Page 8 of Captivated

Nate Caldwell smiledwhen he heard his dad’s car pulling into the driveway. His last ETA had proved accurate: dinner was ready to be popped into the oven, and they’d be eating in less than thirty minutes.

He dipped his brush into the water jar, then wiped it clean on a rag before taking a step back to gaze at the canvas with a critical eye. It always amused him to hear Dad’s reaction to one of his paintings. It was the same comment every time: “That’s amazing.”

He doesn’t see it the way I do.Nate saw the bits that needed work. He supposed all artists felt the same way. His biggest problem was his inability to put the paintbrush down and simply leave it, declare it finished.

Dad was fond of saying he’d fiddle with it until the Rapture.

The front door opened. “Where are you? As if I didn’t know.”

Nate turned off the daylight bulbs that illuminated the canvas. “Coming down.”

As he turned the corner of the staircase, Dad was standing at the foot of the stairs, hanging his jacket on a hook. He smiled. “Hey, you.” He held his arms wide and Nate stepped into them, enfolded in a warm, comfortable hug. “Missed me?” Dad chuckled against his ear. “Course you haven’t. You’ve probably been in the studio since I left.” He drew back, his gaze narrowed. “You did celebrate the Fourth, right? I felt bad not being here for it.”

Nate laughed. “You know I didn’t.” He bit his lip. “Okay, I did take one of your beers from the fridge. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Dad kissed his forehead, and Nate took that for consent. This was his safe zone, with the only person he trusted completely. Along with Owen and Simon, the couple who’d run the group home for LGBTQ+ youth where Nate had ended up, Derek Caldwell had given Nate his first real taste of kindness and understanding. Trust was a rare commodity, but Nate trusted Derek. Eight years had passed since Nate’s sort-of adoption, and he’d only begun to call him Dad in the last two.

The glow on Derek’s face the first time Nate said it had brought a lump to his throat.

“What’s for dinner? I’m starved.”

Nate chuckled. “You’re always starved when you come back from one of these weeks. I’m beginning to think they don’t feed you at all.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “Of course they feed us. The meals are amazing, but I expend a lot of energy. And there’s also the fact that I drove home without stopping to eat because I was in a hurry to get back to you.”

He smiled. “You shouldn’t have. Everything’s fine here.” He went into the kitchen. “Dinner is chicken and pasta in amarinara sauce, covered with a ton of cheese, just the way you like it.” He opened the refrigerator and removed the foil-covered dish. Once it was in the oven, he poured Dad a cup of coffee. He held it out. “You probably need this.”

Dad’s moan was comical. “It’s like you know me.” He tilted his head to one side. “How’s the painting coming along?”

“I’m pleased with it. I’ll show you later.” He poured himself a cup, and they went through into the living room. Nate let out a sigh. “I mean it. You didn’t need to hurry back. I really was okay.”

He was in his safe space.

“Have you been working in the studio all week?” Dad asked as he sat on the couch.

Nate frowned. “What you want to know is if I was a complete hermit while you were away. The answer is no. I went to the river and took photos, plus I saw Dr. Lacey. And before you ask, no, I don’t want to discuss it.”

What was there to talk about? Nate had hit a brick wall with his therapy, and nothing they did seemed to penetrate it.

If this is how it’s going to be, then maybe therapy has done all it can for me.

Nate pushed the thought aside. Dad was home. Life had resumed its natural course.

“Hey, you interacted with another person. That’s good.”

Nate snorted. “What you mean is,Nate, you got out of the house. Go you.” He had to smile. The couch was doing a good job of sucking Dad in. “You always look so relaxed after one of these weeks. It’s obviously worth a sixteen-hour round trip.”

A happy sigh rolled out of him. “Salvation… that’smytherapy. Surrounded by like-minded people, where I can be myself…”

“I’m sorry there’s nowhere like it closer to home.” The thought of a BDSM club trying to set up shop in Boise? There’dbe a helluva lot of pearl-clutching, maybe even protests complete with torches and pitchforks.

Okay, maybe notthatbad, but Boise was a conservative city. Little wonder Dad went farther afield.

And he wouldn’t have donethatif I hadn’t persuaded him.

Then it hit him.

Dad had gone way too quiet.

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