Page 14 of Green Tea and Pink Apples

Santi didn’t turn away. Matt heard him swallow.

“Are you going to up and leave one day?” Santi wondered, or a stranger who looked like Santi wondered. It didn’t sound like Santi at all.

“What?” Matt asked blankly. He hadn’t expected that. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. “I’m not—it’s only a dream right now. It might not even be real. Even if it was, I’m not… I’m not planning to live there.”

“Maybe not immediately.” Santi swallowed again. “Will you tell me before you go?”

Matt shook his head, but only to reject the idea that he’d leave with no warning. “You’re invited. Pretty sure I said that.”

Santi didn’t seem relieved. “God damn it, Matty.” His voice was a rasp, almost pained. “That’s your dream? A kitchen full of tea, I suppose, and quality olive oil. Maybe a garden outside. It would be too cold for a lemon tree. You’ll have to buy them, or steal a bagful from here when you visit. It sounds—it sounds perfect.”

Matt took a few steps closer, trying to get a better look at Santi’s face. “You don’t think it’s naïve? Or stupid?”

“No.” Santi raised his head. “God no.”

“Or that it’s me being lazy?” Matt pressed.

Santi seemed frozen. “It sounds to me as if you have a solid plan and every intention of doing this, even if you’re telling yourself it might not happen.”

“Escapism?” Matt couldn’t let it go. “The daydreams of a spoiled rich kid?”

“Making a home seems like a wonderful ambition to me.” Santi was almost whispering. “And you’re aware that you’re lucky. That’s more than most people in your position.”

“Ambition?” Matt stopped abruptly a few feet from him. “I don’t have ambition.”

“Ambition doesn’t have to mean conquering the world.” Santi pushed out a breath. “A home for yourself might be a small goal to your family, but your cabin sounds… good. Very good, Matty. Build a studio for me and I might show up on your door with all my things. I’m kidding,” he hastened to assure Matt when Matt didn’t say anything in response. Matt couldn’t, but Santi must have thought he was annoyed. “Small visits only, if you’ll have me. I would never intrude on your peace.”

Skipping out on half of these gatherings by sitting in a corner with Santi was the closest thing to peace Matt had when within one hundred feet of his family.

It occurred to him that Santi didn’t know that. Matt had said it to the kids just now where Santi could hear and Santi still didn’t understand. It was somehow vital that he did. Santi was a clear sky full of stars and he didn’t know it.

“You’re not people,” Matt told him again, or tried to say and failed, judging from how Santi cocked his head in confusion. Matt scraped his hands through his hair and remembered the fight they’dnotbeen having before, because Santi hadn’t allowed it to happen. “I don’t say things but I say them to you—I try to. Not all the time, but I do. You’re allowed into my dream because if I wanted to, I think I could tell you anything—everything.” Santi made a small, shocked noise. Matt gestured sharply to keep him from speaking. “But you keep not letting me.”

Santi reached up to pull on one of his curls then tuck it nervously behind his ear. “Whatever I imagine doesn’t mean it’s real.”

“I go home with men sometimes,” Matt confessed in a rush. Then he was light, floating weightless before his feet touched the ground again. “Not just women,” he added since it was out there now. Santi knew. Matt thought over the few encounters in college, mostly drunk, fun, stupid shit. Then tourists, although that had become less fun over the years. “But not either in a while,” he went on. “Not with how they treat me. And I’m so tired.”

Santi wasn’t saying anything. Santi might not have been breathing.

“Santi?” Matt asked in a whisper. “Domenic?” Santi flinched at the name, posture going rigid. He stared at Matt and still didn’t comment. Matt had a sudden, terrifying thought. “You did know that? Even if I never said it? I always thought you knew.”

“I did not.” Santi pronounced each word carefully. Then he exhaled. “I—no. You go home with men sometimes,” he repeated, almost sing-song. “And you didn’t tell anyone, but you thought I knew. That I could possibly—Fuck.”

“Do you think I’m a coward for not telling them?”

“I’m not the Coming Out Judge,” Santi snapped, voice harsh. Then he took several breaths and he was tense but soft and careful again. “Why wouldn’t you tellme? You don’t owe me anything. But you could have. I wouldn’t have made it weird. We could havetalked.”

A shrug wasn’t explanation enough. Santi deserved more than that. He deserved the truth, said out loud. “You were in the city. You were a well-known artist, and gay. You had friends who were good at being queer. I thought it was pathetic. Somehow. Next to you. To be this… shadow.”

“You owe yourself to no one but you.” Santi was firm. “Not even me, Matty. But we could have talked. About anything you wanted.”

Matt closed his eyes as warmth washed over him. That was exactly what Santi would have said in Matt’s imagination if Matt had ever let himself picture this in detail.

“I think I knew that,” Matt admitted, opening his eyes. “But you know me. Silence is habit. And you haven’t been in a talkative mood the last few times at these things. Maybe not in years.”

“That is because I am an idiot,” Santi said smartly. “You’re really not straight?”

Matt laughed and ran his hands through his hair again. He could see why Santi did it so much. It was soothing to leave his hair as in disarray as the rest of him. “I can’t believe you’re surprised.”

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