Page 66 of Tanner

“Excuse me?” I pinch my brows.

“You’re a walking vagina. You want those brothers of yours to listen to you? Then, you need to grab your balls and man up. Act like an owner of your business and tell them what you want. What do you guys sell anyway?”

“Media.” I take the beer from him.

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Newspapers.”

“Then, why didn’t you just say newspapers?”

“Because it’s more than that. We own multiple newspapers around the country, plus websites and digital platforms. It’s … complicated.” I take a swig.

“Sounds like you’re a rich kid who inherited a shitstorm.”

“Yeah. That about sums it up.”

Paul rests his side up against the bar and folds his arms. He’s looking down at me with old brown eyes lined with a lifetime’s worth of wisdom. “Tanner, you’ve been coming here every week for three years. You sit at the end of my bar, covered in some kind of paint, and drink expensive scotch. You stay here all night, and when you leave, you create these masterpieces around the neighborhood.”

“You know about that?” I ask, surprised.

He motions toward the napkins. “You sit here, doodling for hours, a man’s bound to start seeing similarities. I’ve heard people talking about the graffiti. Some say the guy behind it is a savant. Others say it’s defacement.”

“What do you think?” I ask. I didn’t know he knew I was the graffiti artist, let alone that he had an opinion on it.

“I think you’re pretty good. You could use a little work on the faces. They’re a bit abstract.”

I laugh. “I didn’t take you as an art enthusiast.”

He laughs. “More like an opportunist.” He walks over to a drawer by the cash register and takes out a Ziploc bag full of drawn-on napkins. “I thought they might be worth something someday, so I kept them. You just never know.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal that, behind the bar, he keeps a huge stack of my artwork that I left behind.

He leans his elbows on the oak, coming down to my level so that no one else hears him. “I figured you had a few dollars with the way I always see your name on signs of people who donated to some charity or to restore the music hall down the street.”

How does he know all of this?

He picks up my card and swipes it. My form of payment shows my full name on a black Amex.

He continues, “Yes, I pay attention. You keep to yourself. You’re not flashy, and you don’t treat women with anything but respect. I don’t know why. If I had a face like yours, I’d be disrespecting my way all over town. But I digress.” He takes the bottle of scotch and puts it away on the shelf. “Now, about Harper. You like her?”

“You remember her name?”

“It’s hard to forget the good-lookin’ ones. You think you love her?” he asks.

I sway my head from side to side. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Well, maybe isn’t a good enough answer. If she can’t see what a gem you are in this city, then she’s out of her fucking mind. I’ve got patrons coming in here every night with sob stories about how they can’t meet someone. That said, she must really like you to let you go the way she did. She probably thinks you won’t want her for being older.”

“Why wouldn’t I want her? Harper’s the complete package.”

“A girl that age wants a husband and babies. Are you ready for that kind of life? You’re so worried about her treating you like a child when you should be asking yourself if you’re man enough to be with her.”

Harper just came out of a serious relationship. She lived with her ex, and he betrayed her trust. I wonder if they’d planned to get married. I only went out with the girl three times. I’m not ready to talk about marriage and kids and lifelong commitments.

The thought doesn’t entirely freak me out either.

Before I know it, I’m back at the studio, packing up my backpack. It’s so stuffed that the zipper doesn’t want to close all the way. The nights are getting cold enough to keep people from lingering on the streets too late at night. It’s well past the hour most people go to bed, so it’s easy for me to slip through the gate of the abandoned building that has a canvas large enough for me to work out my feelings.

I climb onto the side ledge of the second floor and look at the boarded-up windows. There are squatters inside, but I don’t think they’ll bother me.