Chapter Sixteen #2
He melted, finally, all the resistance gone. When I broke the kiss, his breathing was easier, the tension bled out of his jaw. We sat like that, just holding each other, until the sound of the party got sharper, closer.
Knox’s voice, from the kitchen: “Hey! Bo! You got a minute? They want you in the living room!”
Bo groaned, but I helped him up, brushed the ice from his sleeves, and led him back inside.
Before we crossed the threshold, I leaned in close, lips at his ear. “You’re safe,” I whispered. “I swear it.”
He nodded, the smile more real this time.
I opened the door, the warmth and light swallowing us whole, and we walked in together—his hand in mine, the collar bright as a brand.
It wasn’t luck.
It was a choice, every day. And neither of us was about to let go.
Inside, the party had coagulated into a single organism—everyone herded into the living room by the promise of a big reveal and maybe a second dessert.
The lights were dimmed, the couches dragged into a rough semicircle around the canvas that stood at the room’s far end, covered by a drop cloth and haloed by the standing lamp I’d built for Bo’s studio.
Ransom had killed the music, and Harlow, who’d been working his way through the last of the peach cobbler, was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes huge and expectant.
Bo hovered at the margin, spine tight as a bowstring. He wiped his hands on his jeans, which left streaks of black and ochre across the thighs. He shot me a look that was all nerves, then squared his shoulders and stepped up to the easel.
I moved in behind him, close enough that he could feel me but not so close I’d crowd him. My hand went to the small of his back. It was instinct, at this point. It was also necessary.
The room fell quiet, the kind of silence that only happens when the air is full of other people’s secrets.
Knox leaned against the stone of the fireplace, arms folded, gaze locked on his brother.
Grandma Minnie perched on the edge of the old armchair, feet barely touching the ground, hands knotted together like she was praying.
Even Grandpa Burnell had stopped mid-rant and was watching, mouth slightly open, as if afraid to cough and break the tension.
Bo took a breath, let it out slow. His fingers shook as he gripped the drop cloth. “Before I do this,” he said, voice louder than he probably wanted, “I just want to say… thanks. For coming. And for, you know, not burning the place down yet.”
A ripple of laughter went through the room. It broke something in him; his posture softened by a degree.
I squeezed his waist, silent.
He glanced at me, then yanked the drop cloth away.
For a second, nobody moved.
The painting was huge, easily four feet across, built from a panel of plywood that I’d sanded and stretched for him over three afternoons. The composition was simple, but there was nothing simple about the image itself.
It was a figure, male, naked but for a blur of blue jeans at the hip. He was kneeling on rough ground, hands open on his thighs, head not bowed in shame but lifted—face turned toward the source of a hard, white light that crashed down from the upper corner of the canvas.
But it was the shadows that made the piece: a swirl of black and gray and deep red, curling around the figure but never touching. If you looked long enough, the shadows had shapes—shoulders, jaws, the blurred silhouette of hands reaching not to pull him down, but to hold him up.
At the figure’s throat was a collar, rendered in a rich, dark brown, the D-ring catching that same beam of impossible light.
The room breathed as one. Some of the older folks looked away, but most just stared.
For the first time in his life, Bo stood in front of something he couldn’t run from. He reached up, touched his own collar, then let his hand drop. “This is who I am,” he said, voice shaking at first but finding strength. “I’m a McKenzie. I’m an artist. And I belong to Jo.”
He let the words hang, daring them to react.
Nobody did. Not for a long, heavy minute.
Then Knox stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He looked at the painting, then at Bo, then at me. His face was unreadable. He closed the distance, grabbed Bo by the back of the neck, and pulled him into a hug so tight it popped every vertebra in his spine.
“We’re proud of you,” Knox said, voice rough. “All of you.”
Bo didn’t cry, but his body shook.
Ransom was next. He clapped Bo on the shoulder, hard, then turned to the painting. “That’s fucking sick,” he said, and grinned, the words a benediction.
Grandma Minnie was crying. She dabbed her eyes with a napkin, then came up and hugged Bo around the waist, whispering something I didn’t hear.
Quiad lingered at the edge of the room, his expression unreadable. When everyone else had said their piece, he nodded once, sharp as a salute.
