Not Quite Baked #2
Anthony glanced at Chance, who was staring longingly at the tall, bronze-skinned hard-body who apparently threw himself into danger with impunity with Chance’s older brother. “Sure,” he said, trying not to let his own pity show. “I’ll do that.”
So every weekend for two months Anthony had shown up, and a lot of evenings gaming online too.
Reg was a deadly player—absolutely deadly—but not even riding his coattails to a team victory in Bloodbourne was as satisfying as eliciting a small quirky smile or a quickly contained laugh from Reg in person.
Anthony had taken him to movies, helped him take care of his brother’s house (which was now Anthony’s father’s house too) when they were out of town, and babysat his brother Prock’s children.
He’d helped Reg water his mother’s garden, napped in the shade by the pool, and even, on a couple of miraculous occasions, been invited to Reg’s small, quietly understated apartment, which Anthony had achingly adored.
He’d had pictures of his family on almost every wall except for one. That one he’d painted himself, admitting he’d probably forfeited any remnant of his deposit, so he could gaze into a vast purple rainbow of a starscape, dominated by a swirling galaxy of crystal stars.
The artwork was wonderful, and Anthony had asked if Reg painted a lot. To his shock, Reg had turned a lovely shade of magenta.
“I, uhm, help the art teacher in the local high school run the art club,” he muttered. “Once a week.”
Anthony had stared at him. “Nobody told me that,” he said.
“I haven’t told anyone,” Reg answered with dignity. “It’s mine.”
And the way he’d said, “It’s mine,” had said everything. When Anthony had been a kid, everything he’d surveyed had been “mine.” But for the second youngest of seven?
Nothing had been Reg’s—probably not even things that had started out as his, because Chance was the baby and had obviously been indulged as such.
“It’s wonderful,” Anthony told him, falling a little more deeply with every syllable. “I’d love to see your other work.”
Reg had given an almost stealthy smile, like he was afraid the smile itself would be stolen from him, and said that someday he’d show Anthony some photos.
And then he changed the subject, probably hoping Anthony would forget the onetime Registrar Julliard Royal had actually asserted his individuality and identity into the world.
And yes, Anthony knew about the names. All of them.
Because his father was in love with a man named Valedictorian Princeton Royal, who owned a trucking company, and Anthony absolutely had not been able to rest until he knew the entirety of the names.
Laureate Ivy, Salutatorian Yale, Proctor Harvard, Stanford Dean, Registrar Julliard, and Chancellor Berkeley Royal may have killed to keep the names secret, but Anthony’s father, Rory James McCauley, had sold out his boyfriend in a hot second.
Anthony had been torn between admiration and horror. With Reg it was mostly horror—would Reg have been a little less self-effacing if he’d been John Jacob or Matthew Luke or something equally ordinary?
But then, Chancellor Berkeley seemed to have no problem kicking off the extra baggage of his name—although Chance Berkeley was also the only kid who had been able to go to college straight out of high school, mostly because all the other kids had contributed to his scholarship fund.
Including Reg.
And Anthony was starting to get how families—even the best ones—were complicated.
He’d thought he understood when he’d told the girl he’d loved to pursue her life, her career, and to leave him behind that love could inflict wounds simply by being love.
But watching Registrar Julliard Royal swallow back his love of art so he could continue to contribute tuition and board for his little brother taught him that he’d only passed Sacrifice 101. Reg could teach a master’s class.
So the moment had been filed away. Reg loved his family—Anthony could get on board with that. But Reg also loved art, so truly, madly, deeply, that he kept it a secret from his family.
Anthony could feed that.
He’d had plans too. An art show in Monterey had caught his attention near the end of July.
Aha! he’d thought. A lovely sunset, taking Reg to do something he loved!
A nice hotel room on the beach! All of that and getting Reg away from his family—how romantic could a guy get?
Anthony had plans and had been about to ask Reg and make the hotel reservation (and maybe conveniently get a king-sized bed just in case) when Reg’s brother Dean and his partner, Marcus, had disappeared in the Chihuahuan Desert on an operation, and it had been all Royals on deck plus Dean’s new boyfriend to go down and bail their two boys out of the shit.
And Anthony? Anthony hadn’t been about to let Reg go through that alone.
And the fallout had taken almost another month.
Reg’s brother and his new boyfriend stayed with Reg’s parents, and after some renovations in the basement, including a ramp and an ADA compliant lift to the front room, so did Dean’s work husband, the aforementioned Marcus, who had been injured in the incident.
Reg had been needed—very much so—to help get Dean relocated from Sacramento, where he and Marcus had been living, and to help Dean’s boyfriend, Bailey, get a job.
And just to prove how big and complicated the whole thing had been, Bailey’s father was now living in the Royal’s mother-in-law cottage as a permanent renter, along with his dog, Catherine the Great, who, Anthony had to admit, might be the world’s greatest golden retriever.
Anthony didn’t begrudge Reg or his family a moment of the time he’d spent helping with, well, all of it.
His manager, Violet, was pretty good at running the shooting range on the weekends, and they’d hired two new employees, both bonded, to help.
Anthony had his degree in business, and his and his father’s business was running at a steady profit, and given what sticklers Anthony, his dad Rory, and all of their employees were for gun safety and legal use only of firearms, they were also a sort of a community standard.
No AK-47s with bump stocks or ammosexuals allowed. Guns were serious to a former FBI agent, and as his son, Anthony took them just as seriously.
So taking the time out to help this new family had seemed as natural as breathing and, Anthony had to admit, a surefire way to get closer to Reg.
And oh my God! It seemed to have worked!
At least that explained this moment here, with the September breeze, the happy family in the background, and Reg peering shyly off into the distance while asking Anthony if he’d like to get together next weekend.
“Yes,” Anthony said without hesitation. “I’d love to. What did you have in mind?”
To his delight, Reg blushed. “My, uhm, the high school I volunteer at? They’re having an art show.
I… some of my pieces are in it.” His eyes darted about like fish afraid of getting caught.
“Nobody in the family knows. About the pieces in it—they know about the volunteering. You know, with all the stuff going on with Dean and Bailey, I didn’t want to bother anybody.
But you… you said you’d like to see…. I’m sorry. ”
Ack! “No! Don’t be sorry!” Anthony blurted it out and then had to walk back some of the emotional intensity. “We talked about this,” he said gently. “Don’t be sorry when you haven’t done anything wrong. I would love to see your art. It’s next week?”
Reg met his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. Friday afternoon, I’m afraid. You might have to get out of work early. It’s okay if you can’t.”
“It’s fine,” Anthony said, thinking that even if Violet and his father weren’t already working that night, they might actually volunteer if it was going to help further his cause.
He’d set his sights on Reg in June, and here it was, mid-September, and he had the feeling his own family had been holding their breath.
And he was pretty sure Reg’s family was cheering him on too.