Tipping the Balance

by Koehler, Christopher

  “The man you thought about.”

  “He… he’s my boyfriend, my first. I guess now he’s my first ex,” Brad said, sniffling. He told himself the sniffles were because of the smoke. Same with the tears in his eyes. All that smoke.

  Owen stood and took Brad in his arms and held him gently. “You want to tell me about it?”

  And strangely enough, Brad did want to tell this not-quite-total stranger with his cum on his chest. It felt good to be held, even like this.

  “So there it is,” Brad said, wiping his eyes, “the whole sorry story.”

  Owen released Brad enough to look in his eyes. “You need to call this man. If he’s still jonesing for you the way you so obviously are for him, this will all be a bad memory in the rearview mirror before you know it. But you won’t know if you don’t reach out.”

  “I have called him,” Brad mumbled. “He didn’t call back.”

  “Then call him again, at least one more time. You owe it to both of you to give this another shot.”

  “I guess so,” Brad said.

  “I know so, and—”

  “Hey, Captain!” someone called form downstairs.

  “Up here! Be right down,” Owen—Captain Douglas again—called. “I’m just showing the project foreman the damage.”

  “Yeah, all over the inside of your jacket,” Brad whispered.

  “Bad!” Owen hissed playfully. He pulled Brad in for a quick kiss. “One more thing. If this guy really doesn’t want you, trust me, when you’re ready, you won’t be single for long.”

  Brad didn’t say anything as he followed the fire captain downstairs, instead trying to school his expression out of freshly blown into something more serious, since he’d just been shown the smoke and fire damage to the second floor. Allegedly.

  He left quickly after that, something they both seemed to want. Captain Douglas had a job to do, and Brad suddenly had a lot to think about on the drive back to his apartment, so close to Drew’s house and yet so far away from the comfort it once held.

  Owen was right. Brad owed it to himself and Drew to try again.

  But jeez, did he have “bitch boy” written on his forehead? How’d Owen known he was gay? And if he and Drew weren’t together, why did it feel like cheating?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The entire next week, the first week in March, Brad felt like his skin didn’t fit. No matter what he did, how hard he pulled in the boats or pumped in the gym, nothing worked.

  With the fire at the Bayard House, Sundstrom Homes and Suburban Graveyard held him fast like the La Brea Tar Pits. He decided to take advantage of the perks and keep going to the gym. One of the few, to his way of thinking. Not that it worked. Nothing set him at ease. Perhaps nothing could.

  Where his life had been looking up and he felt like he was regaining his mojo, suddenly it was the suck again. Life, work, Drew, all of it.

  The very next day after the fire, he called Drew on his landline, since calling him on him on his mobile line had yet to accomplish anything besides eating up Brad’s own minutes.

  Psyching himself up, he promised he would be perfectly calm when what he wanted more than anything was to beg and whine and plead like an Irish setter for Drew to take him back.

  “Hi, Drew. It’s me. I’m still really sorry I couldn’t give you what you wanted. But… can we at least talk about this? I miss you. Please call me.”

  Drew had to be call screening. No one in business for himself could afford to be this hard to reach. Or maybe Drew was showing houses. Brad was too afraid to call the real estate office, although at this point, he’d long ago parted company with his pride. He heard the echoes of his father’s words. He really was chickenshit.

  Feeling worse when he hung up the phone, Brad just stared out the window. Spring made its presence known in fits and spurts, and that day was a pleasant one, although with his luck, it’d rain for tomorrow’s practice.

  Brad hated not knowing about the fate of the Bayard House, but until Captain Douglas completed the arson investigation, the entire thing was up in the air. He’d spoken unofficially to the city’s preservation office and to the mayor’s office, but until the report came back, both agencies were noncommittal, and since he wasn’t a principal on the project, they couldn’t tell him much that was official.

  Captain Douglas. Owen. Brad still couldn’t believe he’d done something like that, but it left no question in his mind. He was gay. No doubt about it.

  Even though the memory still quickened his pulse, and yeah, he’d jacked off a couple of times thinking about it and thinking about Owen getting off remembering what they’d done, lingering regret permeated the memory. He didn’t want built firemen. He wanted Drew, but Drew didn’t seem to want him back anymore.

  Fuck. What was he going to do? How was he going to get over Drew? Getting under someone else hadn’t worked. He’d thought of Drew so much Owen had called him on it.

  The ping! of his corporate e-mail pulled his mind back to the present. Just what he wanted, an e-mail from his father.

  Against his better judgment, Brad opened it and regretted it almost instantly. Randall had written to him to gloat about the fire at the Bayard House.

