I rub the back of my neck, relieved when the server shows up to take our drink order and gives me a few minutes to process my emotions before I answer.
Once he’s gone, I sit forward in my chair. “I don’t talk about it much. None of the people at the hotel even know.”
Cato’s brow furrows as he nods. “I’m a good listener.”
“I can sense that.” It takes me another few seconds to decide where to start. “All my life, I’ve been the outcast or loner. Not anti-social, but always going against the popular grain. My grandma always said I danced to the music in my head that no one else could hear. She supported me no matter what.”
“Is she still with us?”
“No.” I take a sip of water. “She passed a few years ago. I always said I would do something to make her proud and prove everyone else wrong.”
“But something happened that made you stop creating?”
I nod. “Yeah. That guy I told you about. He was so critical. At first, I was determined to shut him up with my art, but he was stronger than my muse. Slowly, I just shut down. All those comments and criticisms from family and well-meaning friends started to affect me. I didn’t have a steady income, nowhere permanent to settle. Even now, I live at the hotel. I haven’t been able to decide if they’re right or if I am.”
“What kind of art do you do?”
“Sculptures. A little painting. My stuff isn’t mainstream enough. That’s what I’ve been told.”
“When is art mainstream?”
I chuckle. “Right? Apparently, when it’s not gay.”
He cringes. “No. The art world is homophobic?”
“Not really, but how many patrons want erotic gay statutes in their home?”
“Um, gay ones? Sounds like there’s a market there to me. I would want one. Probably can’t afford it, but it wouldn’t stop me from wanting one.”
Shrugging, I take another sip of water. Talking about my art makes me emotional. “Thanks. I guess after the breakup, I sort of shut down. I moved here to start over. I found the hotel job as a way to make some money, but I fell in love with the resort. It’s quirky and beat up, and it’s seen better days, but so many people believe in it. Howie’s enthusiasm that it can be a hot spot again is infectious. Maybe I relate.”
Cato is watching me with a concerned face. “I get it. Really, I do. In some ways, we’re both artists, but I use words as my medium. I’ve stayed in relationships longer than I should because they provided stability. I’ve been criticized and pushed by my family for years to get arealjob.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“But I can’t. Nothing else matters to me but writing. I make enough to get by with my freelance work, but someday, I’m gonna write a novel.”
“Why someday? Why not now?”
“Can’t afford to take the time away from the jobs that make money. They don’t pay a lot, so I take on as much as I can.”
“I guess we do have things in common. The artist life is a struggle.”
“A worthy one, Tigo.”
I nod. “Yeah. I agree. I just need to figure out how to woo my muse back.”
“I hope that happens soon.”
“Me too.”
After a pleasant dinner, where we discuss much happier topics, I insist on paying the tab, and we walk outside together.
“Want to go sit on the beach?”
Cato’s face lights up. “Yes.”
There are still quite a few people out as the sun slowly sets. We find a spot near the water and sit down, taking our shoes off to feel the sand between our toes.