Chapter 4 #2
The bluntness made Hank flinch, and Chad immediately regretted his tone. But he needed to understand. He’d been down this road—men who said one thing and meant another, men who hid behind good manners until it was too late to protect yourself.
Hank set his fork down and looked at Chad with an expression so unguarded it made Chad’s chest ache.
“What if I told you I was scared?”
The honesty landed like a fist. Chad thought about Hank at BJ’s on Tuesday—the Nationals cap pulled low, the nervous energy, the bourbon clutched like a lifeline. He thought about Hank in the gallery an hour ago, the way he’d glanced at the security camera when Chad took his hand.
He’s not hiding something. He’s hiding from something.
“Maybe,” Chad said quietly. “But a man’s libido is a beast.”
“Tell me about it. My hands have seen plenty of action.” Hank gestured to Chad’s plate, desperate to change the subject. “Give me a bite of that burger.”
They swapped plates without discussion. Hank took a large bite of the PBB Burger, and his eyes rolled back.
“Oh, yeah. That’s fucking good.”
Chad laughed—couldn’t help it. The profanity coming out of that polite mouth, that careful beard.
“What?” Hank asked, still chewing.
“You. Cursing.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You didn’t. I like it.” Chad cut into Hank’s meatloaf, taking a generous bite. Rich and savory. “It contradicts the whole polite gentleman persona. Gives me a glimpse of the real man in there.”
He reached across the table and wiped a blob of peanut butter from Hank’s lip with his thumb, then brought it to his own mouth and sucked it clean.
Hank’s pupils dilated.
“You keep doing that,” Hank said, his voice dropping, “and I won’t be a virgin much longer. I might squirt in my pants just watching you.”
“Sounds hot.”
“Not in public. And not in a restaurant. It’s inappropriate.”
“Ah, the gentleman returns.”
Hank picked up his fork, using food as a reset. They were quiet for a moment—the clatter of dishes, a siren somewhere on 14th Street, the couple two tables over arguing about parking.
Chad watched him eat. The way his throat worked when he swallowed. The silver at his temples catching the patio lights.
Virgin, forty, scared. And he kissed you like he’d been practicing in his sleep.
“You were wrong about me the other night,” Hank said. “When you said recently out of the closet. I’m not. Really. At all. Other than you, my co-worker friend, Frannie, and Shelby—I haven’t told anybody.”
There it was. The other shoe.
Chad set his fork down. “So you’re not out at all.”
“No.” Hank pushed food around his plate. “It’s just—I don’t know. It’s hard when you’re my age. I want to be, but I’m scared.”
Of course he’s scared. He’s been hiding his whole life.
Chad thought about his own coming out—messy, painful, Celia’s face like a slammed door. But he’d been eighteen. Young enough to rebuild. Hank had built an entire adult life on a foundation of silence. Coming out meant risking all of it.
“It’s okay, Hank.” He heard himself say the words and meant them. “Nothing to be ashamed of. You’re taking steps. I’m a step.”
“You’re a staircase.”
God help me.
“So this closeted forty-year-old guy walks into a bar—” he started, because if he didn’t say something stupid he was going to say something real.
“There’s a reason for that.” Hank leaned forward. “Dating apps and websites intimidate me. I don’t really trust them.”
“Can’t blame you. There’s a lot of deceit out there.”
Hank paused at the word—deceit—and something flickered across his face. But he continued. “I wanted to meet someone in person. But I was under the impression that most gay bars were drug-laden dance orgies.”
Chad laughed, and some of the tension broke.
“There is some of that. Not much, but a little. Also, a lot of gay bars have assimilated into straight culture. It’s a bittersweet marriage.
We’re more accepted by the mainstream, but our old spaces are vanishing as a result.
Gay bars, bookstores—they’re becoming dinosaurs. ”
“Is BJ’s in trouble?”
“I don’t think so. Tim—my boss—doesn’t share the numbers, but we stay busy. The smart businesses adapt.”
“It’s a shame. The loss of those spaces, I mean.”
“I’m glad you walked into mine.”
“Well, you have Shelby and Frannie to thank for that. They’re the ones who talked me into it.” Hank smiled. “Literally pushed me out the door.”
“I also think it’s great that you’re still friends with your ex.” Chad speared another bite of meatloaf. “Very gay of you.”
“She was my best friend. Still is.” That look again—soft, unguarded, forgetting to be careful. “We were together for fifteen years, married for most of it. Just because the romantic part didn’t work doesn’t mean I stopped caring about her.”
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“She figured it out. That I was gay. I didn’t tell her—I didn’t even fully admit it to myself—but she knew.