  On the Thursday the week after the fire, during another interminable afternoon in the sales office, Brad’s cell phone rang, but he didn’t recognize the number.

  “Brad Sundstrom.”

  “Hi, Brad. It’s Owen Douglas.”

  Brad’s stomach turned a little summersault. “Hey, Owen. What’s going on?”

  “Like I told you, I fast-tracked the investigation, and I just wanted to let you know that I’m done. It’s safe to resume work,” Owen said.

  “Now if only the city would let us,” Brad said.

  “I’ve recommended as much in my report. As long as the mansion’s empty and incompletely renovated, it’ll be a target, either for vandals or for squatters from the homeless population. That might well mean more fires, too, since they light them to stay warm. It wouldn’t take much for one to get out of control,” Owen told him.

  “You said you thought it was arson. Was it?” Brad asked.

  “Oh, definitely. I don’t have many leads, but that’s a job for the police, and I’ve turned everything related to that over to them. There’s not a whole lot to go on, however, so we may never catch the arsonists,” Owen said. He paused. “Are you doing all right?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Brad said a little too fast, “but should you be talking about this on a fire department phone?”

  “Good dodge there, but as it happens, this is my personal cell phone,” Owen said. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Brad. You seem like a nice guy, and as corny as it sounds, I only want you to be happy.”

  Brad didn’t say anything right away, because to tell the truth, he felt like dirt.

  “Brad? You with me here, big guy?” Owen said.

  Brad didn’t know if he’d chosen those words on purpose, but it sounded like what he’d said when they were… when they were back at the mansion. “Yeah, I’m here. And yeah, I feel pretty bad about it, like I cheated on him or something, which is ridiculous, since he won’t even take my calls.”

  “Betrayal is a state of mind and not a reflection of whether you’re together out or not,” Owen said patiently. “For what it’s worth, that only says good things about you, you know.”

  “Yay me,” Brad said. Damn. He hated feeling this way. Sometimes, he just hated feeling.

  “Call him, Brad,” Owen urged.

  “I have,” Brad said softly.

  Owen said nothing for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  It was just business after that. Brad had to hand it to Owen. On learning Brad was apparently single, he had most emphatically not offered his phone number or tried to hook up.

  But who cared about a sterling character when feeling like this was what it got him?

  Brad sleepwalked through the next day and that whole weekend. He showed up for work and practice,
but he just went through the motions. He spent a morose weekend around his apartment, but at least he kept his face out of the beer. He might be miserable, but he knew a budding problem when it bit his ass.

  Monday was looking like more of the same when his mobile phone rang. The office phone rarely rang, but suddenly his own phone was chirping like a cricket in the night.

  “Brad Sundstrom.”

  It was a subcontractor who needed answers and money. Brad promised to at least get him answers by the end of the day.

  Well, wasn’t this a pigfuck? A project on hold, a principal who’d apparently vanished, an ex-boyfriend he still cared for so much it hurt. He leaned back in his office chair and flicked a pencil up into the acoustic ceiling tiles. Oddly amused, he threw a new one up and stuck it next to the other one. He’d never managed it when he’d tried in middle school and high school.

  Flick.

  The Bayard House was again safe to work in.

  Flick.

  The subcontractors needed answers.

  Flick.

  There was no reason not to resume work.

  Flick.

  No reason, other than having to call Drew again.

  Drew was incommunicado.

  Flick.

  Owen was right. He had to call.

  Or maybe not.

  There was another principal on the project.

  He hadn’t had much contact with Emily lately. They’d planned for her to get involved once they had a place for her to put the furniture and hang the wallpaper.

  Maybe they didn’t need Drew to get started. Maybe, just maybe, he could use this to prove himself to Drew.

  Showing more excitement and verve than he had in months, Brad pulled up Emily’s phone number and called her.

  “This is Emily Schoenwald.”

  “Hi, Emily, it’s Brad. Can I talk to you about the Bayard renovation for moment?”

  “Brad,” she said flatly. “What a surprise.”

  “Uh… yeah. Listen, I’ve got subcontractors calling me needing answers.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Brad repeated. “What’d you mean, so? It’s time to get back to work, only I can’t reach Drew. I think he’s just given up.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” she demanded.

  “Look, I know he’s been through a lot, but—”

  “You have no idea, you silly boy,” Emily snapped.

  He’d really thought that as a gay man, he wouldn’t have to put up with this kind of bullshit from women, since they didn’t have what he now wanted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but can we just—”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do,” Emily sighed. “What’d you want, anyway?”

  “I told you,” Brad said, clenching his fist. “It’s time to get this project back on track.”

  “Did you not hear about the fire?” Emily said.

