Motherfucking shit almighty, why did she have to see this? I needed to stop falling the fuck apart while Tiel watched.
She fetched my glucose monitor from my pocket—not without grazing my cock, of course—and studied it, humming. "This seems low. Maybe you should eat something."
Instead of answering, I stayed focused on breathing, and unearthed some of the old visualization techniques the school psychologist was so keen on teaching me. Beaches, lakes, woods, mountains. Think about those wide open spaces, the sounds of nature.
And Tiel.
She was rubbing my back, her hand moving in measured circles, strokes, and pats. When I was calm enough to notice, I knew without a doubt there was a song in her head.
"What are you playing?" I asked, my voice raspy. I'd trade my own blood for a gallon of water at this point.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and took an exaggerated step back. "The Fugees. 'Guantanamera.' Aaaaand now that you're not dying on the sidewalk, it's time for me to go."
"Tiel, listen to me," I said. I pulled her back to my chest and kissed her neck. "I fucked up this whole thing, and I want to explain, but I can barely think right now."
"No, we're fine," she said, forcing a hollow laugh. "Nothing to explain." She ran her hand through her hair and pushed away from me with another fake laugh. "I'm just really drunk and being stupid, and I shouldn't have done any of this. I was totally wrong. I'm so sorry."
She wasn't drunk and she wasn't stupid, but I couldn't begin to form those words. I heard her shoes against the pavement, and I was alone with the noise in my head and my anxiety and the bone-chilling cold.
I didn't know how to explain why I pushed her away. Where would I even start?
I couldn't tell her that being with her made me feel sane for the first time in months.
Or that I felt rusty, broken pieces of myself healing every time I kissed her.
Or that she was beautiful and genuine in ways that stunned me.
Or that I wanted to bury myself in her for days, but I needed her more than I needed pussy.
Or that I was terrified I'd fucked it all up with her tonight, and I'd lost the only person who wasn't genetically required to tolerate me.
I couldn't tell her any of that, and instead of making it worse by going after her, I guzzled some water at the bar, collected my coat, and called a cab. There was nothing I could do to take back what I'd said or erase the snap of pain that had crossed her face when I said it.
I hated myself on the cab ride home. Every few minutes I opened my mouth to direct the driver back to Cambridge, but I knew I was the last person Tiel wanted to see at her door.
I spent the rest of the weekend closed up in my workshop at the firehouse, starting and then discarding one project after another. I had salvaged enough wood from my last camping trip to replace all the kitchen countertops and finally dig in to my crazy tree ring tile idea, but I kept thinking about Tiel.
None of this felt right, but how the fuck was I supposed to know what constituted right?
By strict definition, I'd never had a proper relationship. I'd fucked my way through entire sorority houses but the closest I'd ever come to a girlfriend was a sweet Theta who only called me after unfulfilling sex with her meathead boyfriend.
He didn't eat pussy, and I didn't know any better.
At different points in my life, there had been women who qualified as fuck buddies, but none of those relationships grew into anything substantial or long-term.
Besides, once women looked past the pretty face and got to know me, they realized I was the grand master of assholes and more damaged than the Titanic's hull. No one wanted to stick around for that. I'd also stopped being a generous lover before the close of my first year of college.
When I was young and naïve, I wanted to learn everything about sex and I wanted to be fantastic at it all. It was the no-credit class I added to my freshman course load.
As with most things, I learned quickly. It turned out I was also the nice guy, the one who ate pussy well and could always be counted on for an easy fuck after a long night partying. I knew how to pick an above-average winter formal dress, too.
What I didn't know were the boundaries between sex and emotion, but they quickly became obvious. More specifically, I got my heart thrashed—repeatedly—and I felt worse than shit on a stick each time.
The nice guy business wasn't helping me on my quest to get good at sex. If anything, the nice guy was the enemy. I shifted gears, and got into the business of fucking a lot of girls and not giving a shit about their feelings.
Or their orgasms.
After that, it was easier to stop connecting with people.
