Page 38 of Grief & Glitter

It didn’t scare me. Maybe tomorrow it would. Tonight it didn’t. “Make sure you spell Taftwell right,” I said, then turned back to the table before he could answer. “Next bets, please.” He stood there a few seconds longer before he walked off. My heart was hammering, and I kept spinning the wheel anyway. “Black seventeen.” Someone cheered. I paid out chips, and the room kept moving around me as though nothing had happened. Nobody died. Hockey didn’t collapse. The sport didn’t fall apart because Ryan wore a dress.

Ten minutes later, Ryan appeared beside me. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just some guy had too much to drink and too many opinions.” I nudged his shoulder with mine. “He didn’t like that I told him to leave.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “You told a donor to leave?”

“He was being an idiot about a lot of things. Pride nights. Rainbows. The usual list.”

Ryan went still, and I could see him doing the math anyway, filling in the gap I’d left out on purpose. “He said something about me, didn’t he?”

“It was him not liking anything he doesn’t already understand.” I took his hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong tonight. Not one thing.”

His fingers curled around mine. “What did you say to him?”

“That his point wasn’t important tonight, and that if he didn’t like it, he could go home.”

Something in Ryan’s face eased, just slightly. “Gideon Taftwell.” Damn, he full-named me.

“He might complain to the team about me. That’s on him, not you.”

Ryan looked at me for a long moment then leaned his head against my shoulder, right there at the roulette table, in front of the entire fundraising committee. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know.” He squeezed my hand. “Thank you anyway.”

The rest of the night was the best date I ever had. Admittedly, the competition wasn’t strong, but still. We ate tiny food off tiny plates. Ryan explained that canapés were supposed to be tiny while I argued food should be large enough to identify without a microscope. He stole two shrimp from my plate. I stole one of his miniature cheesecakes. We worked the roulette table together for half an hour. Ryan turned out to be considerably better at talking people into putting more chips down than I was. We bid on a weekend cabin stay in the silent auction and lost. Ryan was disappointed. I snapped a photo of the place for later because if Ryan wanted to go to a cabin, you bet I was booking a cabin.

A slow song came on toward the end of the night, and he held out his hand.

Fuck no. “I can’t dance.”

“You can skate.”

“Not remotely the same.”

“Gids.”

“No.”

“Please?” He pouted and was so damn cute I wanted to pick him up and put him in my pocket. Fuck. So, I danced—badly—one hand on Ryan’s waist, the other holding his, trying not to step on his feet because those shoes looked expensive and painful, and I had no desire to send my date to the ER.

Ryan moved closer. “You’re very tense.”

“I’m trying not to kill you.”

“With dancing?”

“With my feet.”

“You skate professionally.”

“Exactly. Blades. I know what I’m doing with blades.”

He laughed and rested his head against my chest, and everything inside me went quiet. Not empty. Quiet. There was a difference. For years I’d thought peace meant nothing hurting. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe peace could be this instead. Ethan still gone. My family still broken. The black dog still somewhere nearby. And Ryan in my arms. I could be sad and happy, broken and healing, could miss my brother and want Ryan at the same time. The thought scared the shit out of me. I held him tighter anyway.

By the time we were leaving, Ryan was carrying his shoes. I picked him up bridal style, and he squeaked. “Gideon! Put me down!”