Chapter 2: The Art of Cajun Persuasion
The rich, complex scent of the Holy Trinity—onions, bell peppers, celery—sautéing in butter hit Dante the moment they hit the bottom step, pulling everything into sharp, hungry focus. Jackson stood at the stove, her back to them, rhythmically stirring a dark, chocolate-colored roux in a cast iron pot that looked as old as the house. "Don't you start," she said without turning, her voice a warm, knowing alto. "I heard that stomach growlin' from the living room, Dante. Boy eats like he's hollow."
Dre grinned, swiping a piece of andouille from the cutting board. He popped it in his mouth just as his mom turned, her wooden spoon held aloft like a scepter."Deandre! You know better than to stick your thief-fingers in my pot while I'm stirring!" she swatted at his shoulder, but her eyes were bright. "Grown man acting like a possum at a dumpster."
"Can't help it," Dre said, chewing, leaning against the counter so his arm brushed Dante's. "It's too good."
Dante inhaled, the aromas of smoked sausage, cayenne, and bay leaf wrapping around him like a blanket. It was so different from the silent, stainless steel chill of his own kitchen. Here, everything felt alive. Mia, Dre's little sister, was wedged in the corner booth, phone pressed to her ear. "No, you listen," she hissed, then glanced up, rolling her eyes at them dramatically. Jackson pointed her spoon at Dante. "You.Sit. You look peaky." She studied him for a second too long, her gaze softening. "Long night?"
"I'm good, Ma," Dre replied easily, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. His shoulder brushed Dante's again as he moved to the coffee pot, a fleeting contact that sent a jolt straight to Dante's stomach.
She hummed, not convinced, and turned her attention back to the roux."So. That party at the Cavanaughs'." The wooden spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. "Anybody end up in the pool? Or the county jail?"
Dante accepted the mug Dre handed him, the ceramic almost too hot to hold. He focused on the burn against his palms, a sharp anchor. "Not this time," he said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow to his own ears.
Mia snorted from her corner, whispering something into her phone about "basic drama."
"We just crashed at my place after," Dre said, pouring coffee. His voice was carefully neutral, a practiced casualness that made Dante’s neck prickle. "Nothing crazy."
"Mm-hmm."Mrs. Jackson didn't look up. "And did anything happen...afterwards?"
The question hung in the steam-filled air. Dante's throat closed. He saw the covered portrait in his mind, felt the ghost of Dre's leg against his in the dark. The fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped insect.
Dre took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes meeting Dante's over the rim for a single, paralyzing second. "Nah, Ma," he said, his voice a low, smooth river over rocks. "We just passed out."
Dante brought his own mug to his lips, needing the distraction. The coffee was scalding. It burnt his tongue, a sudden, clean pain that made his eyes water. He welcomed it.
He welcomed it. The pain was a bright, definitive thing in a room suddenly swimming with unspoken questions.
Mia’s voice cut through the hiss of the roux from her corner booth. “Yeah, whatever,” she said into her phone, rolling her eyes so hard Dante swore he heard it. She hung up and tossed the device onto the cracked vinyl, her gaze landing on them with predatory interest.“So. You two were at the Cavanaugh thing.”
“Don’t start, Mia,” Dre muttered, staring into his mug.
“I’m just saying,” she singsonged, sliding out of the booth. She padded over to the fridge, her socks silent on the linoleum. “Stacy Parker called me this morning. Crying.” She pulled out the orange juice, taking a slow, deliberate swig straight from the carton. “Said she was looking for you all night, Dre. Said she finally found you…” She paused for effect, her eyes darting to Dante. “…in the backyard. Having a super intense conversation with someone else.”
Dante’s coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth. The backyard. The dark patch near the old oak, where the music faded to a dull pulse. He’d followed Dre out for air, for a break from the noise.
“It wasn’t intense,” Dre said, his voice flat. “We were talking.”
“About art,” Mia said, mimicking a deep, thoughtful voice. She put the juice back and leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. “That’s what Stacy said. She said you were all, ‘The compositional balance is flawed,’ and Dante was just… staring at you.” She raised her eyebrows. “You know, for a football star and a former football star, you guys are kind of… dorks.”
Mrs. Jackson chuckled softly, stirring her pot. “Leave your brother alone, baby.”
“I’m just repeating what I heard!” Mia shrugged, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Sounded pretty serious. And private.” She looked right at Dante. “You don’t even like art.”
The accusation hung there. Dante felt the weight of Dre’s painted gaze from upstairs, that intimate, stolen version of himself, pressing down on him. He’d been staring. He’d been caught.
