Cliffhanger

Chapter 3

Chapter 3“So, where do you live, exactly?” Alex asked, his voice a tiny bit unsteady at the impertinence of his own question. He and Xander Browne had been having lunch together every day for the past two weeks in the Met’s staff cafeteria. To Alex, it felt like a real friendship, something he’d had precious little of in his short lifetime. Xander was weird and funny and so very tolerant of Alex’s peculiarities.

Xander lifted his brows in that theatrically arch look Alex had so come to enjoy. “What’s it to you, Mr. White?”

Alex huffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m just curious. You go off at the end of the day, and poof, disappear somewhere mysteriously.”

Now it was Xander’s turn to roll his big expressive eyes. “You’re just nosey. You wanna know where the Black boy goes when he leaves the palace of white privilege every day.”

Alex’s pale cheeks flamed red. Xander was always saying things like this to him, apparently because he loved to see Alex blush so fast and intensely. Alex’s whiteness seemed to fascinate Xander, but not in a way that made Alex uncomfortable. Somehow, instead, he felt oddly cherished.

“Fine. f**k you. Don’t tell me,” he responded. Despite the bitter words, both young men knew this was an established part of their banter. Xander understood that Alex wasn’t remotely offended, and vice versa.

Xander guffawed. “Keep trying, my friend, you’ll pull off that tough-guy routine someday.” He dodged Alex’s attempt to cuff him on the arm.

“I take the crosstown bus at 79th Street, then the C uptown to…” He paused dramatically, raising his arms and making jazz-hands. “Harlem!”

Alex did not take the bait. He just stared at his friend with a studied lack of emotion on his face. “That’s interesting.”

Smirking at Alex’s calculated non-response, Xander continued. “Actually, you would be interested. I live with my mom and dad on a little street called Hamilton Terrace. We share a house with my grandparents.”

“A house?” Now Alex’s eyes were wide with curiosity.

“Yep. A genuine four-story, nineteenth-century brownstone. My great-grandfather bought it in 1935, just as Black folks were moving to that part of Harlem and prices were low. He split the house into three flats and lived there with his parents. Then with his son, and so on. Now it’s my grandparents and my family.”

“Was he rich?” Alex asked, curiosity shaping his pretty features.

“Seriously, Mr. White?” Xander answered, brows raised. “Great-Grandpa Browne was a schoolteacher. His father was a pullman porter on the New York Central railroad. Their timing was right.”

“Five generations. It’s like an ancestral home,” said Alex with more than a little awe in his voice.

Xander just nodded. “The real miracle is that my family held onto the house. These days a lot of your people”—he emphasized these two words, causing Alex to snort derisively—”are finding Hamilton Terrace pretty attractive. The house is worth a fortune now. But my family loves living there.”

Here he paused. “My father’s a history professor at NYU. Got his degree at Fordham and his PhD at Columbia. My mom’s a nurse at Columbia Presbyterian.”

Hesitation flickered over Alex’s face as he figured out his next line.

“Wow, Mr. Browne, I had no idea you were so bougie.” Alex flinched, expecting his friend to at least throw something at him, but Xander just sat there, looking thoughtful.

“As the first Black decorative arts curator in the history of the American Wing, I think I might just define bougie,” Xander finally answered, without sarcasm. “Problem is, I’m supposed to have wanted to be a lawyer, or a doctor, not some low-paid object weeny working in an institution that celebrates the history of rich white people.”

Alex didn’t quite know what to say to that. “Uh, there are huge collections of Asian things, and African, and Native American,” he started, lamely.

“All collected by rich white people, Mr. White. It is my tragedy that I grew up genteel in Harlem and developed a taste for things like architecture and design. Of course, when it came to graduate programs, I was everybody’s first choice, because of my, um, rarity in the field.”

Alex could feel himself blushing again, his shame at his own insensitivity overwhelming the mild embarrassment he could feel emanating from his friend. Of course, Xander saved him.

“So, Mr. White, tit for tat time.” He made a small come-hither motion with his long fingers. “Now you have to tell me your story.”

Alex blushed again, realizing how much he didn’t want to tell his friend, but knowing that he was caught. Sighing, he pressed on. “I live all of ten blocks from here. Park Avenue. Lived there my whole life.”

He fell silent, not sure what to say next. He could feel his anxiety spike a little, but then it settled. He knew Xander well enough to know that his friend was remarkably well attuned to him. After their first awkward interaction, Xander hadn’t made a single false step. He seemed to understand his new colleague intuitively.

“What do your parents do?” Xander asked quietly.

“My father’s a doctor at Columbia Presbyterian. Cardiology. My mom was a doctor, too. They met in medical school.”

“Was?” Alex could see Xander’s features sadden in anticipation of his answer.

“She died last year. Ovarian cancer. It was a recurrence. Her first diagnosis was the year after I was born. That’s why I’m an only child. Ironically, she was a pediatric oncologist.”

“So only you and your dad.”

“Yeah.”

“What about school?” Xander’s voice was soft now, focused. He was genuinely interested; Alex could feel it.

“Oh, you can imagine. Private school. Several, to be honest. I had some trouble with bullying, but eventually we found the right place.”

“s**t. Bullying?”

“Well, you know, albino, obviously gay, not tall or athletic. Nobody ever beat me up, but rich kids can be particularly skilled at emotional torment.”

“Poor kids, too. My folks had to pull me out of public school and put me in a Catholic school.”

“But,” Alex interrupted him. “You’re tall, and athletic-looking, and,” he could feel the blush building again, “so handsome.”

“And nerdy and interested in art, and not actually sporty at all.” He raised an ironic eyebrow at Alex. “Not all of us can play basketball.”

Alex just looked down at his hands, still aware that he was far more upset than Xander was.

“I got free tuition to NYU because of my dad. It was a lot more comfortable there. Stayed to get my M.A. in the history of decorative arts.”

Alex met Xander’s beautiful brown eyes. “Hunter College, then the Bard Graduate Program. It was in grad school that I finally felt at home, really, for the first time.”

“And here we are,” Xander almost whispered.

The silence that fell between them wasn’t awkward, it was simply quiet. After a few moments of introspection, their eyes downcast, Alex and Xander both looked up, dark brown eyes locked onto pale blue ones. Xander reached out a long arm and, to Alex’s surprise, wrapped his hand around Alex’s as it lay on the laminate tabletop. An electric shiver ran up Alex’s arm, as if somehow his friend’s touch had completed a circuit between them.

“You should come have dinner with me and my family sometime soon,” Xander all but whispered. “I’d like them to meet you.”

“I’d love to.” Alex cleared his throat, pulled his hand out from under Xander’s, and arched his own snowy brows. “But only if you promise to come to my house for dinner, too.”

Xander beamed at his friend. “Deal.”