Page 91 of Brushed and Buried
The initialsACwere stitched inside the collar in neat, precise letters. It’s not printed, but hand-embroidered with the kind of meticulous care that speaks to years of superstition and ritual.
“It’s my lucky jersey,” Vince explains, his voice softer than I’ve heard it all evening. “I’d just gotten drafted for the Tritons, and for some reason, playing for California made me think of you. I don’t know what came over me, but I had this done, and I would only wear it for home games. It started as something I just did without any real reason other than the feeling of nostalgia, of home. One win turned into two, then three, and more. Eventually, it became a thing I couldn’t shake.”
I start to hand it back to him, shaking my head. I know how athletes can be with their game superstitions. “Vince, I can’t take this. You need it. I won’t be responsible for breaking whatever magic—”
“Adrian.” His voice is gentle but firm. “It’s not about the jersey. Every time I put this on for a home game, part of me thought about being back where we started. You were always there, somewhere in the back of my mind, even when I didn’t want to admit it. You’ve been in this longer than I realized. You’re already part of the magic.”
My throat closes up entirely. I can barely breathe around the magnitude of what he’s offering.
But he’s not finished. From the depths of his jacket, he produces a small key, brass and simple, warm from being carried against his chest.
“What is this?” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
Vince looks directly into my eyes, and I see everything he’s feeling laid bare—love and vulnerability and the terror of putting everything on the line. “Your studio space, at my house in San Francisco.” He pauses, swallowing hard like he’s gathering courage. “I know this might be too fast, asking you to uproot everything and move in with me. But I can’t stand being apart from you anymore. I’ve wasted ten years already.”
The key feels impossibly heavy in my palm, warm metal that represents everything I’ve ever wanted but been too afraid to reach for. A life with him. A space for my art in his world. The chance to build something together.
“Vince,” I start, but he continues before I can find the words.
“I bought easels and had professional lighting installed. I researched every kind of paint and brush you might need. I want to watch you create, Adrian. I want to be there when inspiration strikes at two in the morning. I want to model for you again, pose for as many paintings as you want to make.” His voice wavers. “I want to be your muse, not just once, not just then, but always.”
The gifts feel like promises made tangible. The jersey says I belong to him, but the key says he belongs to me too, ready to make space for my chaos in his ordered world. He wants the mess and beauty of a shared life, the paint fumes, the late-night frenzies, the wonderful disaster of loving an artist.
“You’re impossible,” I manage, my voice unsteady.
“You’re mine,” he says, and the possessive certainty in his voice sends heat straight through me.
I look at him, really look, taking in the way the gallery lighting catches the gold in his brown eyes, the slight smile that’s become familiar again after so many years of absence.
“I love you, Vince.” The words slip out as naturally as breathing, heavy with everything I’ve held back but never once doubted.
His eyes catch mine, steady and unflinching. “I love you too. I really do.”
We lean forward until our foreheads touch, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips but not close enough to kiss. Not here, not yet. But the promise of it, the certainty that we’ll have all the privacy we need soon enough, makes the waiting feel like anticipation rather than denial.
I slip the key into my pocket where it settles against my hip like a talisman. “I guess I’ll need to start moving my brushes over.”
His smile could power half of West Hollywood.
The evening winds down, voices fading into the warm night air. A few collectors linger, but most have drifted out, carrying pieces of our story with them. Vince stays close, a steady presence at my shoulder as I shake hands with the last stragglers. When Matheo locks the door behind the final guest, it’s just the three of us, surrounded by the evidence of what I’ve become.
“Hell of a show, Adrian,” Matheo says, grinning. “The reviews are going to be extraordinary.”
I barely hear him. All I feel is Vince, his hand firm on my back, the quiet certainty in his presence telling me he’s not going anywhere. This time, he doesn’t let me walk out alone.
The next day, the art world is buzzing. Reviews and online articles highlight my collection, praising the bold return after years away from the spotlight, the way each piece captures both intimacy and chaos, the mastery of color and emotion earning nods from critics and collectors alike.
“Callahan’s Comeback Is Triumphant,” one headline declares.
“Alive, Intimate, and Utterly Unmissable,” another proclaims.
Clippings circulate in galleries and across art blogs, my name leading the conversation, my vision finally getting the recognition it deserves.
In the background, of course, Vince draws attention too. Tabloids and social feeds are alive with photos from the opening, with our heads bent close, gestures that could be friendship or something more.
When his publicist suggests a formal statement, Vince keeps it simple. “I’m in a relationship with Adrian Callahan. He’s an incredible artist and an incredible man. That’s all anyone needs to know.” Some sponsors flinch, while some adapt, but he handles it with the quiet steadiness he always does.
We don’t need grand announcements. The art speaks for itself, and the subtle, protective way Vince stays by my side tells the world all it needs to know.
