12. Kent

TWELVE

"You may find this hard to believe, but Dad was actually clumsier when I was little," Gillian says, and my stomach tingles. Bringing Vincent here means she will spill every embarrassing story.

"Really?" Vincent asks as Louis dishes out brisket, piles of it, to each of us.

"Four slices for Vincent," I instruct. Louis nods, counting out pieces with the silver serving fork and I shoot Vincent a quick wink.

The table brims with mashed potatoes, coleslaw, salad, fresh corn, and wine. Bottles and corks litter empty spaces, and the dining room fills with the clinking of forks and knives. With a napkin plastered on his lap, a sly smile sneaks across Vincent's face. "Please tell me more."

Gillian's eyes light up with a magical sparkle, signaling her imminent delight in mortifying me. "Dad didn't get his glasses until … How old were you?"

"You were five." I adjust my glasses. "So, thirty."

"Wait, why didn't you get glasses until then?" Vincent asks.

"I honestly didn't think my vision was that bad," I say. "But it steadily got worse as I got older."

"And he fought the progressives," Gillian says.

"Listen, needing glasses for distance and reading is admitting I'm?—"

"Distinguished," Vincent interrupts me. Our eyes meet, his eyelashes flutter and my breath catches.

"He almost killed me," Gillian says. "A few times."

Vincent prods the food on his plate—segregating items. It's the first food he's had since, well, I'm not sure when, and I'm relieved to know his body's getting nourishment.

"Okay, that's a tad dramatic," I say.

"Is it?" Gillian asks.

"This guy?" Vincent nods toward me. "He seems pretty harmless to me."

"Harmless?" Gillian laughs so hard, she almost chokes.

"Sweetie." Louis pats her back. "Slow down."

Gillian gulps wine. "Dad was pushing me in a stroller. To this day, we still don't know exactly how, but he didn't see a row of bright orange cones alerting him to the Grand-Canyon-sized pothole in the road."

"I've heard this story a thousand times, and the hole gets larger each time," Louis says through a mouthful of food.

"Baby Gillian in the hole," I say. "The squad had to come and rescue her. The Worst Father in the World award. Child protective services. Yada, yada, yada."

"Wait, where was your mother?" Vincent asks.

"She was hopelessly stuck in the eighties," Gillian says. "So probably rollerblading in leg warmers while listening to crappy music."

"Hey!" I shout. "That's the music of my childhood. ‘Don't You Forget About Me' might be the best song ever written. Apologies to Fleetwood Mac." I smile at Vincent.

"Are they always like this?" Vincent asks Louis.

"Always." Louis leans over and grabs Gillian's hand. He kisses her knuckles, and once again, I'm grateful my daughter has such a loving husband.

Closing my eyes momentarily, I take a breath and smile. A gentle warmth washes over my hand, bringing a sense of comfort. It's Vincent. His fingers take mine, and a soft smile greets me when I look at him.

"But yes, they've always been this way," Louis says.

"Before the glasses, Dad couldn't see. He was constantly tripping over things," Gillian says, the verve back in her voice.

I dip my head.

"Including his own feet," Gillian adds.

"Anyway," I interject, "I got my glasses when you were five, and things got better."

"Marginally," Gillian adds.

We finish eating while my daughter and her husband continue to tease and embarrass me, and my heart swells, knowing it comes from a place of love. When the brisket has a small dent in it (Louis swears it will "feed us for a week"), and the table's cleared, Vincent's yawning cues me it's time for us to go. He's had a long, rough day, and I should get him home.

"Thank you for the lovely evening," Vincent says at the front door, wrapped in his long caramel-colored wool coat. "And the brisket," he says, turning to Louis. "It really is life changing."

"You're welcome anytime." Gillian opens her arms, and Vincent hugs her.

"Call me this weekend," she says, kissing and squeezing me tight. With her head nestled in my neck, she whispers, "He's hot."

My stomach flutters because she knows. And she's right. Vincent and I head out, the full moon casting a glow that lights our path to my car.

