A tall, thin man in a black turtleneck came to hover a few meters away from them, huffing loudly and throwing pointed looks like knives. Chloe had noticed more than a few people shooting them suspicious or disapproving glances, but this wasn’t as easy to ignore. Red turned his head, very slowly, toward the man. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the long fall of his hair. And, of course, she saw the other man’s reaction to that look. The way he blanched and scurried off like he’d seen a wolf headed his way.

Red turned back to her, rolling his eyes. “Nothing changes.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“You know,” he laughed, “I used to think you were a snob. But when it comes to this stuff, you’re just oblivious, aren’t you?”

“You thought what?” She tried to look horrified. “Gasp, et cetera. I can’t believe you thought I was a snob.”

“Neither can I. You’re just a cute little hermit who hisses at sunlight.”

She laughed, because it was funny, and felt warm, because it was fond. But once her amusement faded, she couldn’t stop herself from pointing something out. Or rather, she didn’t want to stop herself. “I’m not completely oblivious. I am black, you know.”

His eyes widened theatrically. “Shit, are you? I had no idea.”

She snorted.

“Of course I know, Chlo. And I realize you must …” He trailed off, as if he wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.

Which was fine, because Chloe knew exactly what she wanted to say. “The thing is, Red … some of us have so many marginalizations, we might drown if we let all the little hurts flood in. So there are those, like me, who filter. I think you’ve noticed that I filter a lot. It’s not some inbuilt shield made of money. It’s just something I’m forced to do.” She shrugged. “And that’s not to discount the differences between us that fall in my favor. It’s just an explanation.” The fact that she’d even bothered to tell him this said something dangerous. It said that he might matter a little bit. But, hopefully, he wouldn’t realize that.

His hand came to rest on her shoulder again and stayed there until she looked him in the eyes. His expression was … unexpected. Contrite, gentle, slightly amused. She understood that last part when he said wryly, “I’m an arse, aren’t I?”

“Not especially, but I feel as though I should take any opportunity to call you one.”

He chuckled softly. “Fair. Chloe, you don’t need to explain shit to me. I’d say it’s more the other way around. Though I’m grateful that you did. Listen …” His voice changed, becoming slightly uncertain. “I’ve got, uh, baggage? When it comes to class. And, in my head, I keep putting it all on you. But I’m sorry about that. I’ll stop.”

Sorry. He’d barely done anything wrong. He’d given her a slightly negative feeling caused by a series of implications based on practically nothing. Which wasn’t to say those feelings didn’t matter; only that it was rare for others to take them seriously. Yet here he stood, watching her with actual remorse. Something in her softened like warm butter.

She lifted her chin and made her words as crisp as she could. “I suppose I forgive you, then.”

He laughed. “Not your fault you’re a princess, after all.”

“And it’s not your fault you’re in constant, tongue-tied awe of my sophistication.”

He spluttered, choked, and then they were both snickering together like unruly children. She almost forgot they were in the middle of a gallery, until a cultured baritone cut into their laughter.

“Red. Still charming the ladies, I see.”

The huffy turtleneck wearer was back, accompanied by the man who’d spoken. He was in his forties or fifties, dark-skinned and classically handsome, wearing a suit so sharp, it should be kept away from infants and waterbeds. He had a shiny white smile and twinkling eyes, and his clear pleasure at seeing Red was giving Turtleneck heart palpitations.

“Julian,” Turtleneck spluttered indignantly. “These are the individuals I told you about. I’m quite certain they aren’t guests of the—”

“Go away, Tom.”

Turtleneck Tom blinked. “Well,” he said ominously. He was quivering with indignation. Nobody cared. He stormed off.

“Redford Morgan,” Julian grinned—Julian Bishop, the gallery owner, Chloe presumed. Interesting. “You’ve not changed a bit. I know you secretly enjoy making my guests nervous.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Red said cheerfully, and dragged Julian into a hug. There was a collective intake of breath around them as the guests waited for Red to stab Julian, or shoot him, or perhaps rip out the other man’s throat with his teeth. When nothing much happened, aside from Julian laughing and hugging Red back, the crowd slowly began to lose interest.

The two men clapped each other on the back and threw insults. “I heard you were home. I mean, I heard you, stomping around in those boots like a giant.”

“Sorry we can’t all be pocket-sized. Wish I was little like you, but …”

Julian, who was all of two inches shorter, rolled his eyes. “How’s your mother?”

“Same as always. Can’t do fuck all with her.” Red’s voice, always warm, became a blanket by the fireplace in winter. He loved his mother. Chloe probably should’ve guessed, what with the tattoo on his knuckles, but now she heard him and she knew. “How’s your dad?”

“The same as always. Incorrigible. Where have you been?”

“Avoiding you, aren’t I?”

“So it seems.” Julian turned serious as the two men stepped apart.

“Nah, come on,” Red said. “I’ve been busy.” His easy charm was dialed up to ten, his smile slow and confident as ever, his broad body relaxed because he was comfortable in his own skin. Except, for once, she didn’t believe it. For once, he seemed to be performing. She was absolutely certain that he was utterly uncomfortable. She remembered how quietly edgy he’d been at his flat, when he’d put his art in her hands and tried to pretend the moment wasn’t ripping him open.

She knew Red’s disappearance from this world had started about eighteen months ago. Now the question clanged in her head like slow, heavy church bells. What happened eighteen months ago to make him feel like this?

“Hmm. Will you introduce me to your friend?” Julian asked, twinkling in her direction. Someone should cover those pretty eyes of his. They might cause an accident.

“This is Chloe,” Red said. “Chlo, Julian.”

She nodded. “Hello.”

“Hello to you, too,” Julian murmured, taking her hand. He didn’t shake it. He kissed it. His lips were firm and the kiss was light. She didn’t want to smack him for it, nor did she find herself battling the urge to climb him like a tree. And so she didn’t pull away.

Red didn’t seem to approve, narrowing his eyes at his friend. “Leave her alone,” he said, and put an arm around her shoulders.

“Why?” Julian grinned.

“She’s a lady, she doesn’t like shady art dealers. Do you, Chloe?”

Chloe said, very seriously, “I try not to judge people.”