CHAPTER TWELVE
CLAY
I spend the entire night in the basement, hauling boxes and examining the foundation, working up a good sweat since I know I’m not going to sleep anyway.
Still not sure what I’m going to do when I see Nicholas again. Except for stumble around like an awkward, horny meathead, that is. He’s casual and confident, but I’m out of my comfort zone. And even though I’m not melting down about the fact that I rubbed my dick up against another dick, it’s enough to keep me awake all night.
I squat to examine another hairline fracture. The foundation is one serious crack away from disaster, but I steel myself not to stress over it. By intervening now, I can save the building from a serious financial and structural nightmare, and I’ve already picked up some epoxy sealer. Snapping a few pictures and taking notes on my phone, I ready myself to go and meet with realtors, then turn my attention to blocking out the repair with nails and mixing up the sealer.
Just like I hoped, the first stretch of repairs take all my energy. Tomorrow is going to be a long-ass day.
Not tomorrow. Today.
I check out the time. It’s four in the morning.
Exhausted, I hit the cold shower and go straight to bed. My last tired thoughts manage to work back to Nicholas, though.
I want to try that again.
My alarm wakes me a few hours later. I put on my good shirt, a collared white one with short sleeves that still feels casual enough that I’m comfortable in it. Then I take my list of needed renovations and estimated costs, and I haul my ass into the city.
I hit up the electric company first, which takes until lunch, but all the realty agents are right there in Allentown. They know the context before I explain, and they all give me the same basic perspective.
First, most of the clauses that Nance and Randy added to the deed are unenforceable bullshit. Second, a developer will offer me the most money, and there’s no way to stop them from tearing the building down if I sell. And they will find a way to demolish, clauses be damned. But the good news is, considering all these complications, I might be able to turn a similar profit if I fix it up and sell it to someone who wants to live there. There’s a hungry market for historical buildings, just like this one.
One realtor suggested I try to strike the clauses from the deed now, before selling, although that would require both Sue and Nance agreeing to it or me hiring a lawyer to sue them, which wouldn’t be neighborly.
As I walk home, my thoughts quickly return to Nicholas. If I sell the building to a developer, it will be a disaster for his business. Maybe I should still cash out and just take care of myself. But these are my grandpa’s people, and this was his life. And despite everything, it just doesn’t feel right to tear it all down for money, not when I could make a hefty profit fixing it up instead.
I wrestle through all the questions in my mind, trying to pull apart the different strands.
What happened with Nicholas last night was visceral, an instinct coming alive, an urge to touch him. The more I thought about it, the more it felt inevitable. And at least when I kissed him, all the questions and awkward uncertainty burned away.
Last time I had an opportunity to experiment, I balked and walked, turning down my friend from the baseball team right before he moved for college anyway. But I’m older now. I’m far away from everything and everyone that I’ve known, and I’m ready to answer some questions for myself.
My fantasies are clearer after last night. I want to take Nicholas, rut against him, drive him to climax. Horny, I don’t think about being bi or what any of it means.
I just think about the way his muscles quivered when he pressed himself to me, and the surprise when Nicholas pushed back.
I stomp upstairs and turn my attention to dinner, chicken and potatoes in the pan.
Experimenting is one thing, but going back for more means that this is part of who I am. I’ve been avoiding it for years, but it’s staring me in the face. I’m bisexual.
I eat and mull over everything. When I’m done, I decide it’s about time to read Randy’s journal. I get it from the drawer and pull out the photograph of my grandpa that I hid away there.
I’m never going to know this guy. Not like Nicholas and everyone else did. But I can’t deny that I’m curious about his life now. And if I’m seriously considering sticking around long enough to fix up the building, I ought to know a little more about him.
As I look at his features, I wonder how he came out of the closet. When he lost touch with my family, did my grandmother know he was gay? Did he experience any of the questions I’ve had?
The journal was written in the nineties. The messy handwriting starts around my grandpa’s fortieth birthday.
Sue keeps insisting I need to talk about Allen. Nance even got me drunk just to pressure me to do it. No way in hell I’m talking about Allen with anyone. But I guess I agree with her that it would be good to get it all out. Clear my head and organize my thoughts just once before I do what I’m about to do.
A bell rings out, scaring the shit out of me. I didn’t even realize there was a doorbell.
After shoving the journal away, I walk downstairs and answer the front door. Nicholas is on the steps, dressed in a light sweatshirt and denim shorts. “Evening,” he says, his hands behind his back. “I could have entered through the shop and knocked on your front door, of course. But I didn’t want to intrude.”
I rub my thumb across my beard. He looks cute, and he’s smiling at me. Is he here for sex?
