7. Clark
Clark
Icannot believe they got me on that rope thing yesterday. I totally screamed like a little girl. Come to think of it, we’d been joined by that big family, and I don’t remember their littlest screaming as much as I did.
No wonder River demanded the ten dollars he’d bet me.
I didn’t mind paying when I saw how much fun he was having. So far, every day had felt like a fragile win. I was grateful for it, but I needed something a bit more solid.
And today, I was pretty sure I knocked it out of the park.
As it happened, our youth activities coordinator had an artist friend in Denver who would come out to the ranch for a couple of days each month, and she was here today.
It was also raining outside, so the outdoor activities were suspended.
Good ambiance, painting with new friends… River was gonna love it.
Honestly, Monica and I had always been baffled by his talent. I mean … she and I had always crushed it at Pictionary, but somewhere along the line our son had graduated from finger painting to watercolors to portraiture in oils.
When we divorced, Monica made sure River always had higher-end materials; I’d chosen my condo across from the Art Institute to have as a touchstone, since that was where he wanted to go to school.
Before Monica died, he would text me pictures of the projects he’d worked on in his mom’s living room.
Additionally, he and I’d spent several Saturdays at the Institute, idling through the different galleries, and he’d point out his favorite pieces, and I’d share what I remembered learning about the artists in my one art history class.
Then Monica died, and I hadn’t seen him pick up a paintbrush or heard him talk of inspiration like it was breathing since. Today would be the day he rekindled his love of art.
Or so I thought.
“Why the fuck would I want to go to an art class, Dad?”
River’s face was red, and I was pretty sure the folks in the cabin next door could hear him yelling, even through the rain.
“I don’t know, Riv!” I yelled back, equally angry. “Maybe because you’re an artist?”
The look he gave me was so complicated and full of pain, I felt like one of my internal organs was being ripped out through my chest.
“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice dropping so low it sounded like an ache.
“How can you say that? I saw the piece you painted for your mother. Why won’t you let me hang it where others can see it? Why is it so hard for you?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” he shot back, his voice elevating all over again. “Did it ever occur to you that painting hurts now?”
In my industry, I was known as a sharp businessman. It would have been nice if even an ounce of that savvy had somehow crossed over into my gifts as a father.
“Painful how?” I asked, still clueless. “Like, your wrist? Has it been sore since the accident? Do we need to have a doctor check it out?”
He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet.
“No.” Taking his fist, he pounded it against his chest. “In here. It hurts in here. And I don’t want to look at a paintbrush ever again.”
I was genuinely the stupidest father in the history of fatherhood.
Thank God I hadn’t told him that I’d packed some of his painting supplies in with everything else. I hadn’t yet taken them out of my suitcase, and I prayed he never saw them.
I understood that grief and inspiration played with each other in weird ways, but how had I not realized that the act of painting had become so excruciating? How had I not seen that?
Because, of course, it would. His mother never got to see the painting he had made for her.
Once, after she was settled into her new house, and it seemed like her relationship with River had found its stride again, she’d mentioned that all her pictures of him were digital. She could go to the local pharmacy and print out a few on photo stock, but it wasn’t the same.
River, ever the artist, was always listening.
He went through her laptop and picked one of his favorite pictures. Mine too.
In it, River was maybe two, and we’d found him playing with Monica’s makeup brushes. Monica grabbed her phone and snapped the picture before she let me clean him up.
Her composition was exquisite. There he was, sitting in a puddle of light on the bathroom tile, his sandy brown hair lit up like a halo around his cute toddler face, which was striped in teals and reds.
He was holding several of her makeup brushes between his fingers, like a juvenile Edward Scissorhands.
The best part, though—the very best part—was his beaming expression.
He had maybe seven teeth in his head, so he was a snaggle-toothed, drooling mess, and his eyes sparkled with glee.
“Do you think she’ll like it?”
“Son, she’ll love it.”
He’d asked if he could paint it at my condo so that he could keep it a surprise and give it to her at our Christmas dinner. I was more than happy to give him the space, and he spent the better part of November painting a masterpiece.
I’m biased, sure, but it was beautiful.
I’d hung it in the condo in my ensuite bathroom. Where only I could see it.
So … of course he couldn’t paint anymore.