We drive quietly along, and while Vincent seems more himself, calmer than at school or in the bathroom, I'm still not convinced he should be alone.

"After I take you back to your car, would you mind if I just followed you home?" I ask.

Vincent stares out the passenger window into the darkness. He's quiet. Thinking. Finally, he replies. "I had a lovely evening, Kent. And thank you. But remember, we're keeping this"—his hands move between us—"strictly friends."

My head knows this. My heart isn't sure.

"I know. I just want to make sure you get home safely."

"You're a sweet guy, Kent. Do you know that?"

"I've been told."

Back at Vincent's, sitting in the driver's seat as I gaze at the front walkway leading to his building, I am transported back to that first night. I do my best to squash the memories. His bathroom. Music blaring. Standing over him.

Stopped in his condo's small parking lot, I wave to him from my car and put the car in reverse to head home. Before I back out completely, Vincent's voice pierces the silence.

"Kent!"

I roll down my window and put the car into park.

"Did you want to come in?" he asks, and before I can answer, he adds, "To talk."

Vincent's condo appears different with the lights on. That first night, a blur of lips and mouths and motion, and what I remember most is … the bathroom. Oy.

His living room and kitchen combo room exude a stylishness that could easily grace the pages of a home-furnishings catalog. All sleek lines and sharp edges, everything appears to be earth tones and black. Simple. Clean. Neat. Just like him.

There's a dining-room table in the living room covered in … LEGO. Giant structures jut up from the surface, and small white bowls line the table's perimeter. I can't quite make out what he's up to, but clearly, it's monumental.

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, lingering near the island.

"I'm good."

He takes a can of seltzer from the stainless-steel fridge and runs the top under the tap. A dab of liquid soap, and he's scrubbing the lid of the can. My throat aches, imagining what it must be like, walking through the world this way. That lingering urge to protect him—shield him from, well, himself—surfaces. But Vincent appears unfazed.

"Your daughter is a hoot," he says, sitting on the caramel sofa that matches the jacket he removed when we entered.

"Yeah, she definitely would agree with you."

"I love how close you are. I don't have … well, anyone. No kids. No siblings."

He's an only child. This line of conversation intrigues me. I join him on the couch, leaving a respectful space between us. Facing him, I say, "So, just you. What about your folks?"

"Married still. They live in Vermont now. My dad always wanted goats, and goats kind of need a farm." He pulls his legs up and grabs a throw pillow. "I don't visit much. Have you ever been around goats? They literally eat trash. Goats might be the filthiest animals in existence."

"Noted."

"You and your daughter. And your granddaughter. That's special."

"Yeah, she's always been a daddy's girl … various almost-murdering incidents aside, we love each other. A lot."

"I can tell."

My lips ease into a smile, and warmth spreads through me as I think of my family. "And Lia. I adore her to bits. Once a month, I take her on a Saturday. Sometimes we go to a movie. Or take an adventure somewhere new. Or stay at my place, and I read picture books all day. We make pillow and blanket forts."

Vincent smiles, stretches his socked feet out, and pulls them back. I pat my lap. "Here."

"You don't mind?"

A laugh escapes my lips, and I grab his feet and carefully place them on my thighs. I slowly massage his toes and the pads of his soles. Dark navy wool, toasty and soft, makes it a bit of a challenge, but I'm able to press my thumb in and get some nice friction.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asks.

"Your feet?" I hold one up.

"Yeah."

"Not at all. Why would they?"

"Feet are …" He scrunches his face. "Gross."

"Vincent Manda, feet are just another part of the body, and bodies are beautiful."

I tug at the sock on his left foot. "May I?"

He nods, and I slip the sock off. Not surprisingly, Vincent's toes are immaculate and pedicured. I'm not sure I've seen such beautiful feet before. His toes are perfect, almost the same length, with the big toe slightly longer than the others. There's not a trace of hair on Vincent's ankle or foot.

