Page 57 of The Leaving Kind

“Would you mind? I’ll be quick.”

She nodded and he took the call.

“Hey,” Cam said. “Is this a good time?”

“I’m actually at lunch. I’d ask if I could call you back, but I still don’t have your number.”

“It’s cool. I wanted to see if you’d be home on Friday afternoon. Later. Say, six or six thirty? I’m booked to mow in your neighborhood and can stop by afterward to look at this path project.”

“Works for me. Bring your appetite. I’ll cook.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I don’t mind.”

“Okay. I’ll bring beer.”

“Perfect. See you then.” After ending the call, Victor noted Tez’s Aww expression. “Stop that.”

“You like him.”

“Yes, I do. But he’s not interested. And his reasons are sound.” He put the phone aside. “I’m incapable of just sleeping with someone. I always want to make a relationship out of the most unremarkable meetings.”

“I love that about you, though. You make your lovers feel special.”

“And look where it’s gotten me. Fifty-two and still single.”

“Be fair to yourself, Victory. We both spent a good decade being little other than parents, and our situation can be weird for some people.”

Thinking on Tez’s own string of failed relationships, Victor reached for her hand. “Do you regret it?”

“Not for a minute,” she answered quickly and decisively.

He squeezed her fingers. “Me neither. Our children are beautiful people.”

“They are.”

Their meals arrived and they returned to the topic of Victor’s vegetable garden while they ate. As predicted, Victor finished his plate and barely had the strength to stop himself from ordering more bread to mop up the sauce. He reclined in his seat and patted his rounded gut. “I don’t think I’ll need dinner.”

“I never do when we have lunch here. I sort of count on it, actually. Not having to cook or bother about eating again. I can go home, put my feet up, and digest.”

Victor laughed. “Sounds very middle-aged and kind of perfect.”

She grinned. “Tell me about the sketches. Cam agreed to model for you?”

“He did.”

“Are you thinking of doing something other than landscapes next? After your show.”

All of Victor’s good cheer swirled into a muddy puddle. “I’m not doing the show.”

“Whyever not?”

“They bumped me.” Now he wished he’d ordered wine. A drink would feel good right about now. “For an emerging artist.”

“They what? But you’ve been at that gallery for years. Surely they can’t do that.”

“My agent says they can. My last couple of shows haven’t met the contracted terms, which they were apparently content to let slide until they found someone to take my place.”