Chapter 27
Miles
I act as Dax’s tour guide, starting with photography and sculptures, then moving on to Southern and African art.
I tell him about art movements and the histories of various pieces and artists.
I’m shocked when we’re already at the farthest room on the top floor—where they keep the Van Gogh pieces so that visitors check out the rest of the museum—and I realize I’ve probably been talking for five minutes straight about the rise of realism.
“Fuck, I’m still talking… Sorry, I should give you a chance to get a word in on our date.”
Dax’s eyes flare. “This has actually been great. It’s nice getting to see this chatty side to Miles Tanner, especially when you think about how quiet and broody you were when we first met.”
It’s not only when we met, though. It’s the way I am. Keeping it all in. Stuffing everything down. But I get what he means.
“Clearly, you were intrigued by how quiet and broody I was,” I tease, and he shrugs.
“It looks good on you.”
“Damn right it does.”
Am I really smiling right now? No, not just smiling. Grinning.
What is Dax Armstrong doing to me? One day we’re at the auction and I’m having a panic attack over bidding on him for this date, and the next he’s got me all playful and excited.
I tug on his hand, which I’m still holding, offering a peck on the lips.
I don’t think about it until after. It’s not the way I usually kiss him, but I liked it.
“This the kind of stuff boyfriends do?” I ask.
Smirking, he says, “Why do you think I would know?”
“Right? Maybe someone else in here can tell us.” I pretend to search around, making a bit out of it, and he laughs.
“I get it all today, don’t I?” he says. “Sarcastic Miles, Smiley Miles, and now Goofy Miles. Wonder what I’ll get next…”
“Probably Horny Miles, and it’s gonna get much worse the longer this date goes on,” I joke.
“Then let’s not waste any time.”
I must admit, I enjoy these exchanges with Dax.
Fun.
Playful.
Goofy.
Very us .
We head into the room with the Van Gogh display. “We only get ten of his pieces here,” I say, “and only for a few weeks. Then they’ll head down to the High in Atlanta. It’s amazing they’re able to get them here at all, so I’ll take what I can get.”
I spot The Courtyard of the Hospital at Arles and head right to it.
“You’ve probably heard about how he had a mental breakdown.
This was when he was hospitalized. Several of these are from that period when he was struggling.
It’s incredible how you can be trapped in such dark places in your mind, yet create such beautiful work.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s because you’re desperately grasping for it, looking for some kind of beauty to cling to. Something to make it all bearable.”
As soon as the words are out, I realize I’m not talking about Van Gogh. There’s a sinking feeling in my belly, but when Dax grips my hand gently, it helps soothe the discomfort.
“You good?” Dax asks, clearly picking up on my sudden mood change.
“I’m fine.”
I don’t want to fuck up our date, so I shake out of it, doing my best to pack my bullshit down. I continue telling him about Van Gogh and his career, managing to enjoy the rest of our date, before I drive Dax back to my place.
I can’t even wait to get him inside my place before my hands are all over him right outside the door to my apartment, our lips locked. He’s still got the taste of mint on his tongue from when he popped one in while we were at the museum.
Despite the brief hiccup earlier, I find myself feeling much better with him.
After I finally get him into my place, stealing a few more kisses, I say, “I’m not so bad at this date thing, am I?” I sound about as cocky as I feel right now as I lean back, but just a few centimeters. Like I don’t want to pull any farther away from him than that.
“I guess you can be taught.” His eyes are bright, full of that vibrancy I’m used to seeing around the guys. It makes me reflect on something within myself.
“What?” he asks, catching me off guard.
“I thought I was difficult to read.”
“It’s getting easier.”
I consider telling him what I was thinking but hesitate, which he must notice too, since he says, “Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.”
“I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good date.”
“I have a feeling it’s not gonna ruin anything.”
I’m quiet for a moment, realizing I don’t hear the screaming in my head or feel like this pain will overwhelm me into a panic attack, and I know why.
“It’s interesting,” I observe. “Because even though it hurts, it’s a little easier to think about her when you’re here with me. Doesn’t feel so weighty and all-consuming. I know I haven’t told you much…”
“I’m here for whatever you want to talk about.”
It’s all right on the tip of my tongue. Those things I’ve beaten down, that I’ve restrained myself from telling anyone.
Those things I know would crush Dad if he ever knew I’d uttered them.
