The restaurant was supposed to be Cajun, but how Mexican food and karaoke factored into that was beyond comprehension. Ben and Allison were severely overdressed considering the rowdy vibe of the dining room, but he was at least glad not to see any romantic hopefuls waiting at their table. Knowing Allison, she had only chosen this dive so they could sing together, which was fine by him. They picked over their greasy meals before abandoning them for the stage, where they crooned a number of their favorite songs together.

They continued singing in the car on the way to their next destination. Ben suspected they were going to hit a few clubs, but Allison drove them downtown to Second Street. She found a free parking spot, acting as if she had just won the lottery. Ben had to chuckle, envying her enthusiasm. They walked together for a few blocks until they approached an art gallery where people flittered in and out.

“This is why we needed the fancy duds?” Ben asked.

“Mm-hm.” Allison nodded. “Piece of gum?”

Ben accepted it from her with suspicion. “No blind dates?” he asked again.

Allison smiled broadly, and Ben knew it was too late. He took the gum anyway. Ben scanned the people standing outside the gallery, looking for someone who seemed particularly expectant or nervous. He didn’t spot anyone.

“We’re here to look at the art,” Allison said innocently.

Ben glanced through the nearest window and away again, before doing a double take. The painting on the nearest wall was of a bulldog, bounding through a canvas glowing with iridescent colors. Emotion raced through his system, centered in his chest and nestled there comfortably, glad to be home again after so many years.

“Want to go inside?” Allison asked gently.

“I don’t know if I can handle this,” Ben confessed.

“I’ll sort of make you anyway,” Allison whispered.

“Okay,” Ben laughed nervously. “Is he-- No, don’t tell me. Let’s just look at the art.”

They browsed through the gallery, Ben trying to focus on only the paintings, but his head whipped around every few seconds in an attempt to spot the artist. He recognized some of the paintings from their younger days. Others he had never seen before, pieces from a life that he hadn’t been a part of. One was beyond simple, a finger-painted frog on a box of some sort, that caused Ben to laugh despite his nervousness. And then there was the portrait of Eric, completed now and glorious in its beauty. A small crowd of admirers surrounded it.

The teeth-grinding sound of microphone reverb cut through the gallery. “Is this thing on? Whoa! Too loud. Sorry.”

Ben practically ran toward the sound of that voice. The rest of the gallery moved with him, clogging halls and frustrating his attempts to get there first. By the time he reached the main room, it was already half-full. Ben stood on his toes, straining to see past the people in front of him. The old man just ahead moved to join his wife before a portly lady scooted to the side, perhaps sensing the laser beams shooting from Ben’s eyes.

And there he was. Tim Wyman. He looked fantastic. The pudginess was gone from his belly, the tight dress shirt revealing the all-too-perfect physique that Tim had before meeting Ryan. His jet black hair had grown out some and was styled messily around the silver eyes that no longer looked tired. Instead they shone with a light that Ben had only seen in their most private moments. Those eyes were searching the crowd, but before they found Ben, the portly woman had shifted back, obscuring him from view.

“Uh, I’m really glad you all decided to be here,” Tim began. “I’m not really good at speeches, so bear with me.”

The audience laughed. Ben began working around to the side of the crowd, hunting for a way through to the front.

“The art you see here is about twenty years in the making. I’m sure most of you have seen my crowing achievement, ‘Frog Goes Sailing on Boat’?”

The audience laughed again.

“That’s from when I was eight and is the first painting I ever did.”

Ben had finally broken through to the front, but was so far to the side that he was beyond Tim’s peripheral vision. At least he could see him now, nervously shifting from foot to foot while mumbling into the microphone.

“I owe this art to a lot of people. The subjects in each piece, of course. My dog Chinchilla, or Eric, who was a father, a hero, and much more to me. Even strangers, like the old woman I saw lying in the grass at the park, staring up at the clouds and giggling like a little girl at what she saw there.” Tim paused, searching the crowd again. “So many people have inspired me, but only one gave me the courage to show what I had painted to other people. I hope he’s here somewhere tonight, and as I finish this clumsy speech, I’d like you all to clap for him, not for me. Thank you, most of all, to Benjamin Bentley.”

The audience burst into applause. Ben blushed, even though he was effectively incognito. Tim turned off the mic and gave a little bow, and people slowly began to disperse. Some remained behind to talk to the artist. Ben watched them with envy. How easily they could walk up to Tim without being overwhelmed with a decade’s worth of feelings.

Tim chatted politely, shook hands, listened, nodded, and all the other gestures a gracious host was supposed to make. Occasionally he would risk looking away from them to search the room again, looking slightly more disappointed with each failure. Nerves buzzing, Ben walked to the center of the room where he could easily be seen.

Tim nodded and said goodbye to an elderly gentleman, and tried again. This time he found Ben, and without the slightest reservation, ran to him and scooped him up into his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Tim said, spinning Ben around a few times before setting him down again. “And even more glad that you’re late! I just gave the most embarrassing speech!”

“I thought it was really good,” Ben said, grinning when Tim turned bright red.

“I thought for a second that Allison had changed her mind.”

“Where is she anyway?” Ben asked.

“Running an errand for me,” Tim said enigmatically. “Hey, have you seen much of the paintings?”

“A little,” Ben replied, “but a tour from the artist himself would be very informative.”

Tim guided him around the gallery, usually zigzagging from room to room and moving in a counterintuitive fashion. One painting would remind him of another, causing him to drag Ben off in a completely different direction.

Seeing Tim so enthusiastic about his work was amazing. He wasn’t shy at all in front of the large number of people examining his art and listening in on his explanations. Occasionally a bystander would ask a question, which Tim would answer with gusto. This was a stark contrast to the self-depreciative artist who had once kept his paintings locked away in a garage.

“There’s one more piece I’d like to show you,” Tim said. “Something really special to me.”

Ben was led through the gallery to a room not intended for the public, and out a door to the parking lot. Spotting Tim’s car was easy enough. It was the newest, shiniest car there.

“Have any idea what sort of car this is?” Tim asked as he opened a door for Ben.

“Nope.”

“Care to know?”

“Not really.”

Tim chuckled. “It’s a Bentley. I figured it was the next best thing to the real deal.”

Ben tried to roll his eyes but ended up smiling instead.

As they began to drive, Ben started to feel concerned. As happy as he was to see Tim again and as irrefutable as his feelings for him were, Ben was still married, even if only to a ghost in his heart. Going home with Tim tonight didn’t feel right. It was all too soon, if there would ever be a right time at all. He was about to ask to be taken back to the gallery when the car turned into Ben’s subdivision. Could Tim really know where he lived? He kept silent, not giving any indication, but still Tim managed to pull into the right driveway.