Page 78 of Something Like Winter

Tim grinned at him. “It’s a deal.”

* * * * *

The doctor insisted on keeping Tim another day, rambling on about aspiration pneumonia and intravenous antibiotics to silence any protests. Apparently Tim had sucked some nasty stuff into his lungs during the wreck—probably the dirt and blood that also clogged his nose—and was lucky not to have infected lungs drowning in pus, or something like that. Rather than suffer more nauseating details, Tim agreed to treatment.

Soon Tim was bored out of his mind, especially after Eric left to stay at the cabin for the night. Television, Tim’s only distraction, was turning his mind to soup when Eric returned with a Mylar balloon tied to a teddy bear.

“This is embarrassing,” Tim said, scowling at the bear but secretly loving it. He just couldn’t imagine bringing it back to the frat house.

“Well, maybe you’ll like this better.” Eric handed him a book on Japanese sports cars. “I also bought myself something to read.”

“You don’t have to stick around here all day,” Tim said, not meaning it.

“What else am I going to do?” Eric settled down into the chair by his bed. “I already straightened up the cabin. Shame about the lasagna.”

“Travis,” Tim said, happy to shift the blame. “Sorry it went to waste.”

“Not a problem. I spoke to Robert, the owner of the cabin, and told him about the snowmobile. Do you think you can give him a rough idea where you left it?”

“Sort of.” Tim’s face flushed. “I’ll pay for everything. I still have some of Marcello’s money left.”

“It’ll be fine,” Eric said.

“How much does a snowmobile cost?”

“Oh, around eight thousand I think.”

Tim let his head thump back on the pillow. “Think I can still model with a big ugly scar running down my arm?”

Eric chuckled. “I hope not. Once was enough.”

“True.”

They chatted for a while, Tim happy for a sympathetic ear. Then they settled down like an old married couple and read together. Tim flipped through his book, but his eyes kept returning to the cover of Eric’s. The painting on the front was of a woman sitting on a bed and looking out a window. The subject matter wasn’t the most interesting, but the way daylight flooded into the room made it exceptional.

“What is that?” Tim asked, setting down his book.

“Edward Hopper,” Eric replied. “You probably know the—”

“Café painting, yeah. I never really liked that one, but the painting on the front… Can I see it?”

Eric handed him the book, waiting patiently while Tim browsed. Inside were more paintings like the one on the cover—simple, clean, and almost always featuring light bathing a wall or pressing against the night’s darkness. Tim lost himself in the book, embarrassed when he finally came back to find Eric still watching him.

“He’s good, isn’t he?”

Tim laughed. “He’s brilliant!”

“I’d love to own one of his paintings,” Eric said wistfully.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because they cost quite a bit more than your average snowmobile.” Eric winked. “You really like art, don’t you? Have you ever tried?”

“Painting?” Tim licked his lips. Why not? Without Eric, he might have croaked in that cabin all miserable and alone. “Yeah. I paint.”

“Really?” Eric sat up straight. “Are you any good?”

Tim just laughed.