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Hank dialed Stella’s cell phone for the third time in under ten minutes and his frown deepened when it once again went straight to voicemail. He’d already left two messages and he took a drink of his Coke as he waited through the greeting to leave another.
“This is torture, Sherlock, sheer and utter torture. First of all, it’s Brooklyn. Second of all, the free food and drink options are limited to soft drinks and gluten free crackers with some kind of vegan bean dip. Third of all, I’m standing in front of a photograph of two people sharing an umbrella and it’s actually such a good fucking photograph that I’m infuriated. This kid is so talented it makes me want to kick his ass even more, so all I’m saying is that you better show up soon because in my hangry state of mind I’m bound to do something that would probably have me arrested in at least 49 states. I’m just assuming killing your daughter’s boyfriend is legal in Texas for some reason. Where are you? Call me back.”
Hank hung up the phone and narrowed his eyes at the photograph he was looking at. He took another drink of his Coke and considered the ramifications were he to throw the drink at the display. Becca would probably never speak to him again. Someone in the gallery was also bound to catch it on film with his luck and he’d be going viral on whatever the social media platform du jour was as Crazy Boomer Has Meltdown. He’d be canceled immediately. He missed the good old days when he could be a professional fuck-up and not worry about being held accountable for his actions.
His chest hurt and he pushed a fist against his sternum and belched under his breath. He needed air. He needed his wife. There was a trash can next to the door and he tossed his drink on the way out. He stood on the sidewalk with his hands jammed into his jeans pockets and looked up at squat little brick buildings he was surrounded by that had once been factories, but had been repurposed as lofts and bars and galleries and thrift shops. He closed his eyes against the cacophony of music and voices and sirens. He remembered that his father used to complain about the noise when he’d come to visit, but Hank had never been bothered by it before. He hoped he was just in a mood and not permanently transforming into a cranky, old man.
Hank startled when a small hand slipped into the back right pocket of his jeans, but even before he opened his eyes, he could smell the hint of jasmine perfume and feel silky curls brush his arm and he relaxed.
“I realize that patience was never one of your strong suits,” Stella said. “But, three messages in eight minutes is a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
“You didn’t pick up.”
“I was trapped on the L without service. They all just came through when I came up from the tunnel.”
He turned to her, wrapped her up in his arms and buried his face in her hair so he could nuzzle the side of her head and breathe her in. She still had one hand in his pocket, but her other came up by his hip and her briefcase bumped against his thigh.
“Can we get out of here, Sherlock?”
“Afraid not, love. We promised Becca. Is she inside?”
“Maybe. I haven’t seen her yet.” He let her go slowly and she pulled back to look up at him, running her hand lightly across his backside. He kissed her once on the lips and wiggled the briefcase out of her fingers.
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t see why we need to show up for this, though.”
“Because, he’s Becca’s lov-”
Hank groaned. “Do not, do not say lover, I may throw up in my mouth.”
“She’s an adult woman in an adult relationship with a man-”
“And don’t say man.” He put up his hand, trying to block Stella’s face from his view. She grabbed it and yanked it down, stepping up close to him so their chests bumped together.
“Stop being so childish about this.”
“You just said it yourself, she’s an adult. She doesn’t need my approval.”
“No, but she would probably like your support.” Stella took her briefcase back from Hank and then put her arm through his to guide him back to the door of the gallery. “Admit it, Becca’s been happier than we’ve seen her for some time. She likes this guy.”
“So,” he muttered, petulantly. “I don’t like him.”
“You refuse to get to know him.”
“I don’t like how they met.”
“You don’t like how they met?” She stopped and turned him towards her. “You’d rather he picked her up in a hotel bar and and she slipped him her room key so he could come up for a quick fuck?”
“Oh my god.” He gagged slightly and threw a hand over his eyes.
“Because I do think asking to photograph one’s dog whilst in the park is a far more appropriate way of meeting one’s partner.”
“Yeah, well…” Hank wanted to respond in some fashion, but he couldn’t really find an argument to make.
“If you’re going to point out that it worked for us, I’ll remind you that neither you or I are Becca or Tony.”
“Thank god for that, I guess.”
“I think you would like him if you gave it a little effort. Just try to think of him as something other than your daughter’s lover.”
Hank tried not to gag again as Stella pulled him through the door. There weren’t many people inside the gallery, just a handful of what had to be close friends or maybe even family. Stella stopped at the coat check to leave her briefcase and then she picked up a slip of paper on the table near the refreshments.
“This says that the proceeds from any sales tonight are going to a non-profit that supports healing from trauma through the arts,” Stella said.
“Mr. Perfect.”
Stella browsed the row of photographs on the first wall, pulling Hank along with her. She seemed to take an interest in one photo in particular of a crowd in Grand Central Station. He’d seen it when he was inside previously, but hadn’t paid too much attention to it. Now that Stella had stopped for it, he could see that the focus was on a couple near the ticket booth, possibly reuniting or possibly saying their goodbyes. It tugged at his emotions a bit. He remembered how melancholy he was on days when he or Stella would have to leave for the airport and he remembered how excited he was to see her again.
“Fuck,” Hank muttered.
“What?” Stella asked.
“Artists.”
