Tipping the Balance

by Koehler, Christopher

  “Why’re you doing this?” she asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  “For Drew. This is his dream, and it can still happen. I let him down once. I won’t do it again.” But he was also doing it for himself, to prove if only to himself that he wasn’t a quitter and a failure.

  Emily looked at him intently. “Do you love him?”

  Brad didn’t even have to consider the question. “More than anything.”

  “Then call Bob Miller. He’ll know what to do.”

  “What about the city?” Brad asked.

  “You leave that to me,” Emily said. “Drew too. If you want to do this to make it up to him, then it needs to be a surprise. But be prepared, he might not take you back, and he might not like being surprised.”

  “I have to risk it. Right now, I’ve got nothing.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Spring had a firm grip on the Sacramento Valley, although unsettled weather was possible even that late into April. But Drew didn’t care. There might’ve been dark clouds on the horizon, but for him, the clouds were mostly gone, the storms of the winter departing, the waters calming.

  Only two real problems remained in his life, the unsettled fate of the Bayard House and Brad. Emily had taken over all aspects of the project six weeks ago, and to his surprise, he was happy for her to do so. He’d had too much on his plate as it was with just returning to health and some semblance of life as he’d known it before the assault. The Bayard renovation had been pie in the sky, and he presumed she was in the process of winding it down and would contact him for signatures in due time. Sure, losing a dream hurt, but his therapist worked with him in accepting it.

  And Brad. He surprised himself with how much he still ached for the man. Brad had worked his way in deep, and getting over the big jackass would apparently take time. He tried to tell himself he’d never really seen anything in Brad, that it had just been lust, but in his quiet moments late at night, he knew the truth.

  But that night wasn’t a night to whine or bemoan his fate. He wanted to celebrate. While his psychological wounds would only clear over time, his doctors and physical therapists just that morning cleared him to return to full physical activity. He planned to celebrate tomorrow by going for a walk, since he’d have to build back up to running.

  Tonight, he’d insisted on treating Nick and Morgan to a good dinner out. He knew that on student budgets, even with parents as affluent as Morgan’s, dinners out were a rare treat. He wanted to show his gratitude for all their help during his recovery in some way, as well as make it clear that as much as losing Brad hurt, he was over Nick’s role in the miscommunication.

  Drew rose to greet them, hugging first Nick and then Morgan. All three men wore suits, and if Drew’s hung a little loosely, no one mentioned it.

  “Wow, this place is pretty fancy,” Nick said, looking around. It was kind of adorable how uncomfortable he looked in a suit and an upmarket restaurant.

  “How come you never took me places like this when we were dating?” Morgan said. For his part, he looked born to wear designer suits like the one his parents had bought him at Christmas. Too bad he was destined for the classroom, because he and Nick wouldn’t be able to afford them until they both finished grad school.

  Nick looked hurt. “You’ve seen my bank balance. You know I would if I could.”

  “I meant him,” Morgan said with a twinkle in his eye and nod of his head. “You took me to some stupid crepe place on that faux date Nick put you up to. Who knows, maybe if you’d taken me here, things would’ve worked out differently. Maybe I might’ve fallen for you, Drew.”

  Drew and Nick exchanged amused looks. “Highly unlikely,” Drew said, shaking his head. He remembered well just how much Morgan had wanted Nick, and their relationship had only increased in intensity.

  Still, Drew was pleased that Morgan had gotten over his hurt and forgiven him for his part in that ridiculous charade. “So tell me about San Diego? How was the Crew Classic?”

  “Fantastic! They missed a win in the men’s varsity by a mere second,” Nick said.

  “Yeah, but we got creamed in the men’s open,” Morgan muttered.

  “Which is full of ex-Olympians,” Nick said.

  “Which is cold comfort when boats walk by you,” Morgan said.

  Drew shook his head. Things would be better for them once Nick didn’t coach Morgan. “But are you glad you went?”

  Morgan nodded. “Yeah, but I sure wish Stuart hadn’t—”

  But interruption came in the form of a reporter for the local birdcage liner and her pet photographer. “Excuse me, Drew St. Charles?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m with the Sacramento Picayune. Now that the Bayard House is nearly completed, and given the cost over-runs inevitable in any building project, plus the problems associated with the fire, how is it you’re back on schedule but haven’t run afoul of union rules? Is it true you have ties to the mob?”

  Drew tried not to let his shock show on his face. “As even you must know, I’ve been in the hospital and then in intensive rehabilitation. I’m only just getting back up to full speed. I’ll have to defer all those questions to my foreman, Brad Sundstrom.” He signaled the maître-d’. “These reporters were just leaving. Can you point them toward the door?”

  “Immediately, sir, and please accept my apologies. They should never have been allowed to disturb you in the first place,” she said, positioning herself between them and the reporters. “If you’d be so good as to follow me?” she asked in a tone that implied that if they weren’t good she’d summon the police.

