Talker's Graduation (5 page)

wheel and the kiln and all of the clay and glazes, was still well lit.

The voices were coming from that way, and through the entry

between the two sides of the shop, Talker could see Brian"s face.

He looked extremely uncomfortable.

Skeezy perv Olenbacher was there, and he was being extra

persuasive.

“Come on, Brian, you"ve rubbed that shoulder about six times

already. Just let me—”

“Talker will rub it when he comes to pick me up,” Brian said

shortly, and then Tate watched him jerk away. Skeezy was right

next to him, following him with that insinuation into his personal

space that made Talker want to gag.

“Brian, come on. I mean… I mean, look at the guy. I know you

want to be faithful and loyal and everything, but seriously—he"s just

holding you back!”

Tate cringed. Oh God. It was true. Brian with his steady, solid

perseverance was going to graduate from college and Tate, with

his mercurial flashes of brilliance, was not. Brian had the job of his

dreams and Tate was still a bar back for a nightclub, a job that

didn"t hold nearly the allure it had three years before when he

started. What the hell was Brian doing with him anyway, when he

had this older, wiser,
richer
man, trying to rub his shoulder and give

him art shows and—

“Shut up!” Brian snapped, and Talker flinched, because he

wasn"t sure he"d ever heard Brian that angry before. He"d known it

could happen—Brian had been attacked because his buried temper

had surfaced like an iceberg and savaged the person who had hurt

Talker—but he"d never actually
seen
his lover in a black fury.

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28

He couldn"t have given himself away if someone stepped on

his toe. He
had
to see what Brian did next.

“Brian, nothing against the guy—”

Talker"s breath turned to a brick in his lungs as he heard the

thump and rattle of a slight man being shoved against an empty

pottery rack. “You say one more word about him,” Brian said softly,

“and you can forget the show, you can forget my pieces, you can

forget the whole damned thing. I"ll go back to the Olive Garden and

go back to sculpting on my kitchen table, do you hear me?”

“Okay,” Orenbacher said, making an admirable attempt at

dignity. “Fine. I get it. Throw yourself away on a skinny punk with a

tattoo fetish and enough metal to—”

“Fuck off, Mark,” Brian said coldly. Talker watched Brian

appear in the doorway again and then disappear. He was going

back to where pieces were stacked after their first trip through the

kiln. He couldn"t see what Brian was doing there, but he heard a

rustle, like a tarp being pulled back, and he watched his gentle, kind

lover give a glare over his shoulder that would have sent Talker

screaming into the next year.

“You want to see who he is to me? You keep being shitty

about him, and you won"t listen to my words. I suck at words. The

only one I can ever talk to is him. But I"m good with clay. If this is

the only way you"ll listen, then listen. You and me will never

happen. But this is the boy you keep talking trash about, and you

need to know why I can"t let it stand.”

Mark moved slowly, stiffly, through Talker"s field of vision, like

Brian had really hurt him when he"d been thrown up against the

empty pottery rack. He moved to where Brian was standing and

Talker heard the softly indrawn breath that indicated true shock and

praise.

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29

“That"s beautiful,” he said quietly, and Talker let out a breath

he hadn"t known he"d been holding. “That"s him?”

“The fact that you have to ask means you haven"t been

looking,” Brian replied. His hand stretched out to the thing they

were both looking at, and Tate recognized that angle of his fingers,

the softness of his jaw—it was an expression, a touch, that Brian

had only ever aimed at Tate.

“Okay, Brian,” Mark said, his shoulders slumping. “I can"t say

I"m not disappointed—I think we would have made a real good

team here. But you"re… you"re brilliant. I"ve loved art all my life; I"d

be a real asshole if I took away your big break. Just… you know. If

this,” he gestured toward the hidden object, “isn"t who your boy

really is, you know. Remember there"s this old guy with a lot of

money who would love to take you in.”

Brian"s look eased up a little. “Don"t need money,” he said,

covering up the thing they"d been looking at. “Lived without money

my whole life. I need Talker, though. Didn"t really live until he saw

me.”

Talker"s heart stopped. He held his hand up to his mouth and

blinked hard, wishing he had a hole he could cry in or a church that

would take him in or a holy place he could give offerings to—oh,

Brian.

You’ve been trying to make me believe this for three years,

haven’t you?

Talker hadn"t believed. He thought he had. He"d let Brian

touch him in their bed, stood up for him when he couldn"t stand for

himself, come to trust that Brian would always be there for Tate if

he could ever possibly could….

But he"d always suspected a grain of pity there. That maybe

Brian was settling. He"d confessed it shyly to Doc Sutherland, his

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30

shrink and his friend, in one of their one-on-one sessions, when

Brian had been at class. Doc Sutherland had told him that he"d

never seen anyone more in love with someone than Brian was with

Talker, but Tate… he"d held on to that disbelief. His entire life, he"d

had to settle for hand-me-down clothes, pro-bono medical work,

leftover love. He didn"t trust that someone as beautiful, as true as

Brian could serve up the real thing and not lord it over someone like

Talker. But not Brian—Brian worshipped Talker because he thought

what Talker had to give back was worth it.

