16. Davis

It usually took a lot longer for Davis to share these parts of his history. There had been coworkers that he had gone out on longer trail work trips with in West Virginia who didn’t even know he was from the state. He had bitten his tongue while these foresters from New England and the Pacific Northwest talked about dumb hicks and the decimated forests, like it was the fault of the people who lived there. Not the government that had spent the better part of the twentieth century disconnecting people from the land and turning the forest into something to be used, rather than something to be cultivated in peace and sustainability for future generations.

When he first met Jeremy, all poised and perfect, Davis had thought about lying about where he was from. Most people in Colorado— shit, most people he’d ever met, even in Pittsburgh— couldn’t tell a West Virginia holler accent from a southern accent. There were cities in the south, full of culture and history that wasn’t just about finding various ways to evade the law and scrape out a living. But after Jeremy had taken his corrections in stride and listened to Davis, then had given his ideas the respect that Davis barely gave himself, he knew that he’d be honest. Honest about his upbringing, honest about his drinking.

Honest about his sexuality, if a lie of omission was considered honest.

“So a master of fine arts?” Davis asked, taking the can of seltzer from Jeremy, doing his best to ignore the way that Jeremy’s fingers were able to wrap around the entire can.

“Yep.” He shrugged, folding himself back into that uncomfortable-looking chair. “And yes, before you say anything, I’ve heard the master of farts joke about a million times.”

Davis let out an unexpected laugh, hearing Jeremy, who should have been talking about art history or philosophy, say the word fart. “Well, I mean, it makes sense. Anytime I’ve been to an art museum, everyone walks around like there’s a stick up their ass.” Jeremy was quiet a moment, and Davis had a brief flash of panic, an oh I fucked up and offended someone panic, before Jeremy produced a noise that was indescribable. The closest thing Davis could think of was the one time he had done an internship at a wildlife rescue program and had watched an injured Canadian Goose be brought in, hissing and spitting and honking. That’s what Jeremy’s laugh was like— loud and unrestrained, but oddly full of joy. “I didn’t think it was that funny,” Davis said, laughing as he felt his ears heat.

“It’s refreshing,” Jeremy said. “Art museums are full of pretentious pricks, but people don’t usually say that to me. Well, with the exception of my friend Emmy, who is convinced that fine art is just a tax shelter for the rich.”

“Isn’t it?” Davis said, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, yes, but I’ve seen pieces of art that encapsulate entire moments in time. I mean, take, for example, the impressionists— Monet? The water lilies?” Davis nodded, even though he didn’t know what Jeremy was referring to, thinking instead about the tea candles that floated on water, surrounded by potpourri, in his gram’s bathroom. “The ability to capture movement and air and light in this painting was a rejection of the encroachment of industrialization and business into their lives.”

“Like how Zahniser believed that Americans needed spaces without cars and trains,” Davis said.

Jeremy cocked his head. “I’m not familiar. What do you mean?”

Davis took a deep breath, wondering if he would be able to communicate the modern idea of wilderness in a way that was as succinct as Jeremy had explained expressionism.

Davis stayed until he finished his seltzer, with Jeremy chatting about his plans for the weekend. He was going to go to an exercise class with a friend, then he was planning on checking out an exhibition in Denver with other friends, and then, he said he “would see where the night took him,” which sounded more interesting than Davis’s plans, which were video games and a marathon snuggle session with Mary Anne. Maybe a bike ride. He had been teaching the dog to run behind him as he pedaled, and he was thinking she might be ready to take it out to the trail. Mary Anne could try out her new backpack and see how she liked it. Which meant Davis would need to get her backpack. Probably more treats, too.

“I should head up,” Davis said, slapping his hands on his thighs as he stood up. “I have a few things I need to pick up in town before it gets too dark.”

“Thank you for coming down to the city,” Jeremy said, standing up alongside him and taking his empty can. Davis wished that he could use that as a pretense to see what Jeremy’s long fingers would feel like intertwined with his own or wrapped around his wrists.

“No worries,” he said. “Like I said, I was going to be down here anyway.” A lie, but one small enough to not be consequential.

“See you next week for another session?” Jeremy asked, his cheeks flushed a bit red from the glass of wine he had drunk.

“Of course,” Davis replied. “My forest or your house?” Davis asked, cringing at the way it sounded like a date.

“Your forest,” Jeremy confirmed. “I think we’ll make some great progress.” Davis waved at Jeremy as he headed out to his truck, tossing his backpack into the back seat before he realized he needed his phone to navigate this city. Swearing to himself as he grabbed it, he took a moment to google “water lilies painting” and saved it for later before punching in the address of the pet store.