The more they browsed, the less turmoil Hank felt. He’d met Tony twice, briefly, and didn’t spend much time attempting to get to know him in any way, but he felt like he was learning about him through the photographs he took. They were all evocative of something sensitive and almost pure.
The last picture in the first row of photographs was of a woman’s arm and a half-covered tattoo. There was a name hidden under her fingers and Hank tilted his head to try to make it out, but it stayed in the shadows of the photo.
“You know I’m thinking about getting another tattoo,” he said.
“Hm?” Stella answered, her head tipped in the same way as his.
“Yeah it’s going to be on my left ass cheek in the shape of a stamp and it’s going to say Property of Stella Gibson.”
She smiled and laced her fingers through his.
“Dad?”
Hank and Stella broke apart to turn around. Becca and Antonio, ‘my friends call me Tony’, were standing behind them. Tony looked nervous, tightly gripping Becca’s hand.
“Daughter.” Hank put his arm around Becca and pulled her into his side for a hug. He nodded at Tony. “Daughter’s…friend.”
Stella held her arms out for Becca and elbowed Hank before she embraced the girl, placing a kiss to both of her cheeks. “Darling,” she said.
Becca stepped back and took Tony’s hand again. “So, what do you think?” she asked.
“You’re good,” Hank said, trying not to grimace. Surprising even himself, he offered his hand to Tony for a handshake. Tony glanced at Becca first and then took Hank’s hand hesitantly, but gave it a firm shake. “Might have to buy that Grand Central one back there.”
“Oh, if you like it, Mr. Moody, I could print one for you, you don’t have to-”
“Hank. And I do like it. And I will buy it.”
“Well…thank you…Hank.”
“It’s for a good cause, right?”
“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” Stella said, holding the slip of paper up between two fingers. “Do you have any literature on this non-profit?”
“I do, actually, I can go and just…”
“I’ll come along.” Stella glanced back at Hank as she escorted Tony away.
Becca seemed to wait until they were out of earshot to eye her father suspiciously. “Are you buying that photo because you like it or are you just trying to prove you’re not an asshole?”
“Oh, I know I’m an asshole, no need to pretend otherwise. I do actually like it. I like all of them. As long as I don’t come across any nudes that I have to convince myself aren’t of you, I’m good.”
“You should skip the back well then.”
Hank felt the blood drain from his face and his stomach flipped. Becca grinned.
“God, dad, Tony’s not like that.”
“Okay.” Hank nodded and pressed his palm to the erratic thumping against his chest while he gripped Becca’s shoulder to steady himself. “Okay.”
“I didn’t think you would actually show up.”
“I said I would.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But, historically I haven’t handled your relationships very well.”
“I’m not a kid. I’m well past needing your permission, you know?”
He almost laughed at how alike they could be. “I know,” he answered, drawing her a little closer so he could cup her cheeks. “But, maybe you might want my support?”
Her eyes went wide before she nodded. He nodded back. He would try to accept someone else in her life, but she was always going to be six-years old to him, explaining to him in all seriousness that she was going to live with him and mommy forever and that they were best friends for always.
“I really like him,” Becca whispered. “He’s kind and he’s patient and he’s gentle and even though we’ve been together for over a month, he’s not even pressuring me to have sex yet, which I-”
Hank sucked in a breath and let Becca go. “Too far.” He waved his hands in front of him and shook his head. “I don’t want to know.”
“Fine.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
They both nodded Hank leaned over to kiss the part in Becca’s hair. He was relieved to see Stella headed back with Tony as the arrival of the two would put a damper on any awkwardness. Becca slipped easily into Tony’s arms and Stella looped her arm through Hank’s again.
Later that night, after they’d taken a Lyft home and after Hank had tested various spots on their walls for their new photo to hang, he found Stella doing her nightly routine in the bathroom and he pressed up behind her as she brushed her teeth over the sink. She was wearing the t-shirt he’d abandoned after they got home and he lightly massaged her breasts as he rutted against her backside in his unbuttoned jeans.
Stella spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and then cleaned her toothbrush, pushing her hips back into Hank’s enticingly. “I’m proud of you,” she said, looking at him in the mirror as she wiped her hands dry.
“You are?”
She nodded and then turned around and put her arms around his neck. He leaned her back into the counter and tipped his head at her.
“Why?” he asked.
“You’re trying not to get in your own way, for once.”
“Hm.” He narrowed his eyes a little. “Please remember that ‘trying’ is the operative word.”
“You’re the one that invited them over to dinner this weekend, so make sure you maintain the effort.”
“I’ll try,” he said, pointedly.
Stella smiled and then she pushed him away from her and gave him a sharp slap to his left ass cheek. He yelped and rubbed his backside.
“What was that for?”
“Because I own your ass and I want it in bed. Now.”
“You could’ve just asked nicely, Sherlock.”
“True, but where’s the fun in that?”
He caught her around the waist and pulled her back into him as she tried to get out of the bathroom ahead of him. “Have I ever told you how happy I am that I walked into that hotel bar and you slipped me your room key for a quick fuck?”
Stella’s wedding ring twinkled in the lamplight as she reached up and took a backwards grip on his neck. “Show me,” she answered.
The End