Page 21 of Keep

His eyes landed on a sculpture in the center of the space—a man and woman carved from what looked like marble, locked in an embrace on a rocky precipice. Their bodies curved together, the woman’s head tucked beneath the man’s chin, his arms wrapped around her like he was sheltering her.

“She’s great,” Chad said, following his gaze. “Abbie. She’s in my studio class.”

“It’s beautiful.” Hank stepped closer, still holding Chad’s hand. “The way they’re holding onto each other. Like they’re the only solid thing in a storm.”

Chad looked at him with something like surprise. “That’s… yeah. That’s exactly it.”

“Was that right?” Hank felt suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t know the proper terminology.”

“There’s no proper terminology for how art makes you feel.” Chad’s voice was soft. “You either feel it or you don’t. You feel it.”

They moved deeper into the gallery. Chad pointed out various pieces—talking about technique, composition, the artists’ intentions—and Hank listened, contributing where he could, mostly content to watch Chad in his element.

He loved watching Chad talk about art. The way his hands moved, the way his eyes lit up, the way he’d lean in close to examine some detail Hank would never have noticed.

This is who he is. Not the bartender persona. This.

They stopped in front of a hyperrealistic still life—a bowl of fruit rendered in such meticulous detail that it could have been a photograph.

“That’s my instructor,” Chad said. “Martin Abrams.”

Hank studied the painting, then noticed the date beneath the signature. “It’s twenty years old.”

“Exactly.” Chad’s voice warmed with admiration. “He’s been using the same subject every year since he painted this. Yesterday we painted the exact same bowl, same fruit, same lighting. It’s a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“That there’s always more to learn. That you can look at the same thing a hundred times and still find something new.” Chad glanced at him. “He’s brilliant. I learn something from him every day.”

“Should I be jealous?”

Chad turned to find Hank’s expression caught somewhere between teasing and uncertain.

“He’s like a father to me,” Chad said. “So no. Definitely not.”

“Good.” Hank meant it more than the light tone suggested.

They continued through the gallery, the other couple eventually drifting away until they had the space entirely to themselves. The silence felt comfortable, intimate—broken only by their footsteps and Chad’s occasional observations.

They approached a large canvas near the end of the gallery—roughly five feet tall and three feet wide. At first glance, it looked abstract, all geometric shapes in shades of blue and burgundy with strategic splashes of black and white.

But the longer Hank stared, the more the image resolved itself.

Two figures. Men. Kissing.

The style was almost cubist—faces rendered in circles and crescents, shoulders as triangles tapering down to angular forms. But despite the contemporary approach, the painting radiated something raw and urgent. A stroke of crimson cut through where the figures met, like heat made visible.

The larger figure was protective. Possessive. Consuming.

The smaller figure was yielding. Trusting. Surrendering.

Hank felt his throat tighten. He stepped closer, studying the brushstrokes—some thick and textured, others almost translucent. The blues ranged from deep navy to pale cerulean. The burgundy added warmth, passion.

His eyes dropped to the lower corner where a single word was scrawled in confident script: Chad.

And beneath it, smaller: First Kiss.

“This is yours.” His voice came out rough.