Outside of my siblings and their significant others, I didn't have relationships. The only friends I could identify were Magnolia and Matt's marathon training friend, Nick. He was an honorary brother, and he earned that distinction by pulling the plug after Angus had been in a coma for three weeks and showed no signs of resurrection. There were other reasons—he was an amusing guy and decent doctor—but sending Angus on his way sealed the deal for me.
I couldn't risk getting thrashed again, so I retreated, pulling further and further into myself. I was comfortable there, safe, protected from ever truly experiencing anything.
And then Tiel fucked it all up and I was hyperventilating on a godforsaken sidewalk in Cambridge.
I decided to start thin-slicing the acacia for my tile project, and forced myself to stop worrying about Tiel. Unfortunately, none of my projects held my attention, and after a close call involving fingers and a circular saw, I hit the treadmill.
Outdoor jogging wasn't for me. Matt and Patrick loved their dawn patrol runs, but city pollution and pollen usually disqualified me from those events. I managed to get my shit in order to run the Boston Marathon with them each spring, and then I retreated to the convenience of my home gym and state-of-the-art air filtration system.
As I powered up the surround sound and the opening wails of Tiel's rendition of "Seven Nation Army" filled the basement, I relaxed, and felt better for the first time since she walked away on Friday night.
"Isn't Gigi supposed to be here now?" Riley asked. He glanced up and down the quiet street while loosening his tie. He'd further bastardized Magnolia's unofficial nickname—Roof Garden Girl—into RGG, and was now taking it one step further with Gigi.
If it were up to Riley—also known as RISD, after his alma mater, Rhode Island School of Design—no one would go by their given names. No one would wear ties or socks, or zip their pants, or get out of bed before noon either.
"Magnolia said she'd be here after her last consult, but she was coming from Westford." I shrugged and returned to the designs on my iPad. "It's only four-fifteen. Give her a couple of minutes."
Riley and I were an unlikely pair, but we tolerated each other well. Living together was easy, and despite his fondness for wrinkled, coffee-stained clothes and cheap beer, I liked having him around.
He ran his palm over the curved stone surrounding the bay window, following it to the edge of the structure and down. He brushed away dust to reveal the mason's original cornerstone.
It was the little things—the cornerstones, the ninety-year-old newspapers found in attics, the floorboards stamped with the lumberyard's brand—that reminded me I was a tiny blip in time.
I always wondered about the people who came before me, the hands that built this home and all the others I worked to preserve. I hated thinking their artistry could be demolished and replaced with glass and steel and concrete.
Some things were worth saving.
"Shannon says you're into Gigi," he said.
"Shannon likes inventing things to talk about," I murmured.
"What is your problem with her right now? You bitched about her all summer, and you're only marginally better now."
I continued studying my designs. I didn't want to dump my stupid little feelings all over the fucking sidewalk. I'd done enough of that a
lready.
"You spent the summer drunk," I said. "I'm not sure how you had time to notice anything."
"I spent the summer drunk because all you do is mope around with a goddamn raincloud over your head." Riley grabbed the iPad from my hands. "You've been pissing and moaning about Shannon since Matt and Lauren's wedding. Listen, I know everyone got into some crazy shit that night, but there's no reason she's not allowed to let her freak flag fly. Is your problem that she hooked up or—"
"Would you shut up? You're being—"
"Hey, Sam! Sorry I'm late," Magnolia called. She walked toward us in a dark pink dress and knee-high rubber boots, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders in long mahogany waves, and an enormous smile on her face. "Somehow there is more traffic getting into the city in the afternoon than there is getting out."
She pulled me in for a tight hug and clapped her hand on my back. There was nothing half-assed about this woman; she couldn't even give a weak handshake if she tried.
"Hi, I'm Magnolia Santillian." She shifted the emerald bag on her shoulder and extended her hand toward Riley.
"Riley Walsh," he said. "Can I call you Gigi?"
Her smile curled into a confused smirk. "What now?"
"Ignore him," I said. "Let's get inside."
The interior was amazing, and I hadn't stopped raving about it since my first visit in late September. The wide-plank hardwood needed attention, and most of the walls showed evidence of water damage, and where we should have found floor joists between the third and fourth floors, we found a hole stretching the length of the house. Aside from those issues, it was a perfectly undisturbed brownstone.
