Chapter Text
For Kip Grady, perpetual student, September is the start of the year. It’s a rainier-than-usual month—today the rain is coming down even though the sun is shining. None of this is visible in the permanent dark of the Kingfisher. Kip and Maria are celebrating Maria finishing nursing school. Kip met Maria a little over three years ago, when he was in the early stages of his PhD program, still readjusting to New York after a tumultuous year away.
Kip and Maria are at a crossroads, in a sense. Kip has finished his coursework and is now facing down the uphill battle of writing a dissertation, researching, and staying relevant to faculty and peers. Maria, meanwhile, is moving on to the plans she told Kip about the day they met.
Their first meeting three years ago was in one of those strange liminal city spaces, only accessible through a series of unremarkable doors. They met in the hallway of an office building that hadn’t been renovated since the ‘50s, whose Mad Men charm had long faded. The uncomfortable chairs in a wood-paneled hallway were as good a place as any to befriend someone, and Kip was a sucker for making a new friend. They were in that hallway for the same purpose: the first round of interviews for a high-end, invite-only pet-care service for rich people. Or as the website said: “clientele who require security and discretion.” The company required a background check, an interview, and multiple references.
In that hallway, they bonded over their long-term goals and plans for that summer. Maria was coming off a side job as a personal assistant but told Kip she’d rather “deal with dog shit.” Their interviews went well; Kip invited her to the Kingfisher for drinks afterwards. She’d quickly installed herself amongst Kip’s non-grad school friends.
Today, they’re back at the Kingfisher, sharing a plate of stale fries, toasting Maria’s future and commiserating on Kip’s present. Kip is still, technically, on the roster for the dog-walking agency. The tension of his comps, language exams, and then a research trip in France cleared his schedule. He has no current clients, and Maria, kindly, is handing out her client roster to friends. Because Kip is one of her best friends, she has offered up her best client. Kip is cobbling together an unbalanced writing schedule that a single, regular dog-walking client could fit right into.
“What makes him your best client?” Kip asks.
“He’s nice, his dog is well behaved, the apartment is insane, and he has a very set schedule. It’s not a daily gig, it’s kind of random. You have to stay at his place in the Upper West Side a few times a week, but again, the apartment is amazing. He’s some kind of athlete? So the schedule is also nuts. But he gives, like, six months of dates in advance.” Maria answers.
A set schedule of dates works for Kip, who is, these days, trying to make his own schedule.
“And,” Maria smiles wide, “I think you’ll like him.”
That beatific expression will come back to him, five days later, when he meets Scott Hunter for the first time.
✶✶
One of the perks of being a high-end dog walker is getting to see the inside of buildings Kip would otherwise have no access to. He greets the doorman in a shiny lobby of a luxury new build in the Upper West Side, informing him that his name is Kip Grady and Mr. Hunter should be expecting him. The doorman consults something on the other side of the counter, calls up, speaking in a hushed voice to someone on a landline telephone. A moment later, he nods and waves Kip to the elevator.
The elevator has no buttons: just a smooth black panel for an electric key fob. When the doors close, the elevator automatically delivers Kip skyward, no buttons needing pressed. He cannot tell what floor he’s being sent to, but the ride lasts a good minute or two as he is sent hurtling straight up. When the doors finally open, it’s onto a small, plain foyer with a single door straight ahead labeled PH. He steps out of the elevator: the only things in the white-walled space is an umbrella stand and a tidy pile of deconstructed cardboard boxes on their way out. There’s no doorbell, but Kip assumes it was Mr. Hunter on the phone with the doorman. He knocks and cracks open the notably heavy door, calling “Hello?” as he does so.
From somewhere farther in the apartment, a deep man’s voice calls out: “Come on in, sorry, I’m behind schedule today.”
An adorable dog barks twice and then rushes to greet him. She doesn’t jump: she twists her little body around him three times, sniffing, and then she backs up to watch him from a few feet away, keeping her head low to watch him.
“Hello, Blue,” Kip says to the dog. This is the extent of the information he has. Address and names. Owner: Mr. S. Hunter. Dog: Blue. He expected a blue heeler, but she is some kind of unidentifiable mutt with a short dense coat of red-blonde fur, dark black around her nose and mouth, with one ear that stands straight up, the other with a slight flop forward, like she’s halfway through asking a question. Kip holds out his hand, palm up. Her head stays low, between her shoulder blades, back paws firmly in place on the threshold between the entrance and the rest of the apartment as she leans slightly forward to sniff him but doesn’t advance any further.
“Shoes on or off?” Kip calls into the apartment, no sign of the occupant. Most of the apartment is blocked by an enormous, expensive-looking built-in, through which sunlight, unobstructed by any nearby building, is filtering through on this rare sunny September morning.