“I don’t,” Dante managed, forcing a scoff. “He was just going on and on. I zoned out.” It was a weak defense, and the knowing glint in Mia’s eye said she saw right through it.
Dre pushed off from the counter. “We’re gonna go,” he said, his voice tight. He didn’t look at Dante.
“Your food’s almost ready,” Mrs. Jackson protested, but Dre was already walking toward the hallway.
“Not hungry anymore.”
Dre didn’t stop, pushing through the screen door onto the back porch with a sharp squeal of hinges. Dante followed, the humid air replacing the kitchen’s spice. Dre paced to the railing, gripping the chipped wood until his knuckles whitened.
“Man,” Dante started, his voice too loud in the quiet yard.
“Just drop it,” Dre said, not turning.
The command was brittle. Dante leaned against the doorframe, watching Dre’s rigid back. He could still smell the roux, that deep, almost-burnt scent that usually meant comfort. Now it just felt like a prelude to something sour.
“You good?” Dante asked.
The question hung between them, stupid and inadequate. Dre let out a hard breath that was almost a laugh. “Stacy,” he said, the name a curse. “She’s gonna tell everyone she saw us arguing. That’s the story now.”
“So let her,” Dante said, shrugging with a force he didn’t feel.
“It’s not that simple.” Dre finally turned, his eyes dark. “You don’t get it. You never have to think about this stuff.” He gestured vaguely between them, a helpless, furious motion. “What people say. What they see.”
Dante’s mouth went dry. He knew exactly what people could see. He’d seen it himself, in paint. “So we were talking. Big deal.”
“Big deal.” The word sounded flimsy, even to him.
"Yeah, you're right, he digressed." Dre sighed through his nose, shoulders finally dropping. The brittle anger seemed to leak out of him, replaced by a weary resignation.
He pushed off the railing. "Forget it."
The food court sunlight was harsh, bouncing off polished floors and plastic tables. Kim was mid-rant about community college prerequisites, her hands waving through a shaft of light.
Breonna just nodded, meticulously peeling the label off her water bottle. Huang and Ted debated the best brand of skateboard wheels, their voices a steady hum under the mall’s cavernous echo.
Dre was sketching on a napkin, his brow furrowed. Dante watched his hand move, remembering the careful strokes of the portrait. Scott threw a fry at Dakota. “My parents are in Cancún until Sunday,” he announced, grinning. “House is ours tomorrow night.”
“Beer pong tournament,” Dakota said, pointing a finger at Dante. “You and me. Finals.”
“You’re on,” Dante shot back, the automatic challenge a welcome script. “You’ll choke like last time.”
“Last time you cheated!” Dakota lobbed a salt packet at his head.
Dante ducked, laughing, the sound bouncing off the high ceiling. He glanced at Dre, who wasn’t laughing. Dre was looking at his napkin, not at him, the distance between them feeling wider than the whole food court.
Dre didn’t look up from his napkin. The silence between them stretched, elastic and suffocating, through the drive home and the long, empty hours that followed.
The next night, Scott’s basement was a chaos of pumping bass and bodies. Dante grabbed a beer from a sweating cooler, the can cold and sharp in his palm. He scanned the room, finding Dre already cornered near the sound system, laughing at something Breonna was saying, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
Later, they all collapsed in a greasy, laughing circle on the shag carpet, empty pizza boxes pushed to the periphery. “We need a game,” Kim slurred, tipping back her drink.
Dakota’s eyes, sharp and gleaming, locked onto Dante from across the circle. “Truth or Dare,” she said, the words cutting through the din. A wave of agreement rippled through the group. She smiled, slow and deliberate, because Dante was too cocky anyway, and she’d been waiting to see that smugness falter all year.
She smiled, slow and deliberate, because Dante was too cocky anyway, and she’d been waiting to see that smugness falter all year. “Dante. Truth or Dare?”
The basement’s noise seemed to drop away, leaving only the thump of the bassline in Dante’s ribs. He could feel Dre’s gaze like a physical weight from across the circle. “Dare,” he said, the word leaving his mouth before he could second-guess it, fueled by a defensive instinct he didn't understand.
“Okay.” Dakota leaned forward, her eyes glinting. “I dare you to text the last person you texted and tell them you’re secretly in love with them.”
A cold wave crashed over Dante. The last person he’d texted was Dre, about where to meet at the party. He forced a loud, barking laugh that sounded fake even to him. “That’s weak, D. Everyone here knows my last text was to my mom about pizza rolls.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Breonna chimed in softly, not looking up from her phone. “I saw your screen glow when we were in the circle ten minutes ago. It was a thread.”
