CHAPTER ELEVEN

Three days later, Im helping out in one of the Centers art classes. Marie, who usually leads the childrens programs, is out sick. I suspect well lose her to another job in the near future anyway.

I lean over the shoulder of one of our regulars, an enthusiastic seven-year-old named Erin. Were working with watercolors today, and she holds up her work-in-progress. "Its a garden, Mister Kurt," she says. "Like the one in my book."

"Its beautiful. Youve been practicing, havent you?"

She beams at the compliment. "Look, those are the roses," she says, pointing them out. "And these are the daisies and these are the tulips. And heres the cat. He likes to sit next to the fountain."

I smile at her, trying to ignore the pang I feel in my stomach. I was in a garden like this only a few days ago—minus the cat, admittedly—and Id thought it was one of the most beautiful places Id ever seen. But Im not supposed to be thinking of that. Or him. "Its beautiful," I tell her again. She grins and picks up her brush once more, and I turn to the boy sitting at the table next to her. "And what are you painting, Ben?"

He shows me his artwork, which features a T-rex attacking a fighter plane. I smile. "Thats awesome!" I say. I give him a high five. Although it was something a young Kurt Hummel would never draw, I can appreciate how a young Finn would and I realize just how much Ive missed him in the hubbub of everything in the past few weeks and months.

I remember when Ben first started attending classes with us. Both of his parents work late, so they signed him up for our after-school program. For the first several sessions, he refused to take part in the activities. He said art was dumb and "for girls." Now, though, hes often the first one diving into our supplies for the day. A couple of times his mom has had to literally drag him away from the table at the end of the session. Yet another thing to remind me of Finn - and yet another reason that I know that a place like this is necessary to turning kids lives into something where theyll bloom and grow and become unprejudiced, accepting, wonderful people that an education in the arts can bring.

I look around the room. Bens story isnt unusual around here. The Brooklyn Center has impacted the life of every child in this room—and hundreds of others of all ages besides. What will happen when this place is gone? Its not that I believe they wont explore other hobbies, or find equally productive uses of their time —but how can I not bemoan the loss of these smiles, this enthusiasm?

I return to the front of the room and sit down to watch the children work. Im exhausted. Ive spent every night since my return tossing and turning, trying to brainstorm some magic solution to our monetary problem. Ive been here every morning at seven, and Ive taken to the phones as early as its socially acceptable, calling every contact I could find. Ive tried begging, Ive tried offering incentives— everything I can think of. But people are either unwilling to give or have already given as much as they can. In this economy, Im grateful for everything we can get, but its just not enough.

I sigh. Theres no way around it. I know Will is hesitant to even consider it, but I think were going to have to cut back significantly on our program offerings if were going to hold on. Weve done our fair share of fundraisers, but no single event save Arts & Hearts has ever come close to matching the pledge we would have received from the Andersons. And fundraisers require manpower and many hours of planning and preparation, but were low on those, too.

I nibble on my nail. At least focusing on the Centers problems keeps my mind from straying to this past weekend. Adams called several times since I left him back at the Anderson estate, but I let all of them go to voicemail. Blaine hasnt tried to contact me at all.

But why do I care if he contacts me, anyway? We were just fucking. Nothing more. He lied to me and he used me, and thats not something I can forgive easily.

His accusations still haunt me. The Center is just an excuse. Youve buried yourself in this little mission of yours so you dont have to think about how you really feel or what you really want.

Is that true? Ive sacrificed a lot for this place—a social life, a decent income, and no small amount of sanity—but I have genuine personal stakes in its fate. And an even deeper interest in the emotional well-being of the people I care about; the kids, the staff, and Will. True, Ive thrown myself even deeper into the Centers affairs since Adam and I broke up, but it seemed like a healthy thing to do at the time. It gave me a distraction, a purpose, an emotional anchor. Its my passion, but that doesnt mean I cant emotionally invest in other things, too.

Except when it comes to Blaine. How could I even consider it when he was actively responsible for the Centers current situation? I think thats a fair reason to hold back from him. But Im not supposed to be thinking about him. I need to focus on the Center right now.

"Kurt?" When I glance up, Will is standing in the doorway. "Is everything okay?" he asks, pulling up a chair beside me. "Youve seemed a little preoccupied since youve been back."

I force a smile. "Im fine. Just trying to figure out a way to get us out of this."

He watches me for a moment. "No. I think its something else." I look down at my lap. He was always really good at reading me. It must be some super-sense or something. Thank god this man is not my father; a Burt Hummel with this level of astuteness would be dangerous in a world where Kurt Hummel does things... rather, people like Blaine Anderson.

Ive been rather closed-mouthed since my return. When I confessed to him that I hadnt been able to secure any more money, he was so completely crestfallen that I couldnt bear telling him the rest of the truth. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Oh, by the way, Will, I lied to you about where I was going this weekend. I went to see Blaine Anderson, even though you asked me not to. And oh yeah, I slept with him a few times. Oh, and while Im making confessions, I dont think Adam will be helping us out after all. Im ashamed even now of my behavior.