The rest of the family followed suit, each in their own way—Harlow bear-hugged him, nearly taking both of us to the ground; Aunt Georgia patted his hand and called him her “brave, strange boy”; even Grandpa Burnell managed a grunt of approval, which from him was like a standing ovation.
Afterwards, when the commotion faded and the crowd thinned, Bo slumped against me, the last of his defenses gone. He was smiling—real, unguarded, radiant.
I kissed the side of his head, loud and embarrassing, just because I could. “You did it,” I said, and he laughed, bright and open.
“I did,” he agreed.
We stood together, watching the painting, the two of us reflected in the glass of the window behind it. The man in the canvas was still kneeling, but there was no surrender in his posture. Only a readiness for whatever came next.
I held Bo close, the world narrowed to the sound of his breathing and the light that poured off the canvas.
The party wound down, but we stayed there, unmovable. If belonging had a weight, I felt it now, heavy and perfect and exactly what I’d always wanted.
The house was empty except for us. The heat from the fire still lingered, soaking into the old plaster and making everything smell like bread and pine. The only sound was the creak of floorboards as we moved through the rooms, picking up stray glasses and setting chairs back where they belonged.
Bo trailed me from kitchen to hallway, not saying much, just watching the way the night had transformed the cottage into something softer, more private.
I caught his reflection in the window once, and saw him touch his own throat—fingers settling on the collar like it was a secret he wanted to keep for himself.
When we finished, I took his hand and led him down the short hallway to the bedroom. He hesitated at the door, just for a second, like he was waiting for someone else to call the shots. I squeezed his hand, then let go and turned on the lamp by the bed.
The room was small, but Bo had made it his own.
The dresser was littered with Polaroids of the two of us—him asleep in the grass, me shirtless and grinning, a half-eaten pie between us; him painting, face and arms smeared with blue; both of us, arms tangled, in the backseat of my old truck on a night we’d driven until dawn.
The walls were hung with his smaller canvases—vivid, almost violent color, nothing like the big pieces he showed to other people.
I liked these best.
I stood at the foot of the bed and looked at him, waiting.
He caught on fast. He always did.
He dropped to his knees, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He rested his hands on his thighs, head tipped up, eyes shining.
“Good boy,” I said, and the shiver went straight through him.
I stepped close and knelt down in front of him, cupping his jaw in both hands. I took my time, running my thumbs along the line of his cheek, then down to the leather at his throat.
“May I?” I asked.
He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
I unbuckled the collar, careful and slow. The pulse in his neck thudded against my knuckles, and I felt him breathing, steady but quick. I set the old collar aside, then reached under the bed and pulled out a small box. He watched, silent, waiting for the punchline.
I opened it and took out the new collar. I’d made it myself: black leather, hand-stitched, lined with something soft enough that he could wear it all night if he wanted. At the front was a silver lock, delicate but real.
I buckled it around his throat, then clicked the lock into place. The sound was tiny in the quiet, but it filled the room.
He smiled, a shaky thing, eyes going wet.
“This isn’t just a collar,” I told him. “It’s a promise. You’re mine to protect. To cherish. To love—forever. Got it?”
He nodded, but the tears were already rolling down his face. I kissed them away, one by one.
Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ring. It wasn’t fancy—just a simple band of platinum, no engraving, no diamonds, nothing but the promise of what it meant.
“And this,” I said, voice gone rough, “is for when we’re in public. So you always know who you belong to.”
He laughed, a sound that was more sob than chuckle. “You’re supposed to ask first.”
I grinned. “Will you marry me, Bodean McKenzie?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, tears and snot and all, and then he launched himself into my arms, knocking us both sideways onto the rug.
He kissed me, deep and hungry, then pressed his lips to my ear. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, voice barely there.
I rolled us over, pinning him, and kissed him again. We stayed like that a long time, the world narrowed to the heat of our bodies and the way his breath hitched whenever I touched the new collar. The future stretched out ahead of us—messy, bright, and full of promise.
When we finally made it to the bed, we curled up together, his head on my chest, my arms locked around him. He traced the ring on his finger, over and over, until he fell asleep.
I stayed awake, listening to the river outside, the house settling, the steady thump of his heartbeat under my hand.
I’d built engines, rebuilt bikes, even fixed a few broken bones in my time. But nothing had ever felt as good as this: a life made by hand, every day chosen and earned, and a man who wanted to be here more than anywhere else. He was mine and I was his, and maybe that was all that mattered.