“Evermore,” he said, pointing to the nearest speaker.
“This band is Evermore?”
“The band is Led Zeppelin. The song’s called The Battle of Evermore. Geez, you’re in art school. Why don’t you know stuff?”
Andrew’s insults were always delivered with a smirk that made it impossible to feel pissed. He grabbed my hand again. “My carrel’s over here. I’ve been working on some paintings for my senior exhibit. Come see.”
I’ve been working on some paintings. Come see. Simon used to say that to me, at least until he got strung out on drugs and turned into another person. Andrew’s workspace was near the back corner, a disorganized but joyful explosion of color. Unlike Simon, Andrew painted real things, people who drew you in, and everyday objects that made you look twice. I’d seen some of his work at his apartment, but I’d never seen it in progress, spread around makeshift walls.
“This looks so…creative,” I said. “You hang out here every day?”
“Whenever I can. We’re old school in the paint lab. We can’t do our projects on computers like you design nerds.”
“I’m not a nerd, thank you.”
“You are, but that’s okay.”
Andrew’s work was like his personality, clear and fresh and unaffected. You couldn’t not look, and one look was all it took to fall in love.
“You’re going to be famous someday,” I said. “How could anyone not want to own this?” I pointed to a work in progress, a young child in rough brush strokes. Boy or girl, it was hard to tell, but the features glowed. “Who is that?”
“The daughter of a friend. She’s adorbs.”
“It’s the most beautiful portrait I’ve ever seen.”
He blushed. One of his curls had broken loose again, a corkscrew of energy, like Andrew’s soul. I smoothed it back behind his ear.
“You’re too nice to me,” he said. “Why are you so nice to me?”
I looked into his eyes and didn’t answer. We’d been hanging out a lot since we struck up our unlikely friendship at the fetish club. We’d grown really close, even though we were different in so many ways. I was a decade older than him, and hetero, and an ex-prostitute, although I hadn’t been brave enough to reveal that to him yet.
I sat on the edge of his carrel, a rolling workstation that doubled as an art pedestal. The music had changed to a quieter, more contemplative song, and I thought how fortunate I was to have Andrew in my life. Before him, I’d pretty much forgotten how to feel things. Or maybe I’d decided not to feel things. Now a bunch of feelings caught me by surprise. Hope, wonder, maybe…happiness? The kind of happiness that felt sad at the same time.
Andrew lay back across the platform, knocking over a can of brushes. We scooped them up together, and he placed the can on a nearby desk. By the time he returned, I was lying back on the platform too. I could see gray clouds through the skylights, and the looming shadows of nearby buildings.
“I come here for the peace,” he murmured. “It’s very peaceful, to be in a place full of art. Maybe you don’t feel that way, after Simon…”
He touched my side. It was a friendly touch, a comforting touch. That was the nice thing about gay friends. You didn’t have to worry about them making some kind of uncomfortable move during an emotional moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry if being here is bringing back bad memories, and I’m sorry your ex was an abusive prick. Why isn’t he in prison or something? With the drugs, and the stuff he did to you?”
“I guess because he’s good at surrounding himself with enablers. I stayed with him for years, and explained away all his shit. Somehow I turned ‘He’s abusing me’ into ‘He needs me.’ How sick is that?”
I stared up at the sky, like it might have answers. Even Andrew didn’t have answers.
“I want to meet someone well-adjusted,” he said. “Someone nice. I want to love someone.”
“I don’t have the Y-chromosome you need, or I’d beg you to fall in love with me. You’re handsome and kind, and you have beautiful hair.”
“Aw, Chere.”
“You’ll find someone. You’re the easiest person in the world to talk to. You’re considerate. You’re vivacious.”
“I’m anxious. I’m obsessive. I’m clingy in relationships. I put up with total bullshit just to spend the night with someone. Most of the time, I’m like a starving stray dog, grateful for scraps.”
That was my cue to say something reassuring and uplifting, but I had nothing. I’d lost faith in happily ever afters long ago. “The problem with love is that there’s only a one in a hundred chance it’ll work out,” I said. “I mean, that’s just science.”
“Really? That’s been scientifically proven?” Andrew wasn’t buying it. He formed his fingers into the shape of a heart and held it above us. “I believe in love. I just have to find it. That’s your one-in-a-hundred chance: not just finding that person the universe has set aside for you, but recognizing that he’s the one. I understand your issues since you got burned so bad in your last relationship, but there’s someone out there for you.”