Chapter 4
Chad had been on plenty of bad first dates.
The guy who spent the entire meal narrating his breakup like it was a TED Talk.
The one who looked nothing like his profile photo.
The political aide who’d taken a call halfway through appetizers and left Chad sitting alone with the check and a basket of garlic bread he hadn’t ordered.
But he’d never been on a date that felt like this.
Hank held doors. Hank asked questions and actually listened to the answers. Hank had looked at Chad’s painting like it was hanging in the National Gallery instead of a student exhibition that would be taken down in two weeks.
And now Hank was sitting across from him at a booth at Ted’s Bulletin—a co-worker’s recommendation, apparently—studying the menu with the kind of intense focus most people reserved for tax returns, and Chad couldn’t stop smiling.
Stop it. You look deranged.
“I’m dying to try the loaded tater tots,” Hank said, “but the deviled eggs are singing to me.” He looked up, meeting Chad’s eyes. “What sounds good to you?”
“They both sound good.”
A server appeared—a middle-aged woman, kind face, name tag reading Marsha. “Hi, I’m Marsha. Welcome to Ted’s. What can I start you two off with tonight?”
Hank didn’t hesitate. “We’ll take the tater tots and the deviled eggs. And some of that fried cauliflower too.”
Chad laughed. “You’re out of control.”
“I’m hungry.” Hank’s eyes held his across the table. “And I’m very happy to be here.”
Hank said things like that—just said them, no setup, no deflection, no ironic distance. Like sincerity was a language he’d never learned to be embarrassed by.
You have no defenses against this man. None.
“Got it,” Marsha said, scribbling on her pad. “Do you two need more time, or do you want me to put in your entrées too?”
Hank looked at Chad. “You ready?”
Chad scanned the menu. Everything looked incredible, and he was starving. “I’ll have the Peanut Butter Bacon Burger, because it sounds delicious and terrifying at the same time.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Marsha said.
“And I’ll have the meatloaf.”
“My favorite. Do you fellas want shakes to go with that?”
Chad glanced at the dessert menu, overwhelmed by the options, and Hank stepped in. “Let’s wait on dessert. We’ll both have water for now. Unless you want something else?”
“Water’s fine.”
“Great.” Marsha collected the menus. “I’ll have your appetizers out soon.”
Once she was gone, Hank leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Peanut Butter Bacon Burger? I may have to steal a bite.”
“I intend to share. But only because I want a taste of your meatloaf.”
“You make it sound so provocative.”
“It was my competing entrée selection.”
“Then you may have some of mine with pleasure, my dear.”
Chad grinned. The formal phrasing should have sounded stuffy, but coming from Hank, it was almost courtly. “You really are a Southern gentleman.”
“Are you referring to my manners or my accent?”
“Both.”
Hank accepted the water glass Marsha set down.
“My mother taught me manners. Can’t really help the way I talk, though.
” He took a sip. “But we’re in the South, remember?
DC is such a transient city—people tend to forget it’s Southern, with regard to the Mason-Dixon line.
Northern Virginia seems to believe the South begins somewhere around Richmond. ”
“Or west of Vienna,” Chad said. “Manassas—or Manasshole, as I like to call it—is definitely the South. Every corner has a commemorative plaque about some Civil War general or battlefield.”
Hank’s expression softened. “Yeah. It’s a wonderful country, but it has its closets too. Full of skeletons.”
The metaphor wasn’t lost on Chad. He took a sip of water, turning his glass on the tabletop.
Here we go. Into it.
“My mother’s still there,” he said. “In Manassas. We don’t talk much. She’s—” He reached for the right word and came up short. “Religious.”
“And your father?”
“Never knew him. Celia—my mother—was wayward in her youth.” He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, the sarcasm sharpening it into something that almost passed for casual.
“She had me, then found religion as a means of—salvation? Unfortunately, it was one of those religions that tends to focus more on sin and sodomy. You know. Abominations and all that jazz.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“A lot less of that, actually.”
Hank shook his head. “I’m not religious at all.
My mother would probably be rolling in her grave at my mention of it.
” His fingers traced patterns in the condensation on his water glass.
“It’s just—I see too much of the money and politics behind that stuff to put any faith in it.
I feel more connected—or spiritual, if you will—listening to Beethoven or Brubeck. ”
“Same.” Chad leaned back in his chair. “I mean, I don’t know those composers the way you do, but art in general is where I feel my place in this world.”