Dante’s blood went still. The only thread was Dre’s.
Kim whooped, scrambling closer. “Show the receipt, B!”
Dakota’s smile widened, sharp as glass. “Do it. Right now. Read it out loud.”
A hot, humiliating silence tightened around his throat. He could feel every eye on him, but he was only aware of Dre, perfectly still in his periphery. To refuse was to admit something. To do it was a different kind of exposure, a public performance of a truth he could barely admit privately. He fumbled for his phone, the screen blinding in the dark room.
“Whatever,” he snarled, the old, easy mask snapping into place with a force that hurt his jaw. His voice was too loud, grating against the sudden quiet. “I’M NOT SCARED OF SHIT,” Dante responds, thumb hovering over the glowing thread with Dre’s name.
He could type the lie, send it, let the group laugh it off as a dumb joke between bros. His finger shook. He looked up, searching for an escape, and his eyes locked with Dre’s across the circle. Dre’s expression was unreadable, a careful blank that felt like a wall crumbling between them. The basement air grew thick, charged with a silent, screaming question.
The basement air grew thick, charged with a silent, screaming question. Dante’s thumb hovered, a traitor over the screen.
Dakota watched him, her smile shifting from triumphant to something crueler, more precise. She waved a dismissive hand. “Better yet,” she said, her voice slicing through the bass. “No, that was a dumb one.” She leaned in, her eyes locked on Dante’s. “I dare you to kiss Andre.15 seconds. No granny pecks.”
The world inverted. All sound, all light, funneled down to the space between Dante’s chair and Dre’s.Someone gasped. A bottle clinked. Dre’s careful blankness shattered, his eyes widening in pure, unguarded shock. The portrait upstairs, the tangled legs, the breath in the dark—it all converged here, in this awful, public glare.
Dante’s beer can creaked in his grip.
Dante’s beer can creaked in his grip. The room’s oxygen vanished, replaced by a vacuum of held breath and throbbing bass.
“Unless you’re a chicken little bitch,” she taunted, her voice a serpent in the silence.
Every cell in Dante’s body screamed to flee, but the weight of his own constructed history—the quarterback, the charmer, the unshakeable guy—anchored him to the spot. He shoved down the terror, and let the old, familiar bravado flood his veins like a shot of adrenaline.
“Okay,” Dante said, his voice lower than he intended. He locked eyes with Dre, whose face had gone carefully, painfully neutral. “Mr. ‘There’s no dare too big.’ Pucker up, then.”
A brittle, performative smile touched Dre’s lips. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward from his chair, playing along for the crowd, for the game, for the lie. “Well,” Dre said, his voice almost swallowed by the music. “Here I am, Dante.”
The space between them crackled. Dante took a deep, shaky breath, the air scraping his throat. Then he moved, closing the gap in one fluid motion, his hands coming up to cradle Dre’s face.
He kissed him.
The noise of the party dissolved into a distant, muffled roar. Dre’s lips were softer than he’d ever imagined, and tasted faintly of beer and the wintergreen gum he always chewed. For one heart-stopping second, Dre went completely rigid, a statue in his hands.
Then something unraveled. Dre’s shoulders dropped, and he kissed Dante back, his hand coming up to clasp Dante’s wrist, not to pull it away, but to hold it there. The world narrowed to the warm pressure of Dre’s mouth, the slight scratch of his stubble, the shocking intimacy of his breath mingling with Dante’s own.
Time stretched, elastic and unforgiving. Someone started counting, “THIRTEEN! FOURTEEN!” The numbers were abstract, meaningless. Dante’s mind was a white static of sensation, every nerve ending screaming the truth he’d buried for years.
“FIFTEEN!”
He broke away, his lungs burning. The sound of the party rushed back in, a wave of whistles and shocked laughter. Dante stared at Dre, whose eyes were wide, dark pools of pure, undisguised shock. Everything, in that single, silent look, had shifted.
Everything, in that single, silent look, had shifted.
The roaring applause and whistles from their friends were a muffled, distant thing. Dante stumbled back, his lips buzzing, the ghost of Dre’s mouth a brand. “Are you ok?” Dre asked, his voice low, only for him. “You’re trembling.”
Dante looked down at his own hands; they were shaking violently against his jeans. He couldn’t speak. He spun and pushed through the crowd, their laughter now sharp and grating in his ears. He found the hallway bathroom and locked the door, the click of the bolt a pathetic seal against the world. His reflection in the mirror was a pale, frantic stranger. He cranked the cold water and plunged his hands under the stream, then splashed his face, the shock of it a brief, useless anchor.