Just seeing the hope and trust in my boss eyes makes me sick to my stomach. "Whats going on?" he prompts. "You can tell me."

Thats just it, though. Im not sure I can. Theres no way Im telling Will about everything that went on this weekend. Sometimes Will crosses the line into this friendship territory despite being my boss, but theres even some things our friendship cant have - a major one being any sort of clue into my sex life. There is one thing I can talk to him about, though. "I dont want Adam helping us. I know he found us some money, and Im grateful for that, but I cant do it. And I promise Im not being petty. If it were just old feelings Id suck it up for the sake of the Center. But hes..." How much can I say without worrying him? "Hes done some things this past week that have made me very uncomfortable."

Will considers this a moment. "I understand," he says finally. "I knew it would be hard on you. It wasnt fair of me to ask that in the first place." He glances around the room. "Sometimes I get so caught up in this place that I forget the important things."

"Its not—you had no way of knowing," I say quickly, trying to drive that guilty look from his eyes. "If it were anyone else, Id just deal with it. But Adam..."

"What has he done? Something I should know about?"

I take a deep breath. "He thought me asking him to help was an invitation to come fully back into my life. If you knew how many times hes called me, what hes said..."

"Hes been harassing you?" Harassing. I remember how Blaine accused me of that very thing after all of my calls and letters and emails. I freaking broke onto his property, for crying out loud. Am I really any better than Adam, in the end?

"Its just caused more problems than it will help," I reply diplomatically.

"Ill call him and tell him we wont be needing his assistance," Will says. It only makes me feel a little better. I havent seen him here at the Center since Ive returned, but I know this isnt over yet. But I dont tell Will how uneasy I am, how Ive been a jumble of nerves these past few days.

"Thank you," I say simply. Will nods and turns back to watching the children.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just watch our charges laugh and chatter and create. When he does speak, his voice is so soft that I hardly hear the question at all. "When do we give up?" I look at Ben, whos adding a Pterodactyl to his dinosaur picture, and Erin beside him, whos painting a princess next to her explosion of flowers.

I reach over and grab Wills hand. "Never," I answer, just as quietly. "Not until the very end. Not until they make us."

Its a week before I get the letter. At my apartment, not the Center, same as the last one. I find it among my other mail when I get home, and I read it as I sip the tea Ive been using to help me sleep.

Dearest Mr. Hummel,

I am deeply sorry for the events of last weekend. It was never my intention to mislead you—if you recall, I was adamant from the first that I had no intention of giving you the money. Ill admit I would have been in a bind had our wagers come out the other way, but as they did not, this issue is of far less significance. I owe you nothing, and whether or not I actually have the means in my possession is of little consequence in that matter.

As for the other events of this weekend, I never had any reason, I thought, to doubt your own desires. If at any point I believed you were not enjoying our little games, I would have ceased them immediately. Im deeply sorry if I misread the situation. Regarding your friend who arrived just before your departure—I highly recommend that you acquire a restraining order, for your own protection. I had him detained on charges of trespassing, but that will not keep him, I suspect, from contacting you in the future. Please be safe and take wise course in this situation.

Sincerely, Blaine Anderson

Theres no lawyers signature on this one, but that makes it no less impersonal. Hes just trying to cover his ass. This is an entire letter of excuses. I crumple it into a ball and throw it in the garbage. Did he really believe this was an acceptable apology? The real question, though, is why he would send such a letter in the first place. Theres no call to action at the end, no invitation to contact him or indication that he means to contact me again. Theres no mention of our argument in the garden, either.

Was this just a way to assuage his guilty conscience? To convince himself on paper that he wasnt at fault for this entire situation? Ill admit I should have paid attention to the warning signs from the beginning. I noticed the lack of security and other employees. And Blaine told me himself about selling his boat and his horse. His financial situation seems obvious now, but that doesnt relieve him of his mistakes.

Deep down, though, in spite of my anger, it still hurts. Its my own fault for letting my feelings get involved, I know, but acknowledging that doesnt lessen the sting. And theres the crux of it: despite what he claimed, I did feel something when I was with him. I dont want to admit it, but Ive been waiting for him to contact me. Ive always thought myself a very reasonable person, but even though I know its ridiculous, Ive been hoping for some grand, romantic gesture, some apology to end all apologies.

Every day thats gone by without word from him has been a torture. But when did I become one of those men who agonize over the fact that a man hasnt called? Blaine and I agreed that what happened between us was only physical. Were not dating. Were certainly not in love. Yes, I allowed myself to start feeling things I shouldnt, but thats my own fault. I cant expect him to suddenly change his emotions because I cant seem to control my own.

Its a mess, this whole thing. And at the end of the day, no matter what I tell myself, I still end up hoping that hes in as much agony as I am, that hes just as disturbed by the fact that I havent called him. Im pathetic, thats what I am. Which is why this letter is so painful. This letter makes it quite clear where he stands on the entire issue.

