Page 49 of The Leaving Kind
“Physics. My popsicle-stick bridge. Yeah. Largest single span. Built that whole thing without a lick of glue, if you can believe it.”
“Wow.” Victor shook his head. “All this time, we sort of knew each other.”
“Milford isn’t big.”
“No, it’s not. Your brother is extremely talented by the way. You know, he used to teach classes at the center, but then he stopped. About five years ago.” Victor dredged his memory. “His sister passed, I think. Oh ...”
“Rebecca. Yeah. Nick took her death pretty hard. They were really close. After our parents died, she practically raised him.”
Their parents too? “That, I did not know. Cam, I’m so sorry.”
A flash of old pain pinched Cam’s brow, briefly, and Victor found himself wishing he could freeze the moment. Sketch it. Then he berated himself. So not his style or his business.
Then he recalled the dates of Cam’s tattoo. 1992. And the most recent from five years before.
A slim skewer slid into his sternum as he mentally placed the dates in between. Afghanistan.
Cam had lost his pose and was now standing loosely, shoulders down, hands dangling at his sides. Victor flipped his page and started a new sketch. He left off placing elements and went straight for long, flowing lines, the angle of Cam’s shoulders, the tilt of his chin. The length of his arms and legs. The slight dejection of his stance but also the strength of it. A man down but not out. Not yet.
Apparently noticing he’d resumed drawing, Cam lifted his chin and watched.
“I ...” Victor paused. “I wanted to capture you that way. I’m sorry if ...” Embarrassment warmed his skin.
“It’s cool.” Cam showed him a weak smile. “You said you were in New York for a while?”
“Brooklyn.” Having outlined this pose to his satisfaction, Victor flipped the page. “If you’re ready, would you mind putting your hands back on your hips?”
Cam complied, and as Victor had hoped, the movement lifted and squared his shoulders. His chest popped out a little, his tight physique visible beneath the stretch of white cotton. Victor again sketched the longer lines of a full-length pose, noting the trimness of Cam’s waist and how the borrowed sweatpants hugged the muscles of his legs. The bulge front and center? Victor tried not to linger there but found it difficult.
He did find cocks interesting, after all. Personally and professionally.
What were they talking about? Brooklyn. “After college, a bunch of us set up there. Four of us tried the loft thing in the Village, but we decided we’d rather eat than look good, so we moved across the river and lucked into a converted warehouse. Space for us to live, love, and paint, draw, sculpt, whatever. It was marvelous while it lasted.” Glancing up from his drawing pad, Victor shared a world-weary smile with Cam. “I distinctly remember feeling as though I was living my dream. Quite literally—I would wake up and pinch myself. And then the beautiful man next to me. My career was taking off with regular shows at reputable galleries, private commissions, and a little commercial art. What I enjoyed the most, though, was working with the community art programs.”
“Like with kids?”
“That, but also collaborating with others to raise awareness of the arts. To keep art in schools and fund extracurricular activities. To foster a culture of creativity.” He twirled a finger through the air. “Can you turn three-quarters? A little more. There. Thanks.” Victor flipped to a new page.
“How did you end up back here?”
That face. That sad, but kind, familiar face. Victor mentally shook Sunshine away for the second time that evening. Cam didn’t want to hear about his loss, as devastating as it had been. Cam had been to war.
“I ... One day I woke up and ...” He could still remember the sound of the phone ringing. The call that had changed the direction of his life. “There came a day when I looked around and realized I was done with the city. The noise and the bustle. My primary work has always focused on nature, and while there are lovely parks in New York, the green isn’t the same as it is out here. You can’t hear the wind in the trees and there are no hills. The birds sound different.”
“What do birds have to do with paintings?”
Victor chuckled. “It’s hard to explain, but when I paint a scene, I try to capture the essence of that location. I want anyone looking at that painting to be able to smell the sunshine and hear the birdcalls. To feel as though they’re outside.”
“Huh.”
“So, I told Tez I was done with the city and she admitted she was too. We moved back here, bought a house together, and decided to have kids.”
“Simple as that, eh?”
“Pretty much. But aside from having a family, do you know what the best part about moving home has been?”
Cam shrugged. “The birds?”
“Hah! No. Though I do enjoy them. But the programs I was trying to create in Brooklyn? They’re needed there. And all over New York. For kids who don’t have access to art or creativity. But they’re also needed here. At home. Maybe more so. Funding for public education is ...” A sigh gusted out of him. “A conversation we can have over something stronger than beer one night. What I have loved, living here, has been working with the schools my kids attended, and starting programs for after school and summer vacation. Finding other artists interested in donating their time. Raising the money for it all. Mostly, it’s about sharing art with kids, though. Seeing the wonder in their eyes when they get it and knowing they’ll never look at the world quite the same way again.”