Page 37 of Brushed and Buried
The conversation moves on, discussing wedding logistics and seating arrangements, but I find myself drifting. I watch Adrian’s hands as he gestures, the confident sweep of his fingers as he explains some detail about lighting design to Becca. There’s an almost hypnotic quality to those movements, making my pulse quicken in ways I don’t want to examine too closely.
Adrian moves through the group dynamics like water, adapting to each person’s energy without losing himself in the process. With Holly, he’s playful and protective. With Becca, genuinely interested and supportive. With the guys, he holds his own against their ribbing while never pushing back too hard.
It strikes me that this isn’t an act. This is just who Adrian is. He is someone who makes people feel seen, heard, and valued. The kind of person who could make a shy freshman feel included in group conversations, who could remember everyone’s birthday, and who could show up to every rehearsal even when he didn’t have scenes to run.
Wait. Where did that thought come from?
“What are you working on there?” Becca asks, nodding toward Adrian’s napkin.
Adrian glances down at his sketching like he’d forgotten he was doing it. “Oh, just…capturing the moment, I guess.”
He turns the napkin around, and my breath catches. It’s not a portrait of any one person. It’s all of us, rendered in quick, confident strokes. Trevor mid-laugh, his head thrown back. Lance gesturing wildly with his fork. George’s dry smile. Holly’s bright eyes. Even Becca, leaning forward with interest.
And there, in the corner, is me. It’s not idealized or romanticized, just…me, looking contemplative, maybe a little guarded, but undeniably present. Undeniably real.
“This is incredible,” Becca breathes. “You did this while we were talking?”
“It’s nothing fancy,” Adrian says, but I can see the quiet pride in his expression. “Just muscle memory.”
“This is talent. Real talent,” Trevor says, grabbing the napkin for a closer look.
The way Adrian ducks his head at the praise, like he’s not quite sure he deserves it, twists something in my chest. There’s an achingly familiar quality to that gesture, though I can’t place what.
“You’ve got Lance’s ‘I’m about to say something ridiculous’ face perfect,” George observes, leaning over to look. “That’s not easy to capture.”
“I spend a lot of time watching people,” Adrian says simply. “It’s part of the job, I guess. Or the art. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
There it is again. That brief, charged moment of eye contact with him that feels like a shared secret even though everyone else is watching. I feel the familiarity of it, like déjà vu I can’t quite grasp.
I’ve felt this before, haven’t I? That sensation of being truly seen by someone. Not as the sum of my stats or my potential draft position. Not as Victor Holloway’s son or the team’s golden boy, but as just…myself. Complicated, uncertain, and human.
The feeling is so strong it’s almost a memory, but when I try to focus on it, it slips away like smoke.
“Vince?”
I blink, surfacing to find Lance watching me with raised eyebrows. The entire table is looking at me, actually, and I realize someone must have asked me a question.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you wanted dessert,” Lance says slowly. “But you were somewhere else entirely.”
Whatever I was thinking about feels monumentally important, even if I can’t quite remember what it was. It’s like trying to hold onto a dream after waking, something that goes way back to our years together in high school. The more I try to reach for it, the faster it fades.
Lance and George have moved on to whispering between themselves, shooting occasional glances my way. I catch fragments of their conversation, like “chemistry” or “about time.” But I don’t have the energy to shut it down. I let them theorize. They’re not entirely wrong, even if they don’t understand the full picture.
Neither do I, apparently.
As the evening winds down and the check is settled, I find myself lingering at the table. I’m not ready for this bubble of warmth and possibility to burst. I’m not ready to go back to my room and lie awake thinking about all the things I can’t say, can’t even fully remember.
Adrian is gathering his things, folding the napkin sketch carefully, and tucking it into his jacket pocket. Our eyes meet again as he stands, and this time neither of us looks away immediately.
There’s a different quality in Adrian’s gaze now. Recognition, like he’s seeing part of me that I can’t see in myself.
“Good night,” Adrian says softly, and the words feel layered with more than politeness.
“Good night,” I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.
I watch him walk away with the others, noting the easy way he falls into step with Holly, the genuine warmth in his goodbyes to the group. But there’s tension in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he doesn’t look back, that suggests the evening has affected him too.