But being with Dax like this, feeling so safe, I open my mouth, wondering if anything will even come out, and say, “Mom was the one who encouraged my work. She noticed early on that I had a knack for drawing and painting. She tried to get Dad to appreciate it, but he doesn’t think like that.
It’s hard not to think about her when art’s involved, which is something I’m used to because that’s my life now, but then the Van Gogh stuff along with it…
I thought about how much pain she must have been in, but she didn’t have an outlet like Dad or I did. It was all trapped in her head.”
I’m quiet, that inner struggle starting up once again, but I push past it, keep going.
“I’ve seen a lot of movies and shows where people have a loved one who’s clearly struggling, and they are depressed or anxious and grappling with something, and maybe they don’t help and should have, maybe they try and it works or doesn’t, but with Mom, I didn’t have a clue.
Dad didn’t have a clue. No one did. Outwardly, she was bright and excited about the world.
She could light up a room with a smile, and I know that’s cliché as fuck, but it’s true.
Sometimes I run through the weeks before it happened, and I think, What did I miss?
What didn’t I see? There must’ve been something .
I feel guilty for not catching on that something was wrong. ”
My words are softer, gentler than usual. More like a scared child than the guy I show the rest of the world, who seems like he’s always about to get into a fistfight.
Dax rests his hand on my cheek, stroking gently. It’s hard to understand how he can possibly know that’s exactly what I need right now.
“Dad found her…in their bedroom. No note. No explanation. Just the end. And how does he tell me? He calls me while I’m at school.
Tells me something’s wrong with Mom, but he can’t say more.
That he’s coming to pick me up, but instead, my aunt shows up.
There I was, worried Mom’s in the hospital, maybe because I couldn’t imagine anything worse ever happening to her.
But it was worse. So much fucking worse. ”
As the feelings that plagued me that day grip me again, I notice Dax’s gentle expression, just listening as he strokes his thumb across my cheek, and I lean into his palm.
I tear up, I’m not sure if it’s from the pain of the memory or because it feels like such a relief to get it out.
Whatever it is, it urges me on. “I expected Dad to be there for me, and he was through the funeral, telling me everything would be okay, before leaving me with my aunt and uncle while he checked himself into a wellness facility for months.”
I hear that kid in me screaming out again, wishing his parents would come back to him.
“I needed my dad, but it was like I lost both my parents at the same time. And I feel bad for judging him because I know he needed help. It was too much for him, but it was too much for me too, and he wasn’t there for me.
” I quiet for a moment, a mix of profound pain and guilt, considering that awful time in my life, before adding, “Neither of them was.”
As I take a deep breath, Dax offers another tender stroke. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I can’t even imagine how painful that must’ve been.”
I swallow, my throat not feeling as tight now that I got that out.
“Weird,” I say. “I’ve always felt like if I said some of that shit out loud, it would be too much for me and I’d wind up so out of control, I’d never recover. But it actually feels nice to say it out loud to someone I trust.” No, that’s not right. “To you , Dax.”
His lips curl into a gentle smile. “I’m glad you knew you could trust me with that. I’ll always be here for you.”
As comforting as it’s been, there’s one drawback. “I guess I had to find a way to fuck up date night after all.” I break eye contact for the first time since I unburdened myself of all that horrible shit. Feeling guilty for ruining what had been such a fun night with my boyfriend.
With his hand still on my cheek, he turns me toward him. “You didn’t ruin anything. Today has been…perfect. This is what I want. To get to know the real Miles Tanner, the good and the bad. It doesn’t scare me.”
His words prod at something within me, and my chin trembles. “It scares me sometimes,” I confess, once again less like the man I’ve become and more like the kid who found out his mom and dad had, each in their own way, abandoned him.
Dax glides his hand across my flesh, to the back of my head, threading his fingers through the strands. The sensation is so tender, so soothing.
“But when we’re together, and when you touch me, it’s like I can drown out all that bullshit and just focus on us. Like nothing else in the world fucking matters.”
He leans close, his lips greeting mine, offering that familiar rush, pushing away all the darkness. I shove him back against the wall as we embrace, kissing passionately as I lose myself in the experience.
Finally, he pulls away, his breath hitching. “Does that feel better?”
“You have no fucking idea how much better.” My lips are on his throat in no time. I nibble and lick, suck as all those painful memories dissolve from my awareness and it’s just me and him again.
“Then touch me as much as you need to.”
I accept the invitation, my hands sliding greedily under the hem of his shirt as my teeth trail along his flesh.