“Off, please,” says the voice, getting closer. Kip is taking off his shoes when the man rounds the corner into the entryway. Kip’s brain skitters to a sudden stop. He has had a vague mental image of “professional athlete” per Maria’s description—thick-necked jock who looks right through him. Very notably, not Kip’s type. The man rounding the corner is athletic, tall, muscled, with big, sad eyes. Probably the same age as Kip. Show-stoppingly handsome. More pressingly in this exact moment is the fact that this future client has just returned home from some kind of exercise.
He is wearing skin-tight athleticwear, pasted to his body with sweat. Kip’s Art History brain jumps to a memory of Corradini’s veiled sculptures: the curves and contours of a breathing human body visible through clinging diaphanous fabric, impossibly carved out of stone. The kind of statues that seem like they will flutter alive with breath in a second. His brain jumps to a lecture about eroticism in art: that concealment is more provocative than full reveal. Put another way: the sluttiest thing a man can wear is not nothing, but a skintight shirt that tells you exactly the height of his nipples and the shape of his abdominal muscles. Kip realizes his mouth is open. He closes it, pretending to be distracted by taking off his sneakers.
Scott has also come to a sudden halt. One hand on the wall divider, the other hanging loosely at his side. Blue is now behind his legs, staring at Kip and using Scott’s legs as a shield, head still below her shoulders.
“Hi,” Kip says, into the awkward silence, raising to stand. “Kip Grady, nice to meet you, Mr. Hunter.”
He puts out his hand, and Scott does a half shake of his head, like a dog knocking the thoughts around in its head. Recomposed, he extends his hand to shake Kip’s. It is warm, calloused.
“Please, call me Scott. Sorry, I was expecting… someone else?” Scott says. The expression on his face is unreadable.
“Did I get the time wrong? I double-checked,” Kip goes to fish out his phone.
“No. No. I looked at your profile on the website. Chris G?”
Kip laughs. Chris G, another dogwalker, is an older guy who looks like Santa Claus. “Oh, I’m also Chris G. But I’m listed on the site as Kip, to avoid confusion.”
Confusion that is Maria’s doing. She must have given Scott Kip’s full name. Her saintly, pleased face from the other day floats into his mind. Kip is going to kill her.
“Is that a problem?” Kip asks.
“No, no, sorry. Come in, come in. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”
“A glass of water would be great,” Kip says, finally rounding the corner into the apartment. Blue watches him with interest, still just out of reach. As Maria promised, it’s an incredible apartment, a huge open-plan space; the view and sunlight are startling. A healthy, green monstera plant in the living room proves how much daylight the place gets. The apartment has a corporate attractiveness. It nice but not beautiful, decorated neutrally with hotel-like blandness. It’s an apartment that tells Kip exactly nothing about Scott Hunter, who is now pouring Kip a glass of water, other than that he is properly wealthy. Rich enough to have hired someone to decorate and furnish the entire place all at once. The finishing and furniture are in matching tones. Everything, from the counters to throw blankets, looks as though it was delivered in the same order. New, unscuffed furniture, a gleaming kitchen. The art looks like it was picked out of a catalogue for someone who would barely look at it. A coldly beautiful space without any grit to make it memorable.
Standing at the fridge, the space’s most interesting feature: the defined muscles of Scott’s back flex as he places a Brita filter in the fridge. Scott’s face, his contemplative expression, has all the intrigue that the space around him is missing. Task at hand, Grady, he thinks, digging a nail into his palm.
“Thanks,” Kip says aloud, accepting the glass of water, careful to avoid touching Scott’s hand for a second time.
Scott leans a hip against the counter as Kip sips the water, typing rapidly on his phone. The room is silent. Kip forces himself to stare anywhere else but Scott. Blue is standing between them, watching with her head cocked, the bent ear flopping straight in her interest. Kip sips his water and turns to the rest of the apartment. The large built-in has some traces of personality: a handful of family photos, a stack of well-worn airport thrillers, and then several generic sculptural objects that fill the space without conveying any meaning. It’s been six months since Kip's last dog walked for anyone. He’s trying to get his bearings again. The typical setup for dog walking: be quiet, unobtrusive, and an invisible hand to make life easier for a person with the wallet to pay for the help.
Scott interrupts his snooping: “Oh, here you are,” he says, holding his phone up. On the screen is Kip’s listing and photo on the dog walking service website.
“Oh. Yeah, sorry about that. But, proof I've been vetted, background check passed,” Kip says.
“Glad you’re not here to kill me. Thank god, it would be embarrassing to have invited a serial killer in,” laughs Scott. “Blue is not a good guard dog.”