WTF.
WTF.
His mind spun back to another locked door, to the sour smell of his father’s cologne and sweat. It wasn’t an accident during horseplay, like he’d told Dre. His dad had caught him in bed with Michael from the youth group. The argument was a blur of hissed words—fag, disgrace, not paying for a faggot to do anything—until his father’s fist, a sudden, too-fast shadow, connected. The crack, the stunning white pain, the way the floor rushed up to meet him. He’d told Dre it was a football injury.
A sharp knock rattled the door. “Dante?” It was Dre’s voice, taut with worry. “Open up, man.”
The knock came again, harder. “Dante, seriously.” Dre’s voice was close to the wood, strained.
Dante straightened up, water dripping from his chin. He stared at his wide, terrified eyes in the mirror. His reflection was a stranger wearing his shame.
“UMM YEAH WHAT’S UP? I WAS FINISHING UP,” he called out, forcing his voice into a strangled version of its usual tone. It echoed in the small tile room.
Silence from the other side. Then, softer, “You okay?”
“Fine.” Dante grabbed a towel, rough against his skin. He scrubbed his face, trying to erase the feeling. “Just needed a sec.”
“Open the door.” It wasn’t a request.
Dante’s hand hovered over the lock. The chill from the porcelain sink seeped into his bones. He turned the knob.
Dre stood framed in the hallway’s shadow, his expression unreadable. The music from the basement was a dull throb beneath their feet. He looked Dante up and down, his gaze lingering on his still-damp face.
“You’re not fine,” Dre stated, his voice low.
“It was just a dumb game.” The words tasted like ash. Dante couldn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on a crack in the doorframe.
“Look at me.” Dre’s hand came up, not quite touching Dante’s arm. Dante flinched. Dre froze, his hand dropping. The air between them thickened.
“You flinched,” Dre whispered.
Dante’s mouth was desert-dry. He could smell the wintergreen on Dre’s breath, a ghost of the kiss. The memory of his father’s fist flashed, white-hot, behind his eyes.
“Dante,” Dre started, his voice cracking with a new, terrible understanding.
“Dante,” Dre started, his voice cracking with a new, terrible understanding.
Dante didn’t let him finish. That understanding in Dre’s eyes was a floodlight on everything dark inside him, and he couldn’t stand its glare. “I have to go,” he blurted, the words a raw scrape in his throat. He shouldered past Dre, who was still solid and warm from the kiss, and didn’t look back.
The hallway was a blur of stained carpet and laughter from another room. He shoved through the screen door into the damp night, the humid air slapping his face. His car keys were a cold jangle in his fist.
He drove, his knuckles white on the wheel, not seeing streets or traffic lights. His phone buzzed once in the cup holder—a flash of Dre’s name—then went dark as he thumbed it to Do Not Disturb, severing the tether. He left the paved roads for the old county route where the pines grew close and dark, finally killing the engine in a gravel pull-off near the rusted railroad tracks, and sat there in the silent, ringing dark until the sky began to bleed a dull, sick gray at the edges.
He drove home as the sun rose, a flat orange disc that offered no warmth. The empty house greeted him with a silence that felt like judgment. He slept through Saturday and Sunday in a grayscale haze, his phone face-down and silent on the nightstand.
Monday morning, the school parking lot was a cacophony of slamming doors and shouted jokes. Dante spotted Dre’s beat-up Honda from across the asphalt, and his chest tightened. He cut through the side entrance near the gym, avoiding the usual senior lot.
In the hallway, the roar of locker doors and overlapping conversations pressed in on him. He saw Dre leaning against a bank of lockers, deep in conversation with Breonna. Dante immediately pivoted, ducking into the boys' bathroom and waiting there until the warning bell rang.
He took different routes to every class, his neck constantly prickling with the sense of being watched. At lunch, he saw Dre sitting at their usual table, a space left open beside him. Dante grabbed a protein bar from his locker and ate it alone on the practice field, the artificial taste of peanuts chalky in his dry mouth.
After practice, he took a long, unnecessary shower until the locker room emptied. He emerged, steeling himself, but Dre was waiting, leaning against the cinderblock wall by the exit. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. "We need to talk," Dre said, his voice low.
Dante shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Can't. Film review with Coach." The lie tasted bitter. He brushed past, close enough to smell Dre’s soap, and didn't look back.