Okay, cool. It’s probably a gay part of town or something. Good for them, I guess.
Us?
I don’t think someone like me counts, though. Just because I’ve been curious sometimes, that doesn’t mean I’m actually bi. Maybe, if I had ever followed through and done something about it, like that one time I had a chance the summer after high school, I would have hated it.
Probably, I’m only even thinking about that as I walk out of the burger joint because I didn’t try it, so it’s just stuck around in my head as something that I theoretically could like. Something that I jerk off to every now and then, when I can’t find anything else to get me off, and I need something that feels different.
I shove my hands in my pockets as I wait at the stoplight, grumbling to myself.
Who the hell has time for this shit?
I head to my truck, walking through the middle of what I’m now sure is a gay neighborhood. My system of locks and tarps has held, my stuff just as I left it, and after a short drive, I’m lucky to find a spot right in front of the building.
My building.
The big brick building in the middle of a gay neighborhood, where a very nice person has a flower shop filled with happy people, and now I might ruin their lives like a total asshole.
I unhook everything and take the first heavy box out of the truck, hauling it up the stairs.
The store is just sitting there, waiting for me to decide what happens to it.
You can even smell the flowers in the hallway.
This would all be so much easier if I had reason to hate Nicholas.
I drop off a box, and my eye catches on a manila envelope that’s on the kitchen table. It’s part of the packet from the bank, but I must have missed it earlier. Not wanting to forget, I rip it open and shake out the contents.
There are three small white envelopes. One addressed to me, one addressed to Nicholas, and one to Sue and Nance.
A surprising jolt of emotion goes through me. The sloppy handwriting on the envelope I recognize from my grandpa’s signature, which means he wrote my name. It’s a weird thing to get hung up on. He must have written it a few times for the bank documents, but it catches me off guard.
I sit in the single kitchen chair. Carefully, I pull the envelope open. The card has a watercolor rooster on the front, and the inside is blank, except for the note from my grandpa.
Sorry we never got to meet. Your dad’s a prick, but I thought you deserved to get something from this family.
Enjoy the building.
Your Grandpa Randy
P.S. If you fuck my friends over, I’ll curse you from beyond the grave.
I blink at the words before I cough out a rough laugh.
“Thanks, Randy,” I mutter. “I hope I don’t fuck them over, too.”
