A heavy silence settled between them, one Rasul sank into like a bog. When Jacob held out his hand, he frowned at it, unsure what he was supposed to do.
“May I see your phone?”
Jacob’s quiet, prim tone was soothing, and Rasul obeyed, curious to find out why. He watched as Jacob flipped it open, fussed with the buttons a bit, then passed it back.
“There,” Jacob said. “The next time you’re convinced you’ve lost your edge, if you forget what kind of a writer you are, call me up and I’ll tell you.”
The phone felt heavy and significant in Rasul’s hand. “What kind of writer am I, to you?”
Jacob rose, brushing off his suit. “We should go back inside. I’m sure someone’s looking for you.”
Rasul stood as well, but he didn’t move to go inside. “Tell me what kind of writer I am.”
Jacob faced the bay. He stared out at it for some time, but Rasul only waited. Eventually Jacob spoke.
“You weave worlds like no one I’ve ever read before, and I’ve read a lot. You write with a rich tapestry of diversity, not only of race and nationality but orientation, occupation, and personality. You put real people in your stories, or people who feel real, and you let them be messy but urge them to arc toward redemption. That’s a good word for your work: redemptive. I’ve lain awake trying to decide if you’re writing to redeem yourself or humanity, and the only conclusion I can make is that it’s both. There are worlds inside your stories, and I’m happy to descend into them every time.”
The sun burned orange-red, casting Jacob in a fiery glow. The wind picked up too, ruffling his tie, his suit, his hair. It pulled Rasul’s hair across his face as well, and it stirred him the same way Jacob’s words had.
Unfortunately, the shadows inside him insisted on tearing those precious castles down. “I can’t write like that anymore.”
“You can. You will.”
“I’m just a playboy spinning out. Everybody’s eating popcorn while they watch me go down.”
“Not me.”
Rasul shut his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.
Screw it.
Grabbing Jacob’s hand, he tugged him toward the door leading inside. “Come on.”
Jacob stumbled after him. “Where are we going now?”
“To party.”
Chapter Three
AS RASUL dragged him by the hand back into the gala, Jacob’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest. Why in the world was this the man’s reaction to him baring his soul like that? He’d never told anyone that was how he saw Rasul Youssef’s work, not even in an online review. It was the truth he kept in a turret inside him, but Rasul had seemed so low, he’d been compelled to tell him.
So why in the world did that inspire him to pull Jacob along like they were a pair of toddlers going out to play?
Gaiman was so right. When Jacob had heard Rasul was coming to Copper Point, he should have sold the store and moved to Yellowknife, Canada, and let his image of his hero keep him warm at night.
He was plenty warm now, though. He was hot from embarrassment and nerves, his hand fully captive in Rasul’s palm. Also he kept getting whiffs of Rasul’s woodsy, spicy aftershave, and it made his knees weak.
“What are we doing?” he asked again once he gathered his wits enough.
Rasul paused at the edge of the room, not letting go of Jacob. After looking around a moment, he grinned. “We’re going dancing.”
Jacob tried to pull away. “Oh, no. I can’t dance.”
“Liar.” Rasul winked at him as he tugged him forward. “You dance alone in your apartment, I know you do.”
He did, but the hell he was going to admit that. Jacob tried for another angle. “I don’t even know what this music is.”
Rasul wrinkled his nose. “You’re right. Come on, let’s go fix that.”
“Wait—” But it was too late. Jacob was once again tugged across the room.
He tried to keep his composure and nod politely to people he knew as they passed, but it was a struggle, just as everything had been a Herculean effort ever since he’d found out his date was Rasul. I’m being dragged across the Copper Point Community Center by Rasul Youssef. Jacob couldn’t decide if he wanted to fly to the stars or curl up and die.
Rasul took them to the stage where the DJ was set up and gestured the man to come out from behind the table. “Hey, you take requests? What system are you using to play music?”
The DJ, a bored-looking man in his early twenties, shrugged. “A Spotify playlist some committee made up. I’m mostly here in case of a technical difficulty.”
Rasul dug in his wallet, then passed over a twenty. “Play ‘I’ll Never Fall in Love Again’ by Dionne Warwick.” Then he pulled out another bill and passed it over too. “Follow it up with some Air Supply.”
“You got it, boss,” the DJ said, suddenly a lot more animated.
“Hold on,” Jacob said, but then they were off again, this time headed for the dance floor.
They’d caught the DJ at the end of another song, so the muted horn opening of Warwick’s song drifted through the community center speakers as Rasul pulled Jacob into dance position, making Jacob the follower. “Think you can do a simplified swing?”
Jacob’s knees threatened to turn to jelly. “No.”
Rasul, already swaying to the beat, winked at him. “Sure you can. Rock step, triple step.”
He led Jacob through the steps patiently, constantly repeating the litany that it was easy, Jacob could do it—look, you’re doing it! Jacob wasn’t convinced he was doing anything but stumbling to the beat, but he’d only stepped on Rasul’s toes twice, so perhaps that was some kind of progress.
Then, without warning, Rasul spun him out. Jacob barely had time for a yelp before he was drawn back into Rasul’s orbit.
Laughing, Rasul resumed the pattern they’d fallen into before. “See? You’re a natural.”
“I absolutely am not.” But it was getting easier. Unfortunately it meant Jacob had more brain cells available to notice everyone looking at them and worry that he was making a spectacle of himself. The bank president glared.
How in the world am I dancing with Rasul Youssef? How?
The second time Rasul spun him out, he handled himself better, but his heart still raced.
“You look terrified,” Rasul said as they slid back into the main dance. “Am I terrifying you?”
“A bit,” Jacob admitted. “I’m not used to this kind of thing.”
“What, dancing?”
“Attention.” He decided to ask the question rattling around in his brain. “Why are you giving me this much attention?”
Rasul didn’t answer right away, some of the light going out of his face. Before Jacob could apologize for being rude, the music switched to Air Supply’s “All Out of Love.”
“Hmm, let’s go with seventh-grade sway for this one.” Rasul shifted his grip on Jacob and slowed them into a more traditional dance floor shuffle. The corner of his mouth tipped into a quirky smile. “Man, you gotta love Air Supply.”
So they were switching the topic. Not a problem, Jacob could do that. “Do you prefer music from the seventies and eighties?”