Hank reached across the table and squeezed Chad’s hand—brief, grounding. “Well. We have something in common.”
Marsha returned with the appetizers, setting the dishes in the center of the table along with small plates. Neither of them reached for the plates. Instead, they ate from the communal dishes, forks crossing, sharing bites, the accidental knuckle-brush and eye contact that held a beat too long.
The loaded tater tots were obscenely good. Crispy potatoes drowning in cheese, bacon, sour cream, and chives. The deviled eggs were creamy and tangy with just enough paprika. The fried cauliflower was perfectly seasoned.
“Oh my God,” Chad said around a mouthful of tater tots. “This is dangerous.”
“Right?” Hank speared a piece of cauliflower. “I’m going to have to walk home to work this off.”
“You live near here?”
“Not too far. Capitol Hill area.” Hank paused, and Chad caught the slight tension in his shoulders—a shift, barely perceptible, the kind of thing you learned to read after three years behind a bar.
“As far as the South and those plaques you mentioned—relics, rebel flags, and whatnot—Georgia’s the same.
Some people can’t let go of the past, even a shameful one.
Personally, I like it here. It’s very diverse, a wonderful mix of culture.
I’m considering relocating here once I—”
He stopped. Like a door slamming.
Chad set his fork down. “Wait. I thought you lived here.”
“I, uh—didn’t I tell you I still have a home in Georgia? And a place here? I work here, but sometimes I go home on weekends.”
“You said you were from Georgia. I didn’t know you still had a house there.” Chad leaned back, letting a playful smile tug at his lips. He was teasing, mostly. But there was a kernel under the teasing—a hard little seed of what aren’t you telling me? “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“Well, what if you decide to pick up and head home?” Chad gestured with a fry. “Or worse—what if you’re still married and have some poor misguided woman on a leash down there? Or a man? You could have some boy toy for all I know, roaming the streets of Hotlanta.”
Hank’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he realized Chad was messing with him. “First of all, no one serious uses the phrase Hotlanta, but I forgive you this once.”
Chad grinned. “Fair.”
“I’ve been divorced three years now, and my ex, Shelby, and I are still friends. She knows I’m gay. She’s remarried—with a child.” Hank held up his bare left hand as evidence. “See? No ring.”
“Anyone can take a ring off, Hank.” Chad was still enjoying himself. “And if you’ve been single for that long, then you’re likely to have a few skeletons in your closet—young, broken-hearted, blond, blue-eyed men, perhaps?”
Hank crossed his arms and leaned on the table. “Nope. I’m a saint. Believe it or not.”
Chad studied him. Hank’s face was open, maybe a little nervous. No guile there, no performance.
He means it.
When’s the last time you believed someone this fast?
“I don’t know what to believe,” Chad said softly. “You stroll into my bar, seduce me, convince me to ignore my resolutions, then take me to a glorified diner that has—I must say—the most delicious deviled eggs I have ever had in my life.”
Hank took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving Chad’s face.
“I’m a virgin. Do you believe that?”
Chad’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
Virgin.
He said virgin.
“I—what?”
But before Hank could answer, Marsha materialized with their entrées. “Meatloaf and a PBB Burger. Get ‘em while they’re hot.”
She set the plates down, refilled their water glasses, and asked if they needed anything else. Chad barely heard her. His entire focus was on Hank, who was now studiously cutting into his meatloaf like he hadn’t just detonated the evening.
“Thank you,” Hank said to Marsha. “This looks great.”
She smiled and left.
Chad picked up his burger—peanut butter already oozing out the sides—and took a bite without tasting it.
Virgin. Forty years old. Divorced. Virgin.
Your picker, Chad. Your goddamn picker.
He chewed, swallowed, wiped his mouth.
“Were you serious about being a virgin?” he asked. “It’s kind of hard to believe.”
Hank spread mashed potatoes across his meatloaf in slow, deliberate strokes. “Why would it be hard to believe?”
“Because of your age. Your looks. Your personality.” Chad shrugged. “I assume you meant with men, considering you were married. You’re not a Gold Star Gay, are you?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve never slept with a woman.”
“No. Shelby and I had a sex life. But she was the only person I’ve ever been with. Period.” Hank set his knife down and met Chad’s eyes. “I’ve never been to bed with a man.”
Chad pointed a fry at him. “That’s still pretty hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Because you said you’ve been single for three years. Why would you wait once you’re single?”
Hank’s jaw tightened. “Well—I, uh—I have work. I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy to get laid?”