Page 20 of Keep

“Any of it.”

Chad was quiet for a moment. Then: “We can go slow.”

“I don’t want slow.” The words came out rougher than he’d intended. He cleared his throat. “I mean—I want this. I’m just not very good at it.”

“You’re doing fine.” Chad’s voice was warm. “Better than fine.”

They pulled up to a modern glass building, and Hank found a parking spot on the street. As he fed quarters into the meter, Chad stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.

“Thank you for doing this,” Chad said when Hank joined him. “I know it’s probably not your usual first date.”

“I don’t have a usual first date. This is only my second.”

Chad’s eyebrows rose. “Second? Ever?”

“Shelby, my ex-wife, was my first. You’re my second.” Hank turned to face him. “So if I’m doing this wrong, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m working without a manual.”

“You’re not doing it wrong.” Chad stepped closer—close enough that Hank could smell that citrus scent again. “You’re doing it exactly right.”

Chad used a keycode to enter the building—five digits, punched in with casual familiarity. The door clicked open, and they stepped into a lobby with polished floors and abstract sculptures positioned along the walls.

A security guard sat behind a desk, middle-aged and bored-looking, his attention focused on his phone.

“Evening,” Chad said.

The guard glanced up, gave Chad a nod of recognition, then looked at Hank. “Need to sign in. ID, please.”

Hank’s heart rate spiked. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket, extracted his driver’s license, and handed it over.

This is it. This is where he recognizes you. Mentions seeing you on C-SPAN.

The guard copied Hank’s information into a logbook—name, license number, time—gave the ID a cursory glance, and handed it back.

“Thanks. You guys have a good evening.”

Thank God for the apathy of the underpaid.

They headed down a wide corridor lined with photographs and sketches. The hallway smelled like paint and industrial cleaner, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.

As they turned a corner, Chad reached out, his fingers brushing against Hank’s hand.

It was such a small gesture—tentative, testing—but Hank felt it like an electric shock. He looked down at their hands, then at Chad, whose expression was carefully neutral.

Hank laced their fingers together.

Chad’s hand was smaller than his, warmer. His grip tightened slightly, and something in Hank’s chest loosened—some knot he’d been carrying so long he’d forgotten it was there.

“Okay?” Chad asked softly.

“Yes.” Hank squeezed his hand. “Very okay.”

They turned into a vast, high-ceilinged room. Track lighting illuminated paintings on white walls, and sculptures were positioned throughout the center of the space like pieces in a chess game.

“Welcome to my world,” Chad said.

Only one other couple was present—a man and woman studying a landscape near the far wall, speaking in hushed tones. Otherwise, they were alone.

Hank looked around, trying to take it all in. Classical portraiture hung next to stark realism. Vibrant abstracts competed with black-and-white photography. The variety was overwhelming.