Page 13 of Keep
“I’m allowed to be happy.”
“Of course you are. It’s just rare enough to be noteworthy.” She pushed the turkey club toward him. “Eat. Then explain.”
Hank unwrapped the sandwich. Took a bite, chewing, aware that he was stalling and aware that Frannie was aware that he was stalling.
“I went out last night,” he said.
“Out where?”
“BJ’s. In Dupont.”
Frannie set down her Diet Coke. “Henry Fortner. You went to a gay bar.”
“I did.”
“Alone?”
“Alone. I circled the block three times first.”
“Of course you did.” She was smiling now—not the performative smile she used in hearings, but the real one, wide and slightly crooked. “And?”
“And I met someone.”
“Henry.” She reached across the small table and squeezed his hand. “Tell me everything.”
“His name is Chad. He’s a bartender there. And he’s—” Hank paused, searching for the right word, aware that the English language had not been designed to accommodate whatever was happening to him. “He’s an art student. At GW—the Corcoran School.”
“An art student. How old?”
“Twenty-three.”
Frannie’s eyebrows rose. “Well.”
“You can say it.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were going to say cradle-robber.”
“I was going to say good for you, and then I was going to think cradle-robber very loudly.” She grinned. “When are you seeing him again?”
“Tomorrow night. Dinner. I’m picking him up at six-thirty.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“I don’t know yet. Somewhere casual.”
“Ted’s Bulletin, 14th Street. Good food, reasonable volume, not overtly romantic. Low pressure.”
“That’s perfect. Thank you.”
“I know things.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “Does he know what you do?”
Hank looked at his turkey club.
“Henry.”
“I told him I work on the Hill. Policy. Paperwork, mostly.”
