Knight Takes King
Dane has seen his sister host at least ten shows at her SoHo gallery.
Not once has he seen her with the jitters about an opening.
The upcoming exhibit Harefoot, by the unknown artist Ethan Hasen, is making her distracted and full of sighs.
Dane finds her fussing over the gallery program and chewing her thumbnail.
“Is this show something of a risk?” he asks. “Will you lose money?”
“Every pot has a lid,” she says absently. “It’s just…”
Dane studies the glossy brochure, which has small depictions of the photographs that will be displayed. “You’ve never hosted a photographer before,” he notes.
“They’re not photos. They’re paintings.”
“What?” He peers closer. “No, they’re not.”
“Those are canvases. Wait until you see them in person. His brushwork is unbelievable. His whole style is bananas. I’m still struggling to come up with a word for it.”
“Realism,” Dane ventures.
“It’s beyond realism. It’s hyper-realism. He calls it pathological perfectionism.”
All the works are of rabbits and hares. Dane would be hard-pressed to recall the artistic details of past shows at the Montresor Gallery, but he’s certain animal art has never been exhibited there.
“Why the fascination with rabbits?”
“I don’t know, he just adores them. Their folklore and symbolism and legends. It makes no sense. There’s classic animal depiction in art, but this? This is almost bordering on fantasy. He did start out in children’s illustrations, but…”
“It’s weirdly fascinating.”
“It’s evocative and I love looking at it. It makes no sense, but I absolutely love his work.” She sighs, her thumbnail at her teeth again. “I’m just worried no one else will.”
“Or maybe you’ll have discovered a genius.”
“I already know he’s a genius. Which is another thing—he’s supernaturally talented and brilliant, but he’s a delight. An ego-less artist, what even is that?” She sighs a final time. “Oh well. I guess we’ll find out.”
“It’ll be great,” Dane says, patting her. “Dr. Jensen is coming. Did you tell Gideon?”
“Yes, yes,” Maisie says. “He’s coming to meet Ethan at the installation and get a personal walkthrough, then he’ll do a quick appearance at the opening. He knows Huff is someone special to you and he’s looking forward to it…”
“This is my sister, Maisie,” Dane says. “Maze, this is Huff Jensen.”
If Liko Greenman could time-travel to this introduction, he’d immediately recognize the look that passes between Maisie and Huff and counsel Pump the brakes, you morons.
Dane isn’t quite as adept in detecting instant chemistry, but he senses Huff is no longer thinking about an introduction to Gideon Perfect. A feeling in Dane’s young bones tells him he’s executed an inadvertent but masterful gambit. Knight takes King to meet Queen. Check and mate.
The rest of the night, Huff and Maisie can’t keep their eyes off each other. They tether immediately, drifting off to schmooze and peruse, then finding each other again. Each time standing a little closer together. Each time moving their little pod further from the mothership.
Dane tells himself he’s happy for them. And he is.
But the realization the one you adore will never be yours is never an easy thing.
Nor a painless one. The bittersweet end of a dream is welling up in Dane’s throat and nose and pushing on the backs of his eyes.
Once again, he moves swiftly toward the gallery’s small bathroom, where he once threw up McDonald’s while clutching his medical file folder, knowing it was the first day of the rest of his life.
I guess it’s the first day of the rest of their lives, Diane says dully as Dane wrestles his emotions. He runs the water cold and splashes his face. A little too vigorously because he washes the brown contact lens out of his left eye.
“Fuck,” he cries, spying it balanced on the edge of the drain. His fingertips make a grab just as it slips away. “Fuck,” he says again, looking in the mirror. His two-color gaze stares back.
The past three years have been a long, grueling and courageous journey of intense work.
A lot of hours on the couch. A lot of behavior to unlearn and relearn.
A lot of poison to dump at the feet of professionals and an immeasurable amount of bravery to sort through it all. A lot of feeling like absolute shit.
He’s gathered vast amounts of knowledge, worked through dozens of issues—some resolved, some not so much.
He’s only just growing comfortable with what it’s like to be Danelaw Strong and while he doesn’t fear people being disconcerted, reviled or even rude about his appearance, he has enacted laws about who gets to see his natural eyes and when.
A knock at the door. “One sec,” he calls. He stares harder at himself, digging deep to channel the Sphinx-like expression of Paul Goldberg, along with his absolute social control. It’s time to be impeccable.
Nobody’s looking at you anyway, he thinks. And hey, if you get anxious, Huff is here. Might be hard to get his attention but at least he’s here. Now go be there for Maisie.
He unlocks the door with authority and strides out, instantly colliding with another man.