“I—what?” Kip says.
Scott closes his eyes and does that same half shake of his head, before opening his eyes and smiling apologetically, “Ignore me. Too many podcasts.”
“Oh, I get that,” Kip answers. Scott’s eyes are distracting. Kip swallows and says, “So, tell me about Blue.”
“She’s a pretty easy dog, honestly,” Scott says fondly. Blue is standing pressed to Scott’s leg. Scott goes to pet her, and she lifts her paw in the air and looks up at him expectantly. He scratches behind her ear.
“Does she know any commands?” Kip asks.
Scott holds up a finger to say wait a second. He turns and brings out a bag of dog treats from a kitchen cabinet. The counters are otherwise spotless, a decorative jar of unused kitchen utensil next to a spotless gas stove. Scott opens the treats and demonstrates a series of basic commands: sit, stay, leave it. He looks sheepishly up at Kip and says, “Dance,” and Blue jumps on her back legs. “Spin-o-rama,” he says, and she does a full turn. He puts his hands down by his side and says, “Hat trick!” and Blue taps her nose on his left, then right, then left palm again. Scott stands, looks proudly in a dorky way, and then he tosses a treat underhanded, and she catches it mid-air.
“Here,” Scott says, and holds out the bag of treats to Kip.
Kip walks over and accepts it. He takes out a treat and holds it out to Blue, who takes it gently, still staring at Scott.
“She’s a little shy,” Scott says. “But yeah. She’s pretty low maintenance. She gets walked twice a day. She’s good at home for up to eight hours, as long as she has a good run in the morning. I take her out myself when I’m home. I travel about six, seven days a month during the season, but we usually fly straight back after games. It’s all on the schedule.”
“Right, Maria said you’re… an athlete?” Kip asks.
“I play for the Admirals, yeah,” Scott says.
Once again, Kip thinks of Maria saying, “an athlete or something,” and feels personally victimized. His dad was watching the Admirals’ pre-season game last night. The data point that there’s a Hunter on the team registers somewhere in the back of his mind, like learning the answer to a round of trivia after the fact—not helpful, maybe more frustrating than anything.
“Oh, okay, cool,” Kip says, deeply uncool.
“I know it’s kind of a crazy life to have a dog,” Scott says with a laugh. “But I didn’t mean to get a dog. She sort of chose me.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the story?” Kip asks and glances at the edge of a very white, very pristine couch, unsure if sitting is appropriate. He notices another stack of books on the coffee table, the white label of the New York Public Library on their spine. Another thriller, and books he cannot recognize. Something that looks like non-fiction.
Scott crosses the apartment to the farther branch of the large sectional, sitting down heavily. Blue hops onto the couch next to him, circling and then lying down in a donut shape next to him. She rests her chin on Scott’s knee and stares into the middle distance, pointedly ignoring them both. Kip can only imagine the cleaning regime that allows this dog on such a white couch.
“I was on vacation in Mexico two years ago. She kept hanging around, coming to me every day. Like a vacation buddy. One day she showed up and was really sick. I took her to a vet, and everyone said I was crazy. Turns out, she had gotten into a smoothie stand on the beach and eaten almost an entire crate of blueberries. By the time I paid the vet bill, I was looking up the paperwork to bring her back.”
“Blue, short for blueberry?” Kip asks.
“Her official paperwork name is Blueberry Hunter,” Scott says, sounding a little embarrassed to reveal this detail. The expression on Scott’s face when he looks at his dog makes Kip feel a little crazy—like looking at something so charming scrambles the emotions in his brain and turns it into near anger.
Scott cracks his knuckles loudly and then pivots into logistical details: diet, routine, and expectations. Blue, Kip learns, has free rein of the place. Kip makes a joke about her enjoying the view, and Scott laughs. It’s a great laugh, and Kip is immediately desperate to hear it again. It is becoming clear to him that he needs to get laid because he is clearly going a little crazy.
Scott, on the other hand, needs someone to walk Blue for all his game days, evening walks on home games, at least one overnight a week. On top of that, occasional weeklong dog sitting for something Scott calls “roadies.”
“I know it’s a crazy schedule. Would that work for you? I have a calendar of dates that need to be covered, which evenings, which nights, and which mornings, from now until the end of April.” Scott says, and smiles with a wince. “Sorry if that’s intense. I’ve only worked with Maria, so I don’t really know what’s normal with this. But she recommended you.”
“No, that’s fine,” Kip nods. “My schedule is… well, it’s not flexible. I’m studying at Columbia, and I live in Brooklyn. If you need additional coverage, we can work something out as long as I have 48 hours' heads up.”
“Sounds good to me,” Scott nods. “What are you studying?”
