Page 107 of When Ben Loved Tim
“Are you disappointed in me?” he asks out of the blue.
I snort. “Do I look like your dad?”
“Ouch,” Tim replies with a grimace.
“I only meant that it sounds like something our parents would say. You know… ‘I’m not angry, son, just disappointed.’”
“Oh right.”
I continue to study him. “You really think your dad is disappointed in you? How could he be when you do everything he wants?”
Tim merely shrugs.
I can’t imagine how that must feel. My parents have always been loving and supportive, which has empowered me to be who I really am. My sister is that way too. She’s unapologetically true to herself, abrasive opinions and all. I wonder what his family passed on to him. Maybe that’s the missing piece. I won’t get a complete picture of Tim until I meet his parents.
“Wait,” I say after mentally replaying the conversation. “What were you trying to ask me?”
“Oh.” Tim shifts in his seat. “I figured it would bug you that I don’t want to draw their band logo. Although Idohave a few ideas. It’s just that once they start asking about my art, it’ll get personal. And complicated.”
“Only because you make it that way,” I say, nudging him affectionately. “And no, I’m not upset.”
“Good.” He glances over at me and grins. “I’m all booked up anyway. When we get back to your place, I wanna sketch you again. More studies for the painting I want to do.”
“Okay!”
“While you read me some of the stuff you’ve written,” Tim adds.
“Huh? No way!”
“What’s the matter?” he teases. “Worried it’ll get too complicated and personal?”
I think about it and laugh. “Not really. That’s kind of our whole vibe.”
* * * * *
So far, Valentine’s Day hasn’t gone as expected. Not that I had anything particular in mind. I kept trying to imagine how this day would go. Gifts, for instance. What’s a gay guy supposed to get his straight boyfriend? They don’t make greeting cards for that sort of thing. I can’t imagine Tim wanting flowers. A box of chocolates might have worked, but I thought it would be more meaningful to bake something for him. When I tried last night, the brownies came out as hard as stone and stuck to the ceramic baking dish, which I ended up breaking. My mom banished me from the kitchen after that.
Probably for the best, because he didn’t shower me with gifts either. My eyes dart across Tim's studio to where a box of takeout pizza sits on an old crate that he uses for a table. We sat on the adjacent couch while eating and passed a two-liter bottle of cola back and forth when thirsty. Not exactly fine dining.
“Ronnie took Allison to a Vietnamese restaurant,” I say from where I’m perched on a stool.
I listen to the sound of paint being slathered on canvas before Tim leans to the side so he can see me. “That’s a long way to go just for dinner,” he replies.
“Have you ever had Vietnamese food?”
“Nah.” Tim disappears behind the easel again. “I bet it’s weird.”
“Sounds exciting to me.”
A silver eye peeks around the canvas. “I thought this is what you wanted to do.”
“It is!” I assure him. I simply didn’t think it would dominate so much of the evening. “How come I can’t sit on the couch while you paint?”
“Because you would move around too much,” Tim replies.
I’m intrigued by his process. He often stops to clean a brush or to mix a new color on his palette. Which is already way more involved than what I do. If I want to sing, I simply take a sip of water if need be and open my mouth. Likewise with writing, all I need is pen and paper. Or even better, a laptop.
“How come you’re not in an art elective?” I ask, intimately familiar with his schedule.
