Thankfully, after I invited myself over to his place, Ricky didn’t make things weird. If anything, he’d been gracious. He responded with a prompt Sure, texted me his address, and gave me tips about where to find parking around his apartment. I threw on the first clean outfit I could find—a plain black tee and a pair of denim shorts—grabbed my keys, logged Ricky’s address into Google Maps, and fled my apartment. I moved with a single-mindedness I hadn’t experienced in a long time, for once not thinking about what I should have been doing, whether that was studying or filling out our IRB application or prepping for the wards. All I had was a destination, and a mission to loosen up the knot in my chest. And with every mile I inched closer to Ricky, I felt like my rudimentary plan was working.
Except I had never been to Ricky’s place, and now I was showing up under the cover of night. Over the phone, it was easy to pretend that nothing between us had changed. In person, though, I wasn’t so sure. Would meeting in person remind him that, the last time we’d seen each other, I’d kind of sort of violated him and then fled the scene of the crime?* Would he go back to how he’d been early in our friendship, when he avoided touching me at all costs?
Ricky was at his door before I could make it up the stairs.
“Here,” he said, sticking his head out and waving me toward his apartment. I power walked down the long hallway, trying to keep my hormones in check. It had been some time since I’d seen Ricky in the flesh, and there was something about how he looked now, in plaid pajama pants that hung low around his hips and a plain white tee, with his hair wet from a shower, that seemed indecent.
“Thanks for having me over,” I said, stepping cautiously inside. Ricky grinned, closing the door behind us with a click.
“Thanks for coming over. You’ve never actually been, right?” Ricky said. The pads of his fingers brushed against the small of my back as he guided me farther inside. Okay. So definitely still touching me. I wasn’t sure if that realization soothed my fears or stoked them.
Ricky gave me the grand tour. His entire apartment was open concept—the kitchen, dining room, and living room blending into one open space—and well lit. It was immaculate in a way that felt maintained rather than rushed, but then again, I had suspected he was a bit of a neat freak since the first time I’d hopped into his car. Ricky pointed out the bathroom, then led me from wall to wall to show off his expansive collection of framed prints and posters. I spotted the posters he had purchased from the booth at the art fair, hanging in ornate frames alongside several other goofy period pieces: a painting of a cat with a monocle and top hat, Queen Elizabeth but with the face of a possum.* Then there was his collection of prints by his favorite Chicago muralists, and he walked me through those leisurely, describing the recurring characters in JC Rivera’s work, laughing when I excitedly identified Hebru Brantley’s FlyBoy as the “Black kid with goggles across from the Trader Joe’s.”
“What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to a painting he’d skipped, propped up on top of his bookshelf. It was a vibrant acrylic piece portraying a dancing couple, almost incongruent with the rest of his decor. The iridescent colors reminded me of the drawing he’d done of me in the garden so many months ago.
“That’s one of mine,” Ricky said, suddenly shy. “It’s, ah, based on a picture of my grandparents, actually.”
I stepped closer, peering at the two smiling figures and marveling at how masterfully he’d re-created such a tender moment. When I turned back to Ricky, he’d pulled out his phone and scrolled to the reference image, a photo of a man in a cowboy hat twirling a petite, laughing woman around a dance floor. Next to me, Ricky radiated pride, the way he did every time he talked about his grandparents.
“It’s beautiful,” I said after a moment. “Why haven’t you given it to them?”
“Because I never got around to finishing it,” he said, gesturing to the blurred, abstract edges of the painting that I had assumed were purposeful. “Probably never will, if I’m honest. I tried my hand at painting, but . . . it’s just not really my forte.”
I tapped my finger against my chin, remembering how Ricky had identified the artists’ techniques at the art fair.
“Well, I think you’re incredible,” I mused. “Maybe you should get back on it.”
Ricky waved me off.
“I’m more of a digital guy,” he claimed. “Come on, let me show you my toys.”