Chapter 17
Brie
There’s something about Dairyville’s “authentic” Tex-Mex that always made me feel like I was participating in a low-budget reality show.
Maybe it was the way the chairs wobbled, or how the chili-lime air clung to every inch of exposed skin.
Maybe it was that the restaurant—a converted car wash—was just loud enough to drown out most attempts at eavesdropping, but not so loud that I couldn’t feel every conversational power play reverberate through the Formica table.
Gunner and I walked in a few steps behind Lysander, who was still dressed in what he’d worn to work at the gallery; a linen shirt, tan straight-leg slacks, and loafers without socks.
The hostess, who doubled as the bartender, did a little double take at his accent, which Lysander immediately cranked to eleven as he requested “the table with the best view, darling, preferably near a mural.” He threw in a wink that almost upended her tray.
She led us to a booth under the painted eyes of a Dia de los Muertos mask where the bench cushions were sun-bleached and squeaked when you sat.
Gunner took the outside seat, arm slung over the backrest, exuding a calm that felt more like the stillness before a tornado.
I slid in next to him, with Lysander opposite.
He immediately started fussing with the menu, then set it down with a sigh.
“You know what? I’ll just ask them to bring whatever the chef recommends.
That’s the only way to truly experience the local cuisine. ”
He flagged down the waitress, who, to her credit, did not roll her eyes, and ordered enough appetizers to feed a football team: besides the chips and salsa, which were already on the table; he ordered three kinds of queso, and “as much guacamole as you can legally serve.” He added, “and a pitcher of the house margarita—unless you boys can’t handle your tequila? ”
Gunner’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll stick to beer. Got work in the morning.”
“A man of responsibility,” Lysander purred, nodding with mock solemnity. “I admire that.”
The chips were light, salty, and crispy. Lysander dipped a chip, crunched it, and closed his eyes in theatrical ecstasy. “Heaven. Actual heaven. I’ve been in Texas a couple of weeks, and I’m already addicted to this stuff. No wonder you people all look like you could wrestle a bear.”
“I’ve wrestled worse,” Gunner said, voice low.
“Now, now, let’s not flex at the dinner table,” I said, nudging Gunner’s thigh under the table.
Lysander grinned, flicked his gaze to me, and then, as if he’d just remembered why we were here, produced a folder from his slim bag and slid it across.
“First things first, business. I’ve made a schedule for the install and previewed the press packet.
You’re going to die when you see the Amarillo Reporter’s write-up.
I think they called you a ‘provocateur.’ Are you prepared for local stardom, Brie? ”
“Am I prepared?” I spread my hands. “I’ve had years of being ignored and/or mocked. Stardom would be a nice change of pace.”
He poured some salsa into a little bowl, then said, “They really do adore you. Inez is terrified, by the way. She thinks you’ll outshine her at her own show.”
I cracked up. “Inez is my new painting idol. She could outshine the sun.”
Gunner tapped the folder, then opened it, flipping through the pages. “You got numbers for head count? The lot behind the gallery’s not big, but I can get us overflow at the pharmacy.”
Lysander’s eyebrow shot up. “See? This is why you’re the brains of the operation. I’d forgotten about parking. Maybe a valet?”
“Probably better to block off the street, if the city’ll let us.” Gunner looked to me. “You want me to call the Chief?”
I nodded, surprised he’d even think of that. “Yes, please. If we have anyone important coming, the last thing we need is a parking war outside.”
“I got prospects who can valet for you.” Gunner told us.
Lysander’s eyes got as big as saucers. He’d never seen Gunner in his cut. “You’re in a motorcycle gang?”
Gunner rolled his eyes. “It’s actually a club, not a gang. You don’t wanna catch anybody in that club hearing you call us a gang either. You might get your pretty teeth rearranged.”
Lysander swallowed hard. “Of course, sir. I’d not want to offend anyone.”
“Anyway. Whoever we’d use to valet would be dressed in appropriate attire for a high-toned event like Brie’s gallery opening.”
Lysander nodded. Then he leaned in, and for a second his entire persona sharpened. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your logistical genius, Finn. Most of my clients just throw me to the wolves.” He giggled. He had no idea how close he was to wolves.
Gunner didn’t laugh, but he didn’t growl, either. Progress.
