved? Does he know that I never thought I’d see his face again?
I take a step back, bumping into something in my haste to scramble away from Namid’s outstretched arm. It’s one of the sculptures, thousands of pounds of steel anchored to the concrete floor with heavy bolts. I couldn’t have hurt it, but I run my hand along it anyway, searching for an anchor but failing to find anything to cling to along the highly polished surfaces. I spin back to find a group of slightly panicked faces staring at me before the edges of the world darken and blur, and the universe fades to black as Jordyn’s face swims into view. His face is stronger and harder than it was when I knew him, but it's his face all the same. It’s the face I've loved all my life.
"Ethan?" Jordyn’s brows furrow in confusion before he glances back over at Max and Namid.
Every oxygen atom in my body is sucked out of my lungs and into the room without my consent as the world starts to spin and the pools of black that are closing in around me grow and grow, blanketing everything until there is only darkness. As my knees begin to collapse, a single thought runs through my mind. Of course. After nearly fifteen years as a strong, successful man in my thirties, when I finally see Jordyn again, of course I'm going to pass out.
Blue
I finished arranging the sculptures five minutes after I sent Ethan to find Max, but ten minutes later, they still haven’t joined me. No doubt they got stuck chatting with another artist setting up for the weekend’s exhibition, and they’re laughing it up while I’m on the third floor alone and waiting. Normally, I’d just wander around until they finished up whatever it is that caught their attention, but I’ve been so busy at the shop trying to finish the new collection that’s now on display that I’ve barely seen Ethan for a couple of weeks. I even took the last two weeks off work to finish on time, and I’ve basically lived at the shop. I miss Ethan, and I want nothing more than to pick up Chinese takeout, drag him into the shower with me, and lick him until we collapse under the hot spray before curling up on the couch together with sweats and blankets and the classic movie channel, so heading downstairs to find them it is.
Only, what I find is nothing I could have ever expected. Ethan is lying on the floor while Max and twomen are kneeling beside him, looking panicked and trying to wake him.
What. In. The. Fuck?