"Do you have hair anywhere on your body?" I run my hand up his shin.

He chuckles. "Not really. A little, but along with OCD, I have mysophobia—a fear of germs." He runs his hand over his head. "Shaving is more streamlined. Clean. I love it."

"Plus, it's fucking sexy," I blurt out. Oops.

Vincent's head dips, but he doesn't move his feet away from my massaging hands.

"Thanks. Not everyone thinks so."

"Those people are idiots," I say, gently tugging his other sock off. "No offense."

Vincent grins and tilts his head back, seemingly lost in having his feet rubbed. His Adam's apple pokes out, the supple skin of his neck taunting me. Right now, I'm grateful his feet are on my thighs, not my groin.

"So, earlier today, at school," I say, squeezing the arch of his foot, "and at Gillian's … does that happen often?"

"It can." His head still rests on the top of the sofa cushion. "I can go days, even weeks, with nothing and then have multiple incidents in a day." His foot relaxes under my care. "Like today."

A slight sting blossoms in the back of my throat, and sweat dots the top of my hairline. Was this partly my fault?

"I'm sorry," I say.

Vincent's head pulls up, and my fingers pause their work.

"Kent, please don't take this as a hit to your ego, but this"—he points to himself—"had nothing to do with you."

I want to believe him.

"What does it have to do with?"

He returns his head back, closes his eyes, and his soft eyelashes curl toward the ceiling. I resume massaging his gorgeous feet. As I rub each toe, I'm amazed by the incredible softness of his feet. Something stirs inside me, but I reassure myself that it's just a friendly foot massage.

"People assume my parents didn't love me. Or there was some traumatic event. But that's not the case. My parents are wonderful—my father's infatuation with goats aside. It just kind of happens."

My thumb runs down the underside of his foot. The arch of his foot has a supple texture, inviting me to trail my fingers over it. Vincent's voice becomes low and honeyed. My lips turn up, knowing my hands are having this effect on him.

"When I was little, maybe four or five, I remember standing in front of the toilet waiting to pee. I started counting the flowers on the wallpaper. Pink peonies. So many fucking peonies. When I finished, I moved on to the tiles on the floor. White octagons. I couldn't leave the bathroom until I'd counted them all. Twice. To check. If I lost track, I started over."

"Did your parents know?"

"Not then, but they figured it out soon enough." Vincent rolls his head back and forth on the cushion. "It started with counting. Then, I went through a ‘symmetry' phase."

"Symmetry?"

"Everything had to be even. Odd numbers were the bane of my existence. Still can be. If I counted something that wasn't an even number, I counted again, expecting a different result. The need for things to be even. Aligned. Arranged. That became … quite distracting, and my parents caught on quickly."

A smile dawns on my lips, and a whir spins in my stomach. An intense longing to wrap my arms around Vincent and hold him close almost overcomes me.

"I still prefer even numbers. And by prefer, I mean require."

A yawn overtakes his face, and glancing at my watch, I realize I've probably overstayed my welcome. I lost track of time and somehow became rooted to the sofa.

"I should go," I say, reluctantly pulling my hands away from his bare feet, already missing the sensation of their warmth.

"I'm sorry, I'm talking your ear off," he says, pulling his legs under him. The moment his toes disappear, my hands itch to grab them. Hold them. Feel them. Taste them.

"I'm a talker. And I enjoy talking to you," I say. "But it's late. I should go."

"Do you want to stay?"

"But we're, we're, not, you're not, me, um …" I stammer. Even stationary, I manage to be clumsy, tripping over my words. I could stay on his couch. Friends do that.

"Just lie with me. I promise, no hanky-panky."

"Did you just say ‘hanky-panky'?" I ask, my mouth spreading into a grin, because why is this sweet man also so fucking cute? And do friends cuddle?

"Come." Vincent stands and offers his hand. As I look into his eyes, Vincent's fingers reaching for mine, a sense of peace flows over me and I reach out and put my hand in his.