The queso arrived. Lysander dunked a chip and held it up. “If I gain ten pounds this week, I’ll die happy.” He turned to me. “You know, you could easily be doing this in Houston, or Santa Fe. Why stay here?”
I didn’t want to look at Gunner when I answered. “Because this is my home.”
Lysander smiled. “That’s the best answer. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already set up a call with a couple of buyers. One is coming from Santa Fe, actually, just for your opening.”
I choked on a chip. “What? Why didn’t you…”
He raised a hand. “Surprise! It’s more fun this way. And if you sell out opening night, you’ll have to start painting more things for me to sell!”
The waitress arrived with our entrees—enchiladas swimming in red sauce, a carne asada plate, and a salad for Lysander “because I’m civilized, darling.” She refilled our drinks and vanished before Gunner could object to the pile of peppers he hadn’t ordered.
We ate in relative silence for a while, except for Lysander, who never stopped talking.
He told stories about art school in Berlin (“It was like being in a cult, but everyone was prettier”), about his mother’s insane collection of Italian glassware, about how he once met Damien Hirst and found him “shockingly dull, like a tax accountant who got lost on his way to the Tate Modern.” I laughed at every one, because it was impossible not to.
Gunner only smiled when directly addressed, and even then it looked like the effort might break his jaw in half.
Eventually, Lysander turned to me and said, “So, are you ready for the big night? Do you have an outfit? A statement piece?”
“I have a dress,” I said, “and the world’s most boring pair of heels. And I thought my ‘statement piece’ was supposed to be the art.”
He rolled his eyes. “Darling, the dress is the art. The rest is just context.”
He launched into a monologue about the necessity of fashion as emotional armor, and for once I felt like maybe I’d been missing out by never having a gay best friend.
He suggested a “scarlet lip, but not too matte,” and told Gunner, “you should try a blazer, or at least iron your shirt, for God’s sake.
” I thought Gunner might combust, but he only grunted, kept eating.
He had no idea how much Gunner was worth.
Money just wasn’t the be-all, end-all for him.
The check came. Lysander swept it up before anyone else could move. “It’s a tax write-off,” he insisted. “If I’m going to play gallery daddy, I’m going to do it right.”
Gunner tried to protest, but Lysander silenced him with a wave. “Besides, if I let you pay, you’ll ruin my reputation. People expect me to be a little insufferable.”
We stood to leave, Lysander carrying the folder, me with a takeout box, and Gunner—ever the gentleman—holding the door. Outside, the storm had moved in, thunder rumbling over the flat blacktop.
At the curb, Lysander turned to Gunner, extended a hand. “Thank you for coming, and for not killing me. I like you, Finn. You’re not nearly as scary as you look.”
Gunner shook his hand a little too firmly, but managed a “You’re alright, Lysander.”
Then Lysander turned to me, and without hesitation, leaned in and air-kissed both my cheeks. “You are a star, Brie. Never let anyone tell you different. I won’t be at the gallery tomorrow. Sadly, Mother insists I fly into Boston for a family event. But I’ll be back Sunday morning.”
He stepped into his waiting Uber—a Prius with a pride flag decal—and vanished into the rain.
Gunner stared after him for a second, then looked down at me, jaw working side to side. “Do people actually do that? The kiss thing?”
I shrugged. “I guess they do. Maybe it’s an East Coast thing.”
He muttered something under his breath, then took my hand. His grip was tight, grounding, as if he was anchoring me to this moment, this place, this small-town reality where nothing was ever just what it seemed.
“I like you better,” I said, voice small.
He grunted. “Good. Because I’m not learning that cheek-kiss bullshit.”
We walked to the truck, thunder rolling in the distance, the rain spitting sideways across the hood. Gunner opened the passenger door, waited for me to climb in, then circled to the driver’s side.
As we pulled out of the lot, I looked back at the restaurant, its neon sign flickering in the storm, and thought: this is my life now. Art, awkward dinners, storms that never quite break, and a man beside me who’d burn down the world to keep me safe.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The drive home was a whole geography of silence.
Gunner kept one hand locked at twelve o’clock on the steering wheel, knuckles white as pickled onions.
The other hand hovered between the shifter and the radio dial, but he never touched either.
The roads outside town were long, low, and black—striped with reflective paint that caught the high beams in eerie slashes.
Every fence post was a blur of rain-lacquered silver, the fields beyond shivering with the first wind of a coming storm.