Page 44 of Keep

“I’m sorry,” Chad said. And meant it. And felt the small, involuntary flinch—mothers, kitchens, recipes handed down or not—that he put away before it had a shape.

“They were good people,” Hank said. “They would have had a complicated time with—” He tilted his head in a gesture that encompassed the apartment, the morning, Chad on the counter. “This. But they were good people, and I think they would have come around.” He moved the eggs around in the pan. “My father voted straight Republican his entire adult life and also made sure every person who worked on his construction crew got paid a fair wage and got home safe on a Friday. People contain multitudes, as they say.”

“As they say.” Chad watched the steam curling off the pan. “Did Shelby know? About you? Before you got married?”

“Not consciously. Not explicitly. I think she knew something wasn’t quite—aligned. But we were twenty-two, and we loved each other genuinely, and being married seemed like the right thing. The expected thing. And I was very good at not knowing things about myself that were inconvenient to know.” He served the eggs onto two plates he’d already set out with toast—Chad hadn’t noticed him making it. “She figured it out over time. She didn’t say anything for years, and then finally she did, and it was—” He handed Chad his plate. “It was a relief. Both of us, I think. She married Lowell a couple of years ago. He’s a good man. She’s happy.”

“And you?”

“I’m working on it.”

Chad took his plate and slid off the counter. The small table by the window. Two chairs. He doubted they’d both been occupied much before this week.

The eggs were good. He didn’t say so immediately, but after a moment: “Okay, the scrambled egg opinions are justified.”

Hank looked pleased in a restrained way. “Thank you.”

“How many women made you scrambled eggs thinking it was going to lead somewhere?”

Hank gave him a long look. “That’s an impertinent question.”

“I’m an impertinent person.”

“I’m beginning to understand that.” But it was fond, and his expression went soft in the morning light. “I told you. Shelby was my one and only.”

“And now you’re feeding scrambled eggs to a twenty-three-year-old bartender you picked up on a Tuesday.”

“Art student,” Hank said, with a formality that made Chad grin. “You’re an art student who bartends. I picked up an artist.”

“Does that make it better?”

“Considerably.” Hank refilled both their cups from the pot he’d brought to the table—a deliberate little act of care that Chad noticed and said nothing about. “Although I’ll point out that I did not pick you up. I asked you on a date in what I hope was a relatively respectful manner.”

“You kissed me over the bar.”

“You started it.”

“I did,” Chad agreed.

They ate. The apartment was quiet except for South Capitol starting its Friday morning below—a bus, the distant noise of the city going about its business while two people sat at a small table with scrambled eggs.

Chad looked at the photograph on the end table. The farmhouse. Strong Georgia sun.

“The painting,” Hank said, and Chad looked back at him. “First Kiss.”

“What about it?”

“You told me I could have it. Does that still stand?”

“Yeah. It still stands.”

Hank nodded, as if that settled something.

“It needs to dry fully,” Chad added. “And I need to varnish it.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

“Where would you put it?”