On Rotation(57)

“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.”

He led me to his workstation, an expansive desk with two large mounted monitors and a smaller screen that he explained was actually a graphic tablet. He showed me these with the giddiness of a child at show-and-tell, describing not just the items but where he found them, when, his decisions to arrange them as he had.

“It’s a nice place,” I said when he was done. Ricky had done well for himself. “That is,” I added with a sneer, “for a starving artist.”

“Asshole,” he said without bite. He shoved his hands into his pajama pockets. “But thanks. So? Want anything to drink?”

I shook my head and he tsk-ed, bringing me a glass of water anyway before whisking away to what I now knew was his bedroom. I crumpled onto his sofa, taking delicate sips as I listened to his footsteps patter against his wood floors. To my surprise, I found myself next to a mound of blankets, so high they almost peeked over the top of the couch. They looked so incongruous next to his carefully folded dish towels, and there were so many of them.

“How many of these do you need, Ricky?” I said, lifting layer after layer of blanket only to reveal more underneath. Some were clearly store bought, but a few were knit, and judging by the color schemes of iconic anime characters,* by hand.

Unceremoniously, Ricky returned from behind me and dumped an armful of sheets onto the couch.

“All of them,” he said. “We’re building a fort.”

In spite of myself, I let out a bark of laughter.

“A blanket fort?” I asked giddily. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made a blanket fort, and when I told Ricky as much, his grin only grew wider.

“Oh, then this is definitely a good idea,” he said. “Hold on,” he added before disappearing into his bedroom again and reemerging with a stack of pillows. “I know you’re a guest, but I’m putting you to work. Help me move these chairs?”

I followed him to his dining table, noting its unique dimensions and its welded steel base.

“Your grandpa make this?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Ricky responded, beaming. “The chairs too. It was my present for getting my own place.” He ran his thumb against the table edge. “Completely caught me by surprise, because my grandparents were pissed when I told them I was moving out.”

“Why were they upset?” I asked, thinking of Nia and her box of kitchen utensils, the hollow look she’d given me as she placed it on our dining room table.

“I mean, this place is only a fifteen-minute drive away from them, and it’s not that much more convenient for work,” he said. “They were hoping I’d stay in their home until I got married.”