The man who had nearly decked his meal ticket hadn"t done

that because he was settling. The man who had said he hadn"t

lived until Talker had seen him—that hadn"t been settling.

Suddenly all of Tate"s fears about not being worthy, about

being a fuckup who couldn"t graduate—they were all secondary. He

opened the door again and closed it harder, so the bell would ring,

and watched as Brian looked through the lit entryway and smiled.

Tate met him as he walked forward in greeting, taking Brian"s

face in his hands—the scarred and the sound—and pulling him into

his deepest, wettest, best kiss.

Brian pulled back and blushed and smiled. “What was that

for?”

“For loving me,” Talker said. God. Brian really did.

“Always,” Brian murmured, and they kissed again in Brian"s

holy place, and it was close enough to marriage vows for Tate to

always believe.

TALKER kissed him as they were getting dressed in their trunks.

“What was that for?”

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31

“For loving me.”

“Always.”

Talker smiled a little. The words had become their affirmation

of sorts, just like an art gallery had become their holy place.

“Hey,” Brian told him, “I’m going to go feed the guys, okay?

You go ahead and catch the first few waves—I’ll be a minute. They

looked like they needed some love.”

Talker nodded and let Brian go take care of the four alpacas

and three Merino sheep that they kept on the little spot of land next

to their cottage. Sunshine the rat had died while Brian had been in

the hospital, and Big Harry Nads, her replacement rat, had lived

right until Brian had almost graduated. They had debated then—

what next? Another rat? A cat? A dog? And then the opportunity

had come to move here, their little cottage by the sea, the tiny

haven of peace and heaven that Talker had never dreamed about.

When Brian’s Aunt Lyndie had suggested they raise the

animals to sell the fleece to local spinners/dyers, it had seemed

perfect. They had the two cats, half-feral, half-affectionate, slinky,

purring things that may or may not wake up on the foot of their bed

or the hood of their car, but the sheep and alpacas had been…

well, exotic, and sweet, and fun.

Talker loved them—he could feed them and stroke them and

they simply enjoyed him, and then baaad or bleated or whatever

and trotted away. They were actually better company than

Sunshine or Big Harry, and Talker would bring carrots or sweet

grasses or oats and spend hours petting them, just listening to the

wind and the surf and feeling that luxe, living fur of theirs under his

hands.

If he’d had any idea that he and Brian would have ended up in

this little cottage right by the sea, he might have been more excited

about the offer to move to Petaluma, actually. But then, Brian

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32

hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about the offer. How were either of

them to know that Mark was being completely sincere?

THE show had been held in the reception hall of the library, which

Tate had always thought sounded like a tiny room with gross

carpeting and plastic chairs. It wasn"t. It was called the Library

Galleria, and it was a big, gorgeous ballroom with marble floors and

arching ceilings and a second story level where people could

wander and look down at the crowds below.

It was beautiful, and the art being displayed there was even

more so. Brian was one of three artists being showcased, and Tate

Walker couldn"t look at the sculptures on their pedestals or boxes

without feeling cowed and unworthy.

This
was Tate Walker"s boyfriend here? Brian looked good—

handsome and assured. Talker had made him cut his hair the week

before, so it was only a little long, because that much long, wheat

colored hair just
shouldn’t
be cut short, and they had both hit the

thrift stores hard until they"d come up with sports jackets to wear

over jeans. They"d sprung for new shirts and Brian had a tie, and

they both were freshly shaved (even Talker"s tattoo side of his

head), and Talker had bought a new nose stud for Brian with a tiny

Celtic cross etched on the top, to match his own.

But Brian looked—professional. Self-contained. He"d nodded

and smiled and stood quietly, listened intently when people spoke,

and never made the mental missteps that might frighten people into

thinking he was a temperamental artist who couldn"t be relied upon.

Talker had twitched so badly in the course of the night that

he"d managed to scatter hors d"oeuvres all over the carpet once

and spill wine on his blazer another time. Brian had stopped what

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33

he was doing both times and tended to him—helped him pick up

the food, wiped gently at his coat with a napkin.

“It"s okay,” Brian had murmured the second time. “No one here

is paying any attention to us. It"s all about the art, all right?”

Talker nodded and covered Brian"s hands with his own. “I

haven"t even seen all your pieces,” he mourned. “I just want so

badly for them to think you"re awesome.”
And to not embarrass

you.

Brian colored. “You haven"t seen them all?” he asked, a little

strained. “Have you seen the main one? The one Mark put in the

center of the library? He said it"s the cornerstone of the show. You

haven"t seen that one?”

Talker shook his head. He knew instinctively that this was the

piece that Brian had shown Orenskeezer to make the guy back off.

Talker had never told Brian he"d been there that night—and he"d

never doubted, ever again, that Brian would simply forget that he

loved his boyfriend.

Brian looked strained and upset for the first time that evening.

“You
have
to see it, Talker. You
have
to.”

A lovely woman in her fifties came up and touched Brian"s

arm, looking for attention, and Brian turned to her with a smile that

Tate was beginning to recognize as his “This is a patron” smile.

“Thanks, Mrs. Rose—can I answer that in just a sec?” He turned

back to Talker and then spotted someone over Tate"s shoulder.