Chapter 12
Chad had seen the photograph a dozen times by noon.
It was everywhere—Twitter, Instagram, the Post website, a gossip blog Ricky had texted him with a string of shocked emojis.
Every time he thought he’d stopped looking, his thumb would find its way back to the screen, back to that image of two men walking hand in hand across a rain-slicked plaza.
He barely recognized himself. The guy in the charcoal blazer looked happy.
Relaxed. Completely unaware that his life was about to implode.
The rain hadn’t let up since the night before.
It streaked down the windows of the apartment, turning the world outside into a gray blur.
Chad sat on his bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, phone in hand, watching the notifications pile up.
Texts from classmates. A message from Blake asking if he was okay.
Three missed calls from a number he’d memorized but hadn’t saved—couldn’t save, because what would he even put as the contact name?
Senator? Hank? The man whose career I just torpedoed?
His mother would have seen it by now. Manassas wasn’t far, and Celia Ellsworth had never met a piece of gossip she didn’t devour with her morning coffee.
She’d have seen her son’s face—blurry, half-turned, but recognizable—and she’d have known.
And she wouldn’t call. Hadn’t called in two years, wasn’t about to start now. That silence, at least, was familiar.
“You need to eat something,” Ricky said from the doorway.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve been staring at your phone for hours. It’s not healthy.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ricardo. I’ll take it under advisement.”
Ricky crossed his arms. “Has he called?”
“Three times.”
“Are you going to call him back?”
Chad looked at the phone in his hand—another missed call from Hank, the notification joining the others like a growing accusation. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
“How about ‘hello’? It’s customary.”
“His career is—” Chad stopped. Started again.
“We had rules. Forty-eight days. Keep it private until after the election. And I knew why. I’ve been out since I was seventeen—nobody cares who I sleep with.
But him?” He shook his head. “He’s been hiding his whole life, and I knew the stakes weren’t the same for both of us, and I let it happen anyway.
Because it felt normal. Because I forgot, for one stupid second, that he couldn’t afford normal.
” He tossed the phone onto the bed. “What am I supposed to say? Sorry, I forgot your career was on the line. Want to grab dinner?”
Ricky was quiet for a moment. Then he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
“You don’t know it’s ruined.”
“He’s a Republican senator from Georgia. A closeted one. Was closeted.” Chad laughed, but there was nothing in it. “You think his constituents are going to be fine with this? You think the party’s going to rally around him?”
“I think you’re doomscrolling out loud.”
“I think I’m being realistic.”
“Those aren’t always different things.” Ricky reached over and squeezed his knee. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know how politics works. But I know you. And I know that hiding in your room isn’t going to fix anything.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m processing.”
“You’re hiding.” Ricky stood. “I’m making grilled cheese. You’re eating it. Non-negotiable.”
He disappeared down the hall, and Chad heard the clatter of pans in the kitchen. He picked up his phone again, stared at the missed calls, and set it back down.
The photograph stared up at him from the lock screen—he’d screenshotted it without meaning to, some masochistic impulse he couldn’t explain. Two men. Hand in hand. One of them looking at the other like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
That was the worst part. Not that someone had taken the picture, not that it had been published, but that anyone who looked at it could see exactly how Hank felt.
It was written all over his face. That unguarded tenderness—Hank had spent his whole life hiding, and in one unguarded moment, the camera had captured everything he’d kept behind glass.
And it was Chad’s fault. He was the one who’d reached for Hank’s hand—or hadn’t stopped Hank from reaching for his—because it felt good, felt right, felt like something they both deserved. And he’d forgotten, just for a moment, that Hank was the one who’d pay for it.
Forty-eight days of discretion, Hank had said. Then dinner in public.
They hadn’t even made it twenty-one.
Chad didn’t call Hank back that day. Or the next.
He told himself it was for Hank’s own good.
The last thing Hank needed was to be seen with him again, to have any further connection to the “mystery man” the tabloids were trying to identify.
Chad’s face was in the photograph, but it was slightly turned, and slightly blurred.
If he stayed away, maybe they wouldn’t figure out who he was.
Maybe Hank could spin some story, deny the relationship, salvage something from the wreckage.
It was a lie, and Chad knew it. The real reason he didn’t call was simpler and worse: he couldn’t bear to hear Hank’s voice and find disappointment in it. The careful politeness of a man figuring out how to end something without causing more damage.
Better to end it himself. Better to disappear before Hank had to ask him to.
Your picker, Chad.
He went to class on Monday, sat through Art History in a daze, and left before anyone could talk to him.
He skipped studio time and went home, telling himself he’d paint later, knowing he wouldn’t.
Ricky had a shift at David’s, so the apartment was empty.
Chad lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way Hank’s hand had felt in his, warm and solid and sure.
His phone buzzed. Another text from Hank: Please call me. I’m worried about you.
Chad read it three times, then set the phone face down on the coffee table.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
By Tuesday, the media had moved on to other scandals—a congressman caught in some financial impropriety, a celebrity divorce, the usual churn. The photograph was still out there, still circulating in certain corners of the internet, but it was no longer front-page news.
Chad should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt hollow.
He’d called in sick to BJ’s on Monday, claiming a stomach bug. Tim had been skeptical but hadn’t pushed. Tonight was Tuesday Tunes, and the thought of pouring drinks while a room full of men belted Everything’s Coming Up Roses made him want to crawl under his bed and stay there.