Something about my own stupidity made me chuckle.
“What’s so fucking funny?” he seethed, his face going red.
“Me,” I said on a sigh. “I’m a fucking joke.”
Confusion filled his expression, so I explained, “I didn’t even ask you if you wanted to come to this place. I basically dragged you out here, asked not one single question, and put you in a painting class that…” I shook my head. “Of course you would hate it.”
Something like guilt or shame filled his eyes, his puffed-up shoulders slumping.
“Not your doing,” I insisted. I pointed to myself. “Father of the year, right here.”
My son, this sad black-and-white version of himself, paused, almost swaying in the words I’d left behind. His mouth, so frequently downturned, shifted into an almost half-smile.
“You really did drag me all the way out to Colorado, in a car, to ride horses, swim in creeks, and paint.” He huffed out a dry laugh.
“I really did,” I said, grasping onto the one thing we’d managed to agree on in months. “You should see how much it cost me.” I chuckled.
River covered his mouth, because a teenager couldn’t ever be seen finding their parent amusing. “Did it cost more than the season passes to the Institute?”
“So much more,” I admitted, laughing openly.
He raked his hand through his dark locks. “You even went to a store called The Mercantile, Dad. With Beau. How the hell did that happen?”
“Because I stepped in horseshit.” I had no idea why he had to emphasize the with Beau part. “I’m gonna hafta burn those shoes.”
We both snorted.
River gestured to the downpour outside. “Dad? What the fuck are we doing here?”
A sound, a giggle really, escaped my lips. “Fuck if I know.”
And for the first time in over six months, my son threw his head back and laughed. At me, sure, but he was laughing. Not a chuckle, not an amused huff. Big, silly guffaws.
I could weep to hear that sound coming from my son’s face.
That would really put a damper on the mood, though, so I laughed with him.
I put my head on his shoulder, distantly registering that he’d left his walking stick in his room.
He shook underneath me, and it reminded me of how easy it used to be to make him laugh as a kid.
He’d loved it when I told the beef jokes.
What do you call a cow with two legs, Riv? Lean beef.
What about a cow with no legs? Ground beef.
Gruesome, but he would cackle like I was the funniest man on the planet.
“Let me start over,” I said, sending him a plaintive look. “What would you like to do today?”
He shrugged. I liked to think I was capable of learning a lesson, so I stayed quiet until he answered.
“I wouldn’t mind just hanging out today.”
“Walk around like Heathcliff on the moors?” I cracked.
“Oh my God, Dad.” He thought about it, though, and lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
I crowed, and he rolled his eyes before continuing. “If the rain lets up by tomorrow, Beau is taking that queer youth group over to the pool in town. I’d maybe like to go with them.”
I tilted my head, not recognizing any of the words he was using.
“Wait, you do understand that means you’ll have to be around people, right?”
Sure, I wanted him to be around teens his age, but I didn’t expect him to volunteer for it.
“Yeah.” He wrinkled his nose. “But I won’t have to be around you.”
Maybe I’ll get my son back after all.
“Okay, fine. You hang out today, go swimming tomorrow, and I’ll take the art class.”
That, if anything, made him laugh even harder. “You? In an art class? This oughta be good.”
“I am not completely without skill.”
“I remember Pictionary, Dad. I promise you, you are completely without skill.”
“Shut up,” I said, cuffing the back of his head. He leaned into the touch, and I wanted so badly to pull him into a hug that I almost did. I came to my senses, thankfully, but maybe, one day, he’d let me hug him again.
He took one look at me and disappeared into his room. He returned a few moments later and shoved an old, ratty T-shirt into my hands. “Here. Put this on so you don’t ruin your new outfit.”
I took his shirt, grateful to be reminded that, even if art was hard for him, my son hadn’t lost his thoughtfulness.
“And you’re sure I shouldn’t have gone with the ten-inch inseam?” I asked River, feeling super exposed.
I was wearing the quarter-zip rash guard that Beau said brought out my shoulders, along with the moisture-wicking cargos and hiking boots. Which, as I considered it, still didn’t really look like ranch gear, but I took a pass on today’s trail rides in favor of finishing up my painting.
“Oh my God, Dad. A seven-inch inseam is still practically Victorian.” River rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised Beau didn’t try to get you into some five-inch shorts,” he said, popping his brows.