Kip digests the fact that he’s been asked a personal question and tries to place Scott’s interest somewhere neat and orderly in his mind, not to be overanalyzed or misunderstood, before he answers, “I’m doing a PhD in Art History.”
“That’s so cool,” Scott says with total earnestness. “I didn’t finish college, but my favourite classes were history. You have to write, like a book for a PhD, right?”
“Yeah. Ha, sort of. A dissertation, so a really long essay. Multiple chapters. That’s what I’m working on most days.”
“What’s it about?” Scott asks. He leans back, giving the distinct impression that he is more comfortable once he is no longer the one answering questions.
Kip is unsure how the answer will land. There are multiple ways to answer the question: long-winded, boring, the full spiel of his area of interest and specialty. There’s the answer he wants to give, the one that pushes ever so gently into the space between them, provokes him. Scott does not seem like a stereotypical athlete, the kind of guy who made gym class miserable. Like a dare, Kip goes with the pithy answer: “Queer aesthetics in Baroque painting.”
He watches for the reaction on Scott’s face. Kip cannot get a read on him at all. Scott’s jaw flexes, like he’s swallowing the words down, and then he nods in reaction. “Oh, okay.” There’s a whole journey happening on his face, which then clears into a friendly, maybe pretend casual smile as he says, “Can you explain what that means in dumb jock?”
Without thinking, Kip laughs and says, “You don’t seem like a dumb jock to me.”
Scott holds Kip’s gaze a half beat too long after the compliment. The eye contact registers in some deep, animal part of Kip’s brain, rewiring some data points.
Kip breaks first, saying, “Baroque, that’s an art style from the seventeenth and eighteenth century. Do you know the Three Musketeers? I'm sort of studying that era, in France but—paintings from a specific artistic influence, and the, uh. Sensibilities of that artist. The paintings are very dramatic. Sublimated sensuality and desire. The colours are stark, really dark shadows that tell your eye where to look. And then the subject matter is always moving, doing something. Not just a person posing for a portrait.”
“Oh,” says Scott slightly edgily. “That’s really interesting.”
“Thanks,” Kip says. “I hope it is, it’s basically my life’s work at this point.”
“Do you write about any, any artists I would have heard of?” Scott asks. To his surprise, Scott has brought his phone from his lap.
“The most famous is Caravaggio? He inspired the style of art I’m studying.” Kip supplies.
“How do you spell that?” Scott asks. Kip spells it, and Blue lifts her head and turns to look at Kip, slowly blinking her big brown eyes, cat-like. Kip watches Scott, his lips are unconsciously parted as he scrolls the screen.
“Oh! I’ve seen this one,” he says, interrupting Kip’s thoughts as he turns his phone to show Kip the painting Judith Beheading Holofernes.
“That’s him, he has a lot of beheadings.”
“Gruesome,” says Scott with a wide smile, closing his phone.
“Yeah, he can be,” Kip laughs. The flattery of Scott’s attention settles warmly in his stomach.
Scott smiles unguardedly and says, “Well, it sounds like Blue will be in good hands. Maybe she can learn something about art.”
✶✶
Before the doors even shut on the elevator, Kip pulls his phone from his pocket.
K: so.
K: why did you not tell me your client is the hottest man i’ve ever seen?
M: Oh…. whoops, I guess I forgot.
K: girl
K: i could have used a warning
M: Hmmm thought you needed a surprise tho
M: You’ve been so busy
M: How did it go?
K: i start next week
The elevator brings Kip back into the lobby and back out into the street. He rolls his shoulders on the walk to the train, headphones in for the hour ride home. Many of his childhood friends live with their parents, and at least one of his grad school acquaintances. It is the logical result of living here and making compromises. He thinks about this compromise during tedious transfer times, or when his train is delayed, or when service is down to 20 minutes at a time, or when he has to find somewhere free to read a book between events because it is absolutely not worth it to go all the way home. So: every day. Certainly now, more acutely, having been spat out of a luxury penthouse of a man not much older than him. For a moment, on the couch, Scott’s interest, the lingering attention of his big hazel eyes, made him feel invited into Scott’s world.
The humming satisfaction of Scott’s questions stays with him almost halfway to Brooklyn as he zones out, book in lap, watching the lights blur in the subway tunnels. By the time Kip is transferring trains on the last leg of his commute home, navigating jostling shoulders and running down the stairs past slow walkers to make his train in time, the real world has kicked in: deadlines, emails to answer, and bills that Scott’s money will help cover. Don’t be an idiot, Grady. He settles into a seat for the last leg of his trip home, staring out the dark train window, remembering the cold apartment and the contradiction of Scott’s warm laugh.