Page 74 of Keep

Chad spun around, heart hammering. Martin Abrams stood in the doorway, coat damp with rain, messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He was looking at the canvas with an expression Chad had never seen on him before—not the measured assessment of a teacher evaluating student work, but something closer to recognition.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Chad said.

“You were focused. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Martin crossed the room, his eyes on the painting. “How long have you been working on this?”

Chad glanced at his phone. Nearly midnight. He’d been here almost five hours. “A while.”

“I can tell.” Martin stopped a few feet from the easel. “This is different from your other work. More urgent.”

“I had some things to work through.”

Martin’s gaze shifted to Chad’s face. “I read the news,” he said. “And I’m capable of recognizing one of my own students.”

Chad’s stomach dropped. “Martin⁠—”

“You don’t have to explain anything.” He nodded toward the painting. “The work doesn’t lie. Whatever you’re feeling—it’s in there. The confusion, the guilt, the love. It’s all there.”

Chad’s eyes stung. He blinked hard. “I ruined everything.”

“Did you?”

“His career. His reputation. Everything he’s worked for.”

“And he told you this?”

“He doesn’t have to tell me. It’s obvious.”

Martin pulled up a stool and sat down.

“I was married for twenty-three years,” he said. “To a man I pushed away more times than I can count because I was convinced I didn’t deserve him. Because I thought my love would ruin him somehow.” He paused. “I wasted a lot of time being afraid. And then he got sick, and I realized how much of it I’d thrown away. How many years I’d spent protecting myself instead of loving him.”

Chad’s throat was tight. “What happened?”

“He died. Four years ago.” Martin’s eyes were wet, but his voice was steady. “And I would give anything for one more day. Even a day where everything was falling apart.” He stood, picking up his bag. “Don’t let fear make your choices for you, Chad. If you love him, tell him. If you’re scared, tell him that too. But don’t disappear.”

He paused at the door.

“Finish your painting. And then call him.”

He left, and Chad was alone with the canvas and the rain against the windows and the weight of everything he’d been avoiding.

He looked at the figure emerging from the shadows. Half in darkness, half in light.

Chad picked up his brush and kept painting.

He didn’t get home until nearly three. The painting wasn’t finished—not really—but he’d reached a stopping point, a place where he could step back and breathe. His hands were stained with paint, his back ached, and his eyes felt gritty with exhaustion.

Ricky was asleep. The apartment was dark and quiet. Chad kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed without bothering to undress. His phone was on the nightstand, the screen dark.

He picked it up. Two more missed calls from Hank. A voicemail.

Chad stared at the notification for a long time. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed play.

Hank’s voice filled the silence, rough and tired. “Chad. I don’t know if you’re getting these, or if you’re ignoring me, or if something’s wrong. I just—I need to know you’re okay. I don’t care about the photograph. I don’t care about the news. I care about you. Please call me. Or text. Or anything. Just let me know you’re all right.” A pause. “Miss you.”

The message ended.

Chad lay in the dark, phone pressed to his chest, and let the tears come. Stupid. Pointless. Crying never fixed anything.