Yeah, right.
“Nobody needs to see my pale fish thighs.”
“Whatever, Dad. You have nice legs. It’s okay to show them off.”
“Meanwhile, you’re swathed in all black and want to spend the day in the sun.”
“What kind of word is swathed?” His sigh was distinctly long-suffering. “Beau is never gonna hit on you if you act like such a nerd all the time.”
“Wha?” I sounded like I was choking to death. “Beau wouldn’t hit on a straight guy,” I insisted, ignoring River’s pointed look.
Straight-ish. Whatever. My son didn’t need to know about the two hand jobs and one awkward blow job in my repertoire.
Which was neither here nor there.
I mean … I’d be lucky if a hot guy like Beau wanted to hit on me, but … psh. I’d made enough of my one experience in college to know I pretty much preferred women. So, you know. That was already settled.
Not the point.
“Whatever, Dad. Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the bus.”
We took the footbridge over the creek, since both of us needed to be at the barn. River brought his walking stick just in case but hadn’t needed it so far.
Beau, who was hard to miss, lit up when he saw us coming. “River, I hear you’re a real artist. You missed out on your dad’s blob horse yesterday.”
River stiffened, but I went with the joke. “Don’t make fun of my work in progress. I’ll finish it up today while River joins you and the youth group for swimming. By the time you come back, it’ll be perfect. You’ll see.”
River sent me a grateful look. Like maybe I’m not the worst father in the world, after all.
Beau’s brows met in the middle, but he saw River in his long-sleeve black T-shirt and black swim trunks, and, I supposed, decided to keep his opinion to himself.
“The family that arrived yesterday is joining Colt for a trail ride, but Miguel and the twins from that big family in cabin two are going to be joining us as well.”
The twins were a little younger than River, and I was reminded that they’d laughed their asses off when I went screaming into the creek the other day.
Good times.
“Miguel’s coming?” River asked, his voice a little high-pitched. “That’s good. He set up the rope and then missed all the fun. And I didn’t see him yesterday at all.”
Miguel … which one was Miguel?
Right as I had the thought, a familiar guy headed our way.
He had a deep suntan and had his long, sun-streaked hair divided into pigtails.
He was wearing an oatmeal-colored, open-weave tank top with jean cut-offs so short that the white pockets peeked out past the hem, a look he finished off with some artfully distressed cowboy boots.
Huh.
“Hey, Miguel!” Beau called out. Turning to me, he explained, “Miguel is one of the younger hands, and he always helps with the youth group.”
Miguel jogged up to us. He smiled at River. “You two joining us at the pool?”
Up close, Miguel’s nails were a scuffed turquoise, and he was sporting a black leather choker. Meanwhile, River was staring at Miguel’s chest. I followed his line of sight and caught a peek of silver visible through the tank top’s open weave.
Apparently, River’s type included pierced nipples. Great.
“Uh, I’m staying here,” I said, putting my hand on my hip.
Nope. That felt awkward.
Quick, how would a cool dad stand?
“But my son here, uh. River. He’ll be joining you.” As Beau waved over the twins, I tacked on, “It’ll be nice for him to hang around queer folks his age.”
Shit. Never once have River and I talked about how open or not he was. I just loved finding new ways to suck as a parent.
River snorted. “Dad, you look so scared right now.”
I sent him a grimace. “I just realized that I may have said something without your permission.”
He shrugged. “Miguel already knows I’m gay.”
I wanted to ask how, exactly, Miguel knew my son was gay but decided against it.
Because I was the cool dad. Or whatever.
In the meantime, a small bus pulled up to the main building.
“Wanna sit next to me?” Miguel asked as the driver opened the door.
“Uh, sure.”
River wasn’t smooth—this was unfortunately genetic—but he was a good-looking kid, and that seemed to cover for a lot of his natural awkwardness.
Miguel winked and held out his hand to help River up the steps into the modified school bus. River swallowed thickly, his eyes wandering over Miguel like each detail was a lost treasure. He finally remembered that he had a father when they found their seats, giving me a distracted wave.
The twins followed. Beau caught my eye and winked before he boarded behind them.
For a moment, I stood there, a little lost. Then remembered I had a painting to finish.