He texted Tim: Still not feeling great. Can someone cover tonight?
The response came quickly: Blake already volunteered. Take the time you need.
That simple message—no questions, no pressure—made Chad’s eyes sting. Blake, who six weeks ago could barely make it through a shift without dropping something, had stepped up without being asked.
Thanks, Chad typed back. Tell him I owe him one.
He says you’re even. Whatever that means.
Chad set the phone down and looked around the apartment. The walls felt like they were closing in. He needed to get out, needed to do something with his hands, needed to stop thinking for five minutes.
The studio. It would be empty this time of night—most students had evening classes or part-time jobs, and the building was usually deserted after seven. He could lose himself in paint and canvas and forget, for a while, that he’d ruined the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out into the rain.
The Corcoran building was quiet when Chad arrived, the hallways dim and echoing.
He swiped his student ID at the studio door and let himself in, flipping on the overhead lights.
The familiar smell hit him—turpentine, linseed oil, the dusty sweetness of dried paint—and the knot behind his sternum loosened a fraction.
This was his place. Whatever else was falling apart, he still had this.
He set up his easel near the window, where the light was best during the day, though now there were only the fluorescents and the darkness outside.
He’d meant to work on the piece he’d started last week—an abstract landscape, muted greens and golds—but when he picked up his brush, his hand moved in a different direction.
Dark colors. Prussian blue, alizarin crimson, burnt umber. He mixed them on his palette without thinking, letting instinct guide him. The first strokes were angry—harsh slashes that felt like screaming. But as he worked, something shifted. The anger gave way to something else. Sadder.
A figure began to emerge from the darkness. Broad shoulders. A face half-hidden in shadow. He didn’t plan it—his hand just moved, and there it was. Someone caught between worlds.
Chad painted for hours. He lost track of time, lost track of everything except the canvas, the colors, and the image taking shape under his hands. The figure was emerging from darkness into light—one side of the face illuminated, the other still obscured.
His phone lit up on the table beside him. Hank’s number.
Chad watched it ring. His thumb hovered over the screen—accept, one tap, that’s all it would take—and he could hear Hank’s voice, could explain, could—
The call went to voicemail.
Chad set the phone face down and picked up his brush.
“That’s extraordinary.”
Chad spun around, heart hammering. Martin Abrams stood in the doorway, coat damp with rain, messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
He was looking at the canvas with an expression Chad had never seen on him before—not the measured assessment of a teacher evaluating student work, but something closer to recognition.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Chad said.
“You were focused. I didn’t want to interrupt.” Martin crossed the room, his eyes on the painting. “How long have you been working on this?”
Chad glanced at his phone. Nearly midnight. He’d been here almost five hours. “A while.”
“I can tell.” Martin stopped a few feet from the easel. “This is different from your other work. More urgent.”
“I had some things to work through.”
Martin’s gaze shifted to Chad’s face. “I read the news,” he said. “And I’m capable of recognizing one of my own students.”
Chad’s stomach dropped. “Martin—”
“You don’t have to explain anything.” He nodded toward the painting. “The work doesn’t lie. Whatever you’re feeling—it’s in there. The confusion, the guilt, the love. It’s all there.”
Chad’s eyes stung. He blinked hard. “I ruined everything.”
“Did you?”
“His career. His reputation. Everything he’s worked for.”
“And he told you this?”
“He doesn’t have to tell me. It’s obvious.”
Martin pulled up a stool and sat down.
“I was married for twenty-three years,” he said.
“To a man I pushed away more times than I can count because I was convinced I didn’t deserve him.
Because I thought my love would ruin him somehow.
” He paused. “I wasted a lot of time being afraid. And then he got sick, and I realized how much of it I’d thrown away.
How many years I’d spent protecting myself instead of loving him. ”
Chad’s throat was tight. “What happened?”
“He died. Four years ago.” Martin’s eyes were wet, but his voice was steady.
“And I would give anything for one more day. Even a day where everything was falling apart.” He stood, picking up his bag.
“Don’t let fear make your choices for you, Chad.
If you love him, tell him. If you’re scared, tell him that too. But don’t disappear.”
He paused at the door.
“Finish your painting. And then call him.”
He left, and Chad was alone with the canvas and the rain against the windows and the weight of everything he’d been avoiding.
He looked at the figure emerging from the shadows. Half in darkness, half in light.
Chad picked up his brush and kept painting.
He didn’t get home until nearly three. The painting wasn’t finished—not really—but he’d reached a stopping point, a place where he could step back and breathe. His hands were stained with paint, his back ached, and his eyes felt gritty with exhaustion.
Ricky was asleep. The apartment was dark and quiet. Chad kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed without bothering to undress. His phone was on the nightstand, the screen dark.
He picked it up. Two more missed calls from Hank. A voicemail.
Chad stared at the notification for a long time. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed play.
Hank’s voice filled the silence, rough and tired.
“Chad. I don’t know if you’re getting these, or if you’re ignoring me, or if something’s wrong.
I just—I need to know you’re okay. I don’t care about the photograph.
I don’t care about the news. I care about you.
Please call me. Or text. Or anything. Just let me know you’re all right. ” A pause. “Miss you.”
The message ended.
Chad lay in the dark, phone pressed to his chest, and let the tears come. Stupid. Pointless. Crying never fixed anything.
But he let it happen anyway. Miss you. Two words. More than Chad had given him in three days.
Outside, the rain had stopped.