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“If only one of them was charmed enough to stay. Right, Matty?” Nicky sat back in his chair and pulled at his tie to loosen it even more.

Matt turned to Santi. “I saw one of your sketches in one of the new boutiques downtown.” He focused on how Santi’s eyes widened at the subject change, how they met his, full of questions or surprise. Matt smiled, too brightly. “It’s different for you to do a simple sketch like that, isn’t it? To sell it that way, I mean, not the subject matter. Your real work is always—” he hesitated over what to say, but didn’t think Santi would appreciate diplomacy “—angry. Honest, and not cruel, but… angry. This one, in particular, was…. beautiful but hard to look at. It was a portrait of someone?” Matt paused again becausesomethingflashed through Santi’s eyes. “But the anger wasn’tatthe person, somehow? It was sort of at everyone looking at him?” He probably sounded like an art world novice. “It seemed completed, but I couldn’t help but think it looked unfinished too. But maybe I’m comparing it to your earlier work. You used to obsess over your paintings. Maybe the incompleteness was part of it? Like a shape and not a person? You know I don’t know art terms.”

“But with all that, you still knew it was mine?” Santi seemed to be studying him.

“Yeah. Even before I saw the signature.” Matt waved his hand. “I know your style.”

“Yes. Well. Of course, you do. Of course, you’d understand it.” Santi faced the table and took a pull of his Shirley Temple. “The sketch was meant to be different. You have to stay fresh.”

“Try new things?” Matt suggested innocently.

Santi exhaled through his nose. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Some cliché attempt to move forward. Perhaps I was tired of saying the same thing—of not saying anything. Maybe I’m as bad as everyone looking at a blurred image and thinking it’s in focus.” He pushed his glass away from him, hard enough to make the ice clink against the glass and to nearly splash grenadine and ginger ale over the rim.

Nicky put his hands up to indicate he was backing off, but glanced at Matt as he did, silently instructing him to keep his eye on Santi. Then he twisted around and snagged his wife’s elbow to try to get her attention.

Matt watched Santi push at his drink and couldn’t help but think of the other nights like this. Nights where Santi would have a whiskey, then two, or martinis if it was that sort of party, and start to slouch in his seat and regard everyone with stormy, dark eyes. Evenings of him starting out friendly enough, somewhat patient even with Nonna Louise and those like her, and then a cloud slowly falling over him. Santi turned his cleverness on himself when he was like that. Matt didn’t like it, but it wasn’t as if Santi owed him secrets or even conversation.

Matt would drive him home, though, whenever Santi needed it. No matter what he was doing, or who he was talking to. It was the least he could do, and he meant that, truly. A braver person might have done more, asked why Santi got like that. But sensitive people didn’t share their truths in a house like this. Not without a very good reason.

But Matt had always hoped that Santi talked to someone about it. He might have finally done it if he’d made the decision to get through tonight without any alcohol.

The scent of the rum in front of Matt was overpowering.

“I’m sorry.” It burst out of Matt like a summer rain shower. He saw Santi move to look at him but Matt kept his focus on his glass. “I’m sorry I let the house rules about not talking about anything real keep me from talking to you about what was bothering you. That’s something my mother would do to me, and I shouldn’t have done it to you. It’s—”

“I think we finally get to eat something!” Nicky rejoined them to announce dinner might actually be served, then returned to talking with his wife.

Matt startled and looked up, and saw that though not everyone had sat down, his mother had had enough and ordered dinner out anyway. The caterers had a schedule, after all, and this was only family.

He would have preferred the food be on the table and everyone could serve themselves, or even a buffet despite how his mother detested them. But he thanked the person who came around to place a salad in front of him, then looked up again when he recognized the waitress he had almost knocked over.

“Sorry again,” he told her, meaning it but also halfway to tearing into his salad out of sheer hunger even though it had been tossed with dressing and he preferred to make and add his own.

The waitress gave him a warm smile. “No problem.” She had a warm voice too.

She placed the other salad in her hands in front of Santi and then swept back to the kitchen for more.

Matt speared a piece of romaine right as Nicky whistled. He looked up. Nicky winked.

Santi fussed with his napkin.

Matt spoke quickly, for no obvious reason. “That was—”

“You can stop babysitting me, if you want to.” Santi took a breath and looked at him. He was all dark hair and deep eyes. “If you have somewhere else you’d rather be.”

Something hot bubbled up in Matt’s chest, something jarring and uncomfortable. Like fury. Fury never did him any good. But it shot through his veins anyway, made his stomach taut and his heart beat faster.

“Santi,” he murmured, almost shaking with howangryhe was, “shut up.”

He stabbed his overdressed salad with his fork and shoveled it into his face without looking up again, leaving Santi and Nicky in silence. Their surprise only made him angrier.

When the waitress came around again to take the plates, he stopped her as nicely as he knew how. “I know this isn’t your job, and I hate to ask, but next time you go to the kitchen, could you please ask Miss Cathy or one of the regular staff to heat water for my tea? I’ll go get it myself.”

“Tea?” She paused to glance at his glass but gave him the same warm smile. “What kind do you like?”

Matt smiled back. “Green. I try not to have too much caffeine too late. I’m really a boring homebody but nobody ever believes me.”

The waitress leaned in, just shy of whispering into his ear. “I can see why,” she answered, a kick of amusement and pleasure in her voice. She gave him a last look before she continued on.