Forget those moments where he started to open up to me this weekend, when I thought I glimpsed something deeper. Forget the intense physical connection I felt when we were wrapped around each other. Ill be incredibly surprised if he ever contacts me again. Life goes on, I tell myself. Im not done with my tea yet, but I dont care. I open the trashcan once more and flip the rest of my drink on the crumpled letter, just in case I feel the urge to pull it out and read it again.

A week later, Im standing in the Centers gallery. Its nothing like the elaborate room in the Anderson mansion, but Ive always been proud of the space. The walls feature work from local artists of all disciplines, including several names that have been popping up in collectors circles. Theres also a corner dedicated to pieces created by our students—everything from the finger-painting masterpieces of the preschoolers to the charcoal drawings produced in one of our master classes.

I stroll down the length of the room, alternately admiring the artwork and surveying the space. We use this room for a number of our classes and larger events. And every February, of course, its turned into a proper ballroom for our Art & Hearts fundraiser. Every year at the event, guests come up to Will and I and compliment the space. Its amazing what some well-placed decor and appropriate lighting can do for a room. I stop in the center of the floor and turn around. Given the right amount of attention, you could do a lot of things in here.

The idea hits me hard and suddenly. I turn once more, taking it all in. How the hell did I not think of this before?

I rush to find Will. Hes in his office, of course, bent over a stack of invoices. "Will," I say, out of breath. He glances up, his eyebrows quirked quizzically. "The gallery," I say. "I was thinking—can we rent it out? For events?"

He sets down his pen, thinking. "Thats an idea."

"Think about it. Its a large space, and its easy to adapt and decorate. We have a lot of flexibility over the lighting and layout. We have tables and chairs we can include as part of the rental fee. We have the retractable stage we use for recitals—"

"And a decent sound system," he says, nodding now. "And Im assuming most events are on the evenings and weekends, when we arent using the room anyway."

"We can black out any dates we have recitals or gallery shows. Its a fun, unusual space, Im sure there are plenty of people out there who want a unique alternative to a hotel ballroom or something."

Theres light in my boss eyes now. Hes as excited about the idea as I am. "Im going to research some logistics," he says. "And I need you to start brainstorming a marketing plan. If were going to do this, we need some quick turnaround time. Figure out how were going to get the word out there. And come up with a few general layout plans for the room. We need some templates to show people who might be interested in using the space."

This is the Will Ive missed, the one who disappeared when the bills started piling up. This is the man who started the Center, who helped an entire community grow and flourish beneath his hands. Theres life in his eyes again, the spark of determination.

"Of course," I say. "Ill have something for you by the end of the day." I turn and hurry down the hall to my office. This is it—this is our chance. If we can pull this off, we might just survive this financial ordeal.

The Brooklyn Center for the Arts will live to see another day, and well do it without relying on the generosity of people like Blaine Anderson. The thought of him makes me pause, even now. Its been days since I got his letter, and I still cant get it out of my mind. I still look through my mail a little too eagerly at night, hoping against my better judgment that hes sent something else. Every time the phone rings, or even when an email pings in my inbox, I find myself yearning for some point of contact. But theres only been silence from Mr. Anderson.

Its better this way, I tell myself. I need to get over him. I need to focus on the Center right now. But I dont feel like I have any closure. Blaine never explained the full truth in his letter. I still have no idea why the family is broke, or what this means for Blaine and his sister. Adam apparently caught wind of the matter through his work, but theres no way Im calling and asking about it. He mentioned that Blaine struck a bargain with his editor, which means that the entire thing has been carefully covered up. The media loves a good scandal. If people find out the Andersons were struggling financially, the press will have a field day. I confess that in my weaker moments Ive tried searching online for rumors or snippets of information, but apparently Blaine is great at damage control. I havent been able to find anything.

I just hope he and his brother are all right. I remember the way his eyes sparkled as he showed me around his house. He loves that place. And why shouldnt he? Its been in his family for decades. Every brick, every room, every piece of furniture has a story behind it, a memory tied to it. Just because the place is ostentatious and oversized doesnt mean it cant carry the same emotional meaning as any other home. Because thats what it is, at the end of the day—his home.

Shit. All this time Ive been thinking about what Blaine could do for me. I was literally calculating prices in my head when he was giving me his tour, imagining how I might put that money to better use.

Who am I to judge how someone uses their money? Why am I entitled to anything he owns? I remember the sadness in his eye when he confessed that he sold his horse Rudolph. How many other things will he have to sell to settle his familys finances, if things are indeed that bad? It all seems so obvious now, but I was blind to it all at the time because I was only thinking about myself and what I wanted.

I lean my forehead on my hand. I suddenly feel terrible for the way Ive behaved. No wonder Blaine hasnt contacted me again. All this time Ive been pissed at him, thinking he lied so he could use me for sex, while the entire time Ive only been after his money. But not anymore. If theres one good thing thats come out of this situation, its that I was forced to come up with the solution on my own. If the Center survives, it will be by the hard work of myself and Will, not because some billionaire took pity on our situation. I turn back to the paper spread out on my desk and pick up my pen. Im already bursting with ideas, and I want to show Will that we can do this. Its time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get to work.