” Hank turned his water glass on the table.
“About three and a half years ago, she sat me down and said, ‘Hank, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore. You’re not happy, I’m not happy, and we both deserve better. ’”
“And you agreed?”
“Not immediately. I fought it. Said we could work on things, go to counseling—” He shook his head. “She just looked at me and said, ‘Hank, honey, I know.’ And that was—yeah. That was the end of pretending.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was. But also—” His voice dropped. “It was a relief. We filed for divorce and remained friends. She met Lowell about a year later. They’re perfect together.”
“And you?”
“I’m working on it.”
They finished their entrées in easy silence, stealing the occasional bite from each other’s plates. When Marsha returned to collect the dishes—both scraped clean—she asked about dessert.
“I’m still thinking about a milkshake,” Hank said.
Chad patted his stomach. “I don’t know. I’m pretty full.”
“Why don’t y’all split one?” Marsha suggested. “We have some great boozy shakes.”
Hank’s face brightened—almost boyish, gone before he could catch himself being delighted. “What do you recommend?”
“If it were me, I’d do either the White Russian or the Millionaire Malt—the malt is Glenlivet 18.”
Hank winced. “I can’t do scotch in a milkshake. We’ll split a White Russian, though.” He looked at Chad. “Sound good?”
“Definitely.”
The milkshake arrived in a tall, frosty glass with two straws, whipped cream piled high and drizzled with chocolate syrup.
Chad didn’t wait. He leaned forward, bending over the table, and wrapped his lips around one straw.
Hank mirrored him. Their heads nearly touching.
The drink was sweet and strong—vodka and Kahlúa blending with vanilla ice cream in a way that tasted like dessert and felt like trouble. Chad could feel the alcohol immediately, warmth loosening the knot that had been sitting in his chest since Hank said virgin.
They didn’t talk. Just drank and looked at each other and breathed the same air.
The restaurant noise pulled back. The other diners, the servers, the traffic—all of it receding until there was nothing but Hank’s dark eyes over the rim of the glass, Hank’s knee bumping his under the table, the slow sip and the silence.
Chad set his straw aside and reached out, lacing their fingers together on top of the table. In public. Where anyone could see.
Hank’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away.
Minutes passed. The shake dwindled. The booth felt smaller now, the low light warm between them.
“You’ve got a lot of thoughts buzzing around up there.” Hank reached out with his free hand and touched Chad’s temple with one fingertip. “I can tell by the way your eyes are moving.”
Chad looked up from the empty glass. “I’m a little woozy,” he admitted. “I like you, Hank.”
“I like you too.”
“But I’m scared.”
Hank’s thumb stroked across his knuckles. “Me too.”
“I don’t want to get hurt.” Smaller than he had intended. Smaller than he’d allow, sober. “Promise me you’ll never hurt me.”
Reel it in, Chad.
But the vodka and the gold light and Hank’s thumb on his knuckles made it impossible.
Hank didn’t flinch. “I promise.” He squeezed Chad’s hand. “Promise me there’s more than just tonight.”
“I can do that.”
“So, what now?”
Fear giving way to want. Caution dissolving. He’d sworn off men after Jonathan—sworn he’d keep his distance, not fall for anyone until he was sure.
But Hank wasn’t Mac or Jonathan. Hank held doors and asked permission, and looked at Chad’s art like it mattered.
Or he’s more dangerous. Because you’ll want to fix him, and when it falls apart—
Shut up.
“Well,” he said, letting a slow smile spread across his face. “Even though you cling to it, I think the word virgin is overrated.”
Hank’s eyes darkened. “I’ll get the check.”
Hank flagged down Marsha and handed over his credit card before Chad could reach for his wallet. While they waited for the receipt, Chad excused himself to the restroom.
Small, clean. He splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes.
Are you really doing this? Going home with a forty-year-old closeted guy you’ve known for three days?
Three for three, Chad. Let’s go.
But even as the reflex kicked in—the broken-picker routine, the preemptive self-protection—it didn’t stick. Because Hank was honest about being scared. And that was new.
He dried his hands and went back to the table.
Hank was standing, wallet put away, working his jaw the way he did when he was wrestling with something.
“Ready?” Hank asked.
“Ready.”
They walked to the car in silence, the night air cooler now, a breeze from the east. At the car, Hank unlocked it but didn’t open the door. He turned, his expression serious.
“I need to tell you something,” Hank said. “Before we—before anything else happens. It’s about my work.”
Chad’s stomach tightened. Here it comes.
“Okay,” he said.
“I never really explained what I do, and I feel like I should tell you now because—”