  “I was down there while it was still smoldering, and I’ve been in nearly constant contact with the fire department since then,” Brad said with exaggerated patience.

  “Then you know how bad it is,” Emily said.

  “Better than you do!” Brad snapped. “Look, are you going to help me or practice being a cunt? Because I have to tell you, you’re already pretty good at it.”

  “When?” Emily said, resignation writ plain in her voice.

  “At the jobsite in an hour. Bring your hardhat,” Brad said, hanging up.

  Brad met Emily at the gate. She peered around him. “It doesn’t look that bad from out here,” she admitted grudgingly.

  Brad nodded. “It’s really not nearly as bad as it could’ve been. I’ll show you. I don’t feel like cranking the power just for this, but I’ve got lights,” he said, handing her one of the two large battery-powered lanterns.

  He waved at the security service, now paid for by the city, as they walked by. “Just looking at the damage,” he called, and the guard nodded and radioed the others.

  Brad unlocked the main doors and held them for her with an exaggerated show of gallantry. He needed her on his side.

  “So where’s the damage?” she asked. “It’s sure a far cry from the last time I was here.”

  “You won’t say that when we come to the parlor. That’s where the fire was started,” Brad said.

  “Yeah, that’s what they told me a day or two ago, but how’re you getting such detailed information?” she said.

  Brad shrugged, hoping she chalked the blushing up the cold air in the mansion. “Just a good working relationship with the fire captain on the scene, I guess.”

  Emily slid one parlor door back into its pocket enough for them to slip through, although even in the dim light of their lanterns, they saw the soot clouding the cut glass inset into the wood.

  Emily made a mew of distress when she saw the hole burned through the outside wall, now covered with plywood. “Any idea who did this?”

  Brad shook his head. “Captain Douglas wasn’t sure they’d ever catch the people who did it, but he’s turned that part of the investigation over to the police.”

  “Still, I have to admit, you were right. It could be a lot worse.”

  He rolled his eyes, then flashed his lantern up to the ceiling. “Look up.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Yeah, smoke and fire rise. Who knew.”

  Emily turned to face him. “Brad, seriously. It could be worse, but it’s not good. Between damage and bad renovations in the past and modern codes, saving the Bayard House was a stretch in the first place. Maybe it’s time to think about invoking the escape clause. You know, cut our losses and move on.”

  Brad hated the thought. Despised it, even. “There’s a rowing expression: ‘The only race pace is suicide pace, and today looks like a good day to die.’”

  “That’s… hardcore.”

  “I’m hardcore,” he said, and suddenly, he knew it was true. In crew, during that last all-important race, he’d gone so far into the pain cave he never thought he’d see the sun again. They all had. And they won.

  In life, like crew, he might’ve been beaten down, but he would not be beaten. He could do this, for himself… and for Drew. Life had dealt Drew a severe blow and even smacked Brad around. But Drew had an ox for a boyfriend, and that boyfriend wasn’t going down, not without a fight, not at all if he could help it.

  “Hear me out,” Brad said, his voice full of possibility. “Obviously we’re going to have to repair the wall, but it’s possible we’ll need to replace that section of floor too. How is up to the structural people. But this could’ve been so much worse. Since there’s nothing in here, there’s not that much to decontaminate, maybe just the plaster on the walls and ceiling where smoke got to it, plus water damage, but hardwood’s easy to restore,” Brad said, sweeping his arms around him.

  Emily considered his words, and he could tell she was coming around. “And with past floods, the water didn’t even damage the historical integrity of the building, not really.”

  “With the city behind this, you as one of the principals can get the money flowing again. We can use this to revise the budget and hire more crews. There’s no reason on earth we can’t finish this.”

  Emily nodded slowly. “Okay. You’ve convinced me. There’s just one more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What the hell happened between you and Drew?” she demanded.

  Brad groaned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I know something bad happened between the two of you. I’ve never seen him this devastated. He’s never isolated himself like this,” she said.

  “You know, I really don’t want to go into the details of my personal life,” Brad said. “It’s really none of your business.”

  “Drew’s a dear friend, and that makes it my business, Closet Boy,” Emily snapped. “I told you once I’d rip your balls off if you hurt him.”

  “Enough, you pint-sized bitch. I’m fucking sick of Drew’s friends butting in and threatening me. The fact is, I’
m a foot taller and over a hundred pounds—” he stopped, looking her up and down, “—make that seventy pounds heavier. If you threaten me one more time, I’ll kill you myself and bury you in the garden.”

  Emily smiled. “I knew I liked you. You’ll be strong enough to stand up to Drew.”

  Brad just shook his head. She was too complicated for him. “We can do this. We can get this back on track. Are you in?”