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drove down the side street to the house he knew Gabe was renting. It looked pretty sad from the curb—peeling gray paint with a curling gray roof and three windows in the front with…gray curtains. The green Nissan Gabe drove was parked in the drive—no garage, which meant the snow they were going to get tonight would pile up on it.
    What was Gabriel having for dinner tonight?
    Arthur pulled the truck over and got out his phone. Frankie answered on the third ring.
    “Hi, Arthur. I was about to text you. Seven okay?”
    It was kind of late to eat, but Frankie was all city and thought nine was fine. “Sure. Hey—would it be okay if I brought somebody?”
    There was a long pause on the other line. “You mean…somebody not Paul?”
    “No, he’s off sucking his thumb still, having feelings or some shit. I wanted to bring the librarian.”
    “Gabriel? Of course you can bring him. I’ve tried to have him over several times, but he always has something come up. How in the world did you convince him?”
    There was a subtle emphasis on the you , which only made Arthur that much more determined. “I can be pretty persuasive. I’ll be by with Gabe at seven.”
    After hanging up, he swung the truck around and headed for the sad little gray house, already getting excited about the argument he knew he was about to have.
    When the doorbell rang, Gabriel ignored it, continuing to frown at his freezer stack of frozen entrees, trying to decide if he wanted to be lazy and eat one or if he should get the package of chicken breasts out and make the wine sauce he’d been meaning to try. The second ring of the doorbell was louder, more insistent, and Gabriel glared toward the front of the house, hoping this wasn’t another Boy Scout sales season. Those were always awkward moments, because he simply couldn’t give any support to the organization until they had full inclusion of gay members, leaders too, but he couldn’t say no to any of his library patrons, either. It could be the LDS missionaries again, which was even more uncomfortable a prospect. He’d go on pretending he was in the basement in the laundry room, unable to hear the door.
    The doorbell rang a third time, accompanied by a heavy pounding, implying someone was using their fist as a knocker.
    “Gabe? I know you’re in there. I see your car.” Bang bang bang. “Open up. I got a proposition for you.”
    Gabriel shut the freezer with a wince. Worse than Boy Scouts, worse than missionaries. Arthur Anderson.
    He stayed in the kitchen, making no noise. If he waited, even Arthur would give up. He’d have to. It might take a while, and it was annoying, but—
    The front door opened, and Arthur’s bellow cut across Gabriel’s tiny living room. “Gabe? Where the hell are—?”
    Gabriel swung into the living room. “You can’t just come into my house.”
    Arthur had the audacity to look indignant. “You weren’t answering your door.”
    “So you let yourself into my house?”
    “The door wasn’t locked. I figured you were in the basement or something.” Arthur put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, beaming. “Anyway, you’re gonna be glad I came in. I’m taking you to dinner.”
    Gabriel blinked and put his hand on his recliner to steady himself. “What?”
    “Dinner. Even if you already ate, you should come eat again. Frankie’s a hell of a cook. It’s some white-bean thing. A stew. But he puts rosemary in.”
    So Arthur wasn’t asking him out . Only to dinner with…another man. Two other men. “Why are you inviting me to Frankie’s house?”
    “Because you need to meet people, and you’d like Frankie.”
    Gabriel did like Frankie. He’d been meaning to accept one of the stylist’s dinner invitations, but this was too odd. Maybe if Arthur had asked him without breaking and entering, he’d have been interested. “Thank you, but I already ate. And I have a lot of work to do.”
    One of Arthur’s bushy red eyebrows arched dubiously.