  “What the hell was she talking about?” Drew muttered as the maître-d’ and two stout busboys made sure the journalists departed post haste.

  “I can’t imagine,” Morgan said blandly, ignoring Nick’s pointed look.

  “Anyway, guys, thank you. You’ve done so much for me while I’m recovering. Visiting me in the hospital, and in Nick’s case, haunting my PT appointments—”

  “Even if he does have another motive,” Morgan said.

  “I mean, you guys have even been taking care of my yard, and I know you don’t have the time to do that,” Drew said. “Even with the Bayard fiasco, I’m getting back into the swing of things and can take over again.”

  Nick and Morgan exchanged a freighted look.

  “What’s that look mean?” Drew asked.

  “We haven’t been mowing your lawn,” Nick said.

  “I wish we could say it was us,” Morgan said, “but the reality is, we’re just too busy this semester.”

  “If not you, then… who?” Drew said, baffled. “Because otherwise it’s kind of creepy.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I think you should do what you told that reporter to do and call Brad.”

  “Did he do it? Or are you two both just so stubborn that neither of you will give an inch?” Drew demanded.

  Nick looked at him with pity. He hated that. “I know he hurt you and that you hurt him.”

  “And we know he’s tried to get ahold of you,” Morgan said.

  “Not for a while,” Drew mumbled.

  “If you’ve been keeping him dangling on purpose…,” Nick warned.

  Drew crossed his arms. He knew it made him look like a petulant child. “But what about what he did to me?”

  “What is this, Queen for a Day? A contest to see who’s the most aggrieved party?” Morgan snapped. “Grow up.”

  “Ouch,” Drew said. “Unfair.”

  Morgan glowered at him. “I’ve been listening to the two of you for months. Get your shit together, or I’ll take steps.”

  “And just what does that mean?” Drew demanded. Honestly, where did this boy of Nick’s get off?

  “You probably don’t want to know,” Nick said. “I sure don’t. Just call him.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Drew said, picking up his menu and hiding behind it.

  “Of course you don’t, sweetie. Admitting you’r
e wrong is haaard,” Morgan whined.

  Drew put his menu down. “It’s just… it’s gone on so long. He hasn’t tried calling in a while.”

  “Leaving aside the fact that you knew he’d called,” Nick said, “yes, it is hard, and no, you have to do it. The Drew I know was never one to duck his responsibilities.”

  “One thing I’ve learned during my convalescence is that not doing anything is a lot easier,” Drew said. Then a sharp, stabbing pain lit up one shin. “Ow! That was my good leg.”

  Morgan leveled a straight stare at him. “Next time, it’ll be your bad one.”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll call him,” Drew muttered.

  “There, now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Morgan said, patting his hand.

  Drew went home and did was he was told. The talk with Brad had to be one of the most strained, awkward conversations he had ever had with anyone in his entire life. Long silences throbbed with the words they didn’t or couldn’t say to each other. But they finally established that Brad would pick him up at three o’clock the next afternoon.

  Drew looked out his front window at 2:55 and saw a strange SUV pull into his driveway. But out jumped Brad. Drew thought he looked different somehow. Maybe a bit trimmer, but more confident somehow. He had to admit, it looked sexy as hell on the big lug. His big lug.

  Drew twitched the curtain closed and acted like he wasn’t standing right behind the door by counting to twenty before opening it when Brad rang the bell.

  “Hi,” Brad said quietly. He waved shyly.

  “Hi,” Drew said back, drinking Brad in with his eyes.

  They stood there for a moment, lost in each other’s gaze. Brad broke the spell. “Are you ready? Have your hardhat?”

  Drew held it up. “Yep, let’s go.”

  Brad waited for him to lock the door and then hurried past him to open his car door for him.

  “Thank you,” Drew said, unsure just what was going on. “New car?”

  Brad shook his head. “No, I rented it. I wasn’t sure how your leg was, but I figured you wouldn’t have to bend too much to get into something like this.”

  “You rented a car. To take me to the Bayard House. Last night,” Drew said.

  Brad scratched the closely cropped hair at the back of his head. He was red from his neck to his scalp. “Uh… yeah.”

  “Thank you,” Drew said. He had to admit, Brad sure seemed to be making an effort. Despite his reservations, it charmed him.

  “No sweat,” Brad mumbled, looking at the ground.

  But Drew knew perfectly well that as late as their call had been, renting a car most likely involved a great deal of effort, at the very least a trip out to the airport, and whether it was last night or this morning, the airport was still out there to hell and gone.

  They drove in silence to the Bayard House. It felt to Drew like several times Brad had opened his mouth to speak but never said anything, and he himself stared studiously ahead. He had to admit, however, he found it hard to keep his anger up around Brad. The SUV was such a caring gesture….