“Oh God, sorry,” Dane said, catching a fumbled beer bottle just in time, directing the foam away from the man’s jacket and tie.
“Whoa, nice catch,” the man said. “Sorry about that.”
“Here, mop it up before someone breaks their ankle.” A woman Dane hadn’t noticed drops a wedge of paper napkins on the spilled beer.
As she moves it around with her foot, she puts a hand on Dane’s shoulder to steady herself.
He’s barely registered her face but something about her touch makes his heart slow down, then give a flutter of flattered curiosity that this woman has chosen to lean on him.
I can trust you, the hand says. In fact, I know you. We’ve been friends a long time, we just haven’t been introduced yet.
“That should do it.” She scoops up the wad of napkins and heads toward a garbage can, and Dane looks at the man he bumped into.
The man looks back.
A tense, contemplative moment passes. Like the time between chess moves.
Whatever the opposite of Sphinx is, Diane says, this guy is it.
The man is dark blond with light brown eyes that are wide open and full of curiosity. Beneath their gaze is a broad, smiling mouth that slowly says, “Holy shit.”
Dane can’t yet speak, but he feels his mouth smiling back in agreement.
The woman returns, brushing her palms off.
She’s not smiling, and while her face is guarded, it’s not hostile.
Her hair is black and shiny, cropped tight around her ears and neck, with a tousled fringe of bangs above watery green eyes.
She’s dressed in what looks like a man’s pinstriped suit over a white T-shirt.
Dane looks back at the man, who is a little taller. Then at the woman, who’s just a bit shorter.
For another strategizing moment, they stand in a loose triangle, the woman on Dane’s blue-eyed side and the man on his brown-eyed side.
Each taking up the same amount of space.
Each unable to simultaneously look at the other two, so the three gazes volley around, meeting and parting and meeting again.
Diane puts her chin on Dane’s left shoulder, amused. The Sphinx would be appalled at your manners right now. Perhaps say something?
“Hi,” Dane says.
“Hi,” the man replies.
“Hi,” the woman says, and gestures toward the bathroom, which Dane is still standing in front of. “Can I…?”
“Sorry,” Dane says, and starts to walk away but the man’s hand closes on his arm and stills him.
“Wait,” he says. “Look at me.”
Dane tugs his arm free but is unable to pull his soul away from that command.
Look at me.
He looks at the man, who stares deep in Dane’s eyes. The look on his face is pure revelation, as if he’s solved some great mystery.
Epiphany, Dane thinks. The opposite of Sphinx is epiphany.
“This is unbelievable,” the man says.
“What?” Dane said.
“You’re amazing,” the man says. “I mean, you’re perfect. Who are you? I need to talk to you. Can I talk to you?”
“You are talking to me. Who are you?”
“Sorry.” The man switches his beer to his left hand and holds out his right. “I’m Ethan Hasen.”
“Oh,” Dane says, shaking. “You’re the artist?”
Ethan looks back at the gallery a second, as if forgetting tonight is about him. “Yes. Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Dane. I’m Maisie’s brother.”
“Brilliant,” Ethan says, as the bathroom door opens and the woman appears.
“Good lord, can’t you two find a better place to loiter than right outside the john?”
Her tone leans on Dane the same way her hand did before. She’s teasing because she trusts him. She knows him. She’s lumping him in with Ethan, making one and one into you two. Giving them shit because they’re her friends. They’ve been friends a long time.
“This is Nomi Misteria,” Ethan says. “Nomi, this is Dane Montresor.”
“Strong, actually,” Dane says. “My last name is Strong.”
“Nome, we need to talk to him.”
“We?” Nomi says. “I’m getting a drink and hunting down the waiter with the chicken satay thingies.”
“Fine,” Ethan says, and his fingers close on Dane’s sleeve again. “Let’s you and me talk.”
“Shouldn’t you be…” Nomi gestures toward the exhibit area. “You know. Artisting?”
“Shit.” Ethan looks over his shoulder. Maisie is coming toward the trio, Huff Jensen trailing a few deferential steps behind, his gaze focused intensely on her back.
“Ethan,” Maisie calls. “Don’t wander off. I need you with me.”
Ethan hands Dane’s sleeve into Nomi’s possession. “Hold this. Don’t let him get away.”
“No problem,” Nomi says, then flicks her eyes sweetly to Dane. “Shall we go to Staten Island?”
“Don’t,” Ethan barks. “Maze, make your brother stay here.”
“He has to,” Maisie says. “I’m his ride home.”
As she and Ethan walk off, she pats Huff’s lapel and lets her hand trail down his arm. Huff lingers a moment, dazed and helpless, before looking back at Dane.
Thank you, he mouths.