Page 69 of Keep

“He doesn’t. He stands up on the Senate floor and talks until he collapses. Because he believes that decency matters. That one person doing the right thing can still mean something.”

Chad was watching him—that artist’s attention focused entirely on Hank’s face. “That’s why you ran.”

“I know how it sounds. Naive. Maybe stupid even. But—” Hank shook his head. “I’ve seen what politics does to people. I’ve seen good men become cynical, and cynical men become cruel. I didn’t want that to be me. I thought if I could just—hold on to something. Some belief that it was worth trying.”

“It’s not naive,” Chad said quietly.

“You don’t think so?”

“I think it’s the opposite. I think it’s the hardest thing in the world to believe in something when everyone’s telling you it’s pointless.” Chad reached over and put his hand on Hank’s thigh—not seductive, just contact. “It’s why you’re good at what you do. You actually give a damn.”

Hank felt heat at the corners of his eyes and blinked it back.

Don’t cry. You’ll drive off the road.

“Jefferson Smith,” he said.

“What?”

“The character. In the movie. His name is Jefferson Smith.” Hank smiled. “Shelby used to call me that when I first ran. Said I had the same stupid, hopeful look on my face.”

“Sounds like she knows you pretty well.”

“She does. Better than almost anyone.”

They drove in silence for another block. Then Chad said, “I’m glad you told me. About why you do it.” A pause. “The world needs more people who still believe in things. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Hank didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded, kept driving, and let the rain blur the city into something gentle and strange.

Back at the apartment, Hank poured them each a bourbon—the good stuff, from the bottle he saved for special occasions—and they settled onto the couch with the lights low.

First Kiss hung on the opposite wall, catching the lamplight. Two figures, abstract but unmistakable, leaning into each other. Hank had looked at it every day since Chad gave it to him. It was the first piece of art he’d ever owned.

“I was thinking about your work tonight,” Hank said. “During the concert.”

Chad raised an eyebrow. “You were supposed to be thinking about Tchaikovsky.”

“I was. That’s the point.” Hank turned his glass in his hands. “The way you talk about painting—how you use color to create emotion, how you want people to feel something before they understand what they’re looking at. That’s what music does for me. It bypasses the rational part. Goes straight to something deeper.”

“You think they’re connected? Art and music?”

“I think they’re the same impulse. The need to make something true. To take what’s inside you and give it a form.”

Chad was quiet for a moment. Then: “Most people don’t get that.”

“Most people haven’t seen your work.”

“I mean—” Chad shook his head. “They think art is decoration. Something you put on a wall because it matches the couch. They don’t understand that it’s⁠—”

“A way of being seen?”

Chad looked at him. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“That’s what music was for me. Growing up. When everything else felt like a performance, like I was playing a role, music was the one place I could feel things without consequences.” Hank took a slow breath. “I didn’t have to explain it to anyone. I could just sit with it. Let it be true.”

“And now?”

“Now I have someone to share it with.”