  And then they pulled up to the Bayard House.

  “What the fuck?” Drew burst out before he could stop himself.

  Brad rewarded him with one of his sly grins. “What d’you think?”

  Drew walked slowly away from the SUV until he stood on the promenade leading to the Bayard House’s grand entrance. Carpenters buzzed about the outside front of the mansion, installing the re-made gingerbread details on the reborn Victorian mansion. Elsewhere, painters applied careful coats of custom-mixed colors by hand for a period look while trying not to drip on the landscapers.

  When Drew turned around, Brad grinned his cocky grin, but underneath it, Drew saw an edge of nerves, as if he weren’t quite sure what Drew would make of it all.

  “Care to explain this?” Drew said.

  “Want to see inside?” Brad countered.

  Drew had to admit he did.

  Brad stopped him before he could enter the house, holding up clean-room booties. “Here,” he said, kneeling down. “Let me. I don’t want you to tax your knee.”

  “Brad, I’m fine. I’ve been cleared for exercise. In fact, that’s what I’d be doing if I wasn’t here,” he said. But he lifted first one foot, then the other like some obedient horse for the farrier.

  Brad slipped booties on over his boots and then held the door for him.

  The first thing Drew noticed was the smell, beeswax, not urethane or some other synthetic, and the expanse of restored wood floors gleamed dully in the afternoon light.

  “Go on in,” Brad said quietly. “Go check out your design.”

  The re-plasterers had largely completed their work before the flooring contractors had restored the floors, but here and there someone worked at repairing a scrape or ding in the pristine white of the walls.

  “Let me show you the parlor,” Brad said, his voice echoing in the empty mansion. “That’s where the fire was.”

  Bemused, Drew followed Brad into the house. Brad slid one door back for him and then waited for him to enter. Drew walked in and stopped. “I don’t remember there being a set of French doors there.”

  Brad shook his head. “There wasn’t. But that’s the wall that burned. The carpenters decided the remaining wall was strong enough to stand up with a certain amount of re-enforcement. The preservation specialist actually suggested the French doors. I hope it’s all right.”

  “They look really good there, like they were meant to be there,” Drew admitted. He wanted to find fault, but for some reason, he just couldn’t.

  Brad crossed the room to the doors in question, beckoning Drew to follow. “If you look out, you actually have a pretty good view of the folly.”

  Drew looked but then turned around. Brad stared intently at the floor, almost as if he didn’t dare look at Drew.

  “Brad… how?” Drew asked, shaking his head at the enormity of it all.

  Brad shrugged sheepishly. “After I got the call from the fire department… well, it was pretty dispiriting. On top of an already rough time.” Brad looked at him and then glanced away again. “I’d made a lot of plans around this job, and then having them go up in smoke… I was pretty down, and when the fire captain told me it was arson? I was even more upset. But then he called me a week later, and the place was cleared for us to get going again. As I sat there in the office at Suburban Graveyard, I realized that with Bob and Emily’s help, I could do it. I tried calling.”

  Drew looked down, realizing he hadn’t been the only one to hurt. “I’m sorry.”

  “Water under the bridge,” Brad said.

  “Wait… how’re you—we, I—paying for this?” Drew demanded.

  “The money came through from the city and state. You should’ve seen Emily. I’ve never seen a more shameless performance. She dressed to look like a vulnerable little woman, she cried, all of it. They never stood a chance. She even talked them into the revised budget so we could hire double crews and make up for lost time,” Brad said.

  “And then some.” Drew nodded slowly. Then something dawned on him. “My yard. That was you the whole time, wasn’t it?”

  Brad looked at the floor, scuffing his foot bashfully in dirt that wasn’t there. “Yeah. Well, Nick and Morgan helped when they could,” Brad said, blushing again. “I started it and kind of bullied them into to it, although it really didn’t take that much.”

  “How’d you know when I was out?” Drew asked.

  “I… um.” Brad hesitated. “Not to sound like a stalker or anything, but I’ve got an apartment not that far from your house. It wasn’t hard just to swing by and check. Also, I finally called your boss at the real estate agency, and he tipped me off via text message when you were showing properties.”

  “Broker,” Drew corrected absently. This was absolutely the last thing he had expected, and it was a lot to take in. “This is amazing, but also overwhelming. Would you mind taking me home?”

  “Sure,” Brad said softly.


  “Did you ever sleep?” Drew asked as they drove back to his house.

  “No, you wouldn’t let me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you,” Brad said, and Drew could tell he was choking back tears. “I saw you battered and bleeding on the sidewalk. And I wasn’t there. So I worked until I dropped and then got up and did it again. And I’ll keep doing it, whatever it takes, until you take me back.”

  “I never let you go. You just ran,” he said as Brad pulled into the driveway.