Shattered Glass(42)

“Hey, yourself,” I replied, tipping my chin in greeting and resting a shoulder against the door frame.

He extended a surprisingly paint-free hand. I shook it, noticing the other hand was layered in paint. Though he was taller than I, by at least an inch, there was something almost delicate about him. “I’m Cai. Which you probably already knew, but still, I’m Cai. Some people call me Nikki because my name is Nicholas, but most people call me Cai. I don’t really like Nikki, but I haven’t told that to many people. I think Rabbit likes you though, so maybe you’ll be around a lot, and I don’t want to be stuck with Nikki when you could be calling me Cai. So…it’s just Cai.”

While he spoke, he jerked my hand up and down, going on about “did I want to see the bedroom?”, because he had started a new mural that, “…looks like someone blasted a hole into the aftermath of the Battle of the Granicus River”, and, “Really, it’s interesting since some people say it went one way and some another”. I stopped listening too closely after “Rabbit likes you”. And I didn’t pick up his voice again until, “Do you want to come in? I—”

“No,” Peter announced at the same time I said, “Yes.” And as if neither of us had spoken, Cai continued to babble as he moved aside so I could enter the apartment.

“—‘ve just finished the living room, and now I’m working on the bedroom. Well, my bedroom, since I finished Peter’s ages ago. And Darryl’s painted his own room.”

I wasn’t sure what else Cai babbled on about as he led me by the wrist towards a hall just to the right of the stairs. I gathered he was saying something about paints and what types he used, but I got sidetracked by the walls.

Where most people might have had framed photographs, Peter, Cai, Darryl and Joe were depicted in various paintings with frames glued to the wall around them. There seemed to be a gradual change in all of the pictures as they boys aged. No smiles to almost smiles to outright laughter in two of the frames. Cai released my arm while I stared at the wall, enchanted. “You’re talented, kid.” And Peter could laugh without reserve. When would I get to see that guy? The unconstrained Peter.

“Thanks!”

“We’re leaving,” Peter announced and leaned over, pulling Cai’s head down to plant a kiss on the top of his forehead. I wanted to be that forehead. Cai shut up suddenly and took a breath—something he hadn’t done since I arrived—and exited back into his bedroom with a bright wave. I caught a glimpse of an unfinished mural on his bedroom wall.

“He’s really talented,” I said.

“He’s a prodigy.” There was a note of both challenge and pride in his voice. And I hadn’t realized he had dropped his guard. Until now.

“Does he go out and do things or just stay here and paint?” I went back appraising the paintings, and waited for Peter to answer.

I thought I might be getting assessed again. “He doesn’t sleep. It’s part of the mania. He’s going through puberty, so it’s difficult to get his meds just right.” Another challenge or maybe a test.

I frowned and tried to reconcile that fact. “He’s bipolar?” I knew some about the condition from being on the job, but not a whole helluva lot. I’d seen what the depressive end of the bipolar spectrum could wreak, however.

“Yes,” Peter answered. Once again I sensed a provocation in his words. I smiled and went back to studying the paintings. “He talks a lot in the manic stages.” There was nothing but warmth in his voice now. Apparently I had passed the test. “It used to be worse, but still he— he says stuff he shouldn’t.” Peter, I noted in astonishment, was blushing a little.

“It’s okay, Peter, I like you, too,” I grinned and slipped my hand into his. He stiffened momentarily and then sighed, liberating his hand, but gently—not yanking it away. I did my mental victory dance again while I checked him out.

He wore black studded suspenders over another wife beater tee and a light blue cotton shirt, unbuttoned and hanging loose around his sides. Despite the suspenders, his jeans hung low on his hips, and as he moved I caught glimpses of pale skin and the elastic of his boxers. There were no bunny slippers, though—just nondescript sneakers. I sighed in disappointment.

“It’s just because I asked for them, isn’t it?”

I was imagining the twinkle in his eye, wasn’t I? “Pretty much,” he said, holding the front door open and trying to usher me out with his glare. So contrary, my Peter was.