We walked through each room, presenting the plans, photographing, noting things I missed the first time around. We debated techniques for two hours, and reveled in the freedom of a near-limitless budget.
The demolition would be quick, and by my estimate, we could start late next week. We were only looking at pulling up some linoleum in the kitchen, treating some lead paint issues, blowing out the god-awful green tiling in the bathrooms, replacing drywall in most rooms, and reconstructing the joists.
It was late when we wrapped up at the Turlan property, and considering I managed fewer than two hours of sleep last night, I wasn't interested in going back to the office today. I wanted the hottest shower in the universe, kale and kabocha squash soup, and a nice blend of anxiety meds and sleeping pills to drown it all out for the night.
Full belly, empty head.
My phone vibrated with a text, and I dug it out of my pocket immediately. When I saw it was a message from Shannon reminding me that I owed her designs for a charity auction—some stupid shit where I drew up plans for an outrageously elaborate and expensive home, and though people always bid on the auction, they never went through with building the damn house—I nearly smashed it on the sidewalk.
I hadn't heard from Tiel in three days, and it was the longest I'd ever gone without talking to her. Sure, we'd only been hanging out for a little more than two months, but we had a rhythm. We were friends, or something like that, and we talked at least once a day. Add to that her complete bastardization of the English language via texts, and I heard from her on the hour.
Now that I was captain of my own douche ship, she didn't want anything to do with me. I couldn't blame her. I wasn't what anyone would call decent, healthy, worthwhile. I didn't care about people the same way Riley did, and I didn't want to fix things for others the way Matt did. I stared at tits and asses, and I rejected a gorgeous, kindhearted woman without explanation, and the sidewalk panic attack was the cherry on top.
I didn't deserve a nice girl.
We were inching through traffic when Riley turned to me and asked, "Where did you meet Gigi?"
That nickname was annoying but acknowledging that would only lead to its permanence. He was a stubborn brat like that. "At an event last year," I said. "Some design magazine was sponsoring a spec house in Newburyport, I think, and she was there. We started talking about the sustainability features, and how they were completely wrong for the house. It looked cool in the magazine but it was ridiculous in practice."
"And that's when you decided she was going to have your babies?"
I choked out a laugh and glanced over at Riley. He looked completely serious. "No, not at all. She's very nice, and I appreciate the way she thinks about preservation and landscape architecture. I like talking through design problems with her, and I've referred many clients to her, but…no."
"Dude," he sighed. "That was not what I saw."
"What is it you think you saw?" I asked.
Riley shifted to face me but I kept my eyes on the road ahead. "First, she hugged the shit out of you."
"That's how she greets everyone," I said.
"I didn't get a hug," he said. "Second, you two touch each other all the fucking time. Every time you opened your mouth, she was right there with her hand on your arm and all, 'Oh yes, Sam, I love that idea! That is brilliant, Sam! Put your sperm inside me, Sam!'"
"That's how she is." He gave me an exaggerated look, and I said, "You can get out here. I'm sure you can walk home."
"Let me remind you—she didn't touch me once." Riley plucked his water bottle from the cup holder. "I mean, she is hot in that 'I'm the boss of your cock' kind of way, and I can see how she'd find my dominant aura in conflict with that."
I thought about Magnolia, and her bright smiles and shiny hair. She was one of my favorite thought partners, and could always be counted on for local industry gossip, but I wasn't attracted to her.
Not at all.
These were the rare moments—the ones where I was forced to remind myself that not being attracted to one woman didn't mean I wasn't attracted to women in general—that resurrected my father's words.
Abomination.
Filth.
Queer.
He started calling me gay before I finished kindergarten, and then I was too young to make sense of it. I only knew it was wrong in his eyes.
That I was wrong.
Shannon always told me to ignore him, but it was more difficult when kids at school started saying the same things. I was eight when I comprehended what everyone was saying to me, and it was overwhelming.
I believed I was gay for years. It wasn't until I stayed after school to watch Matt's track and field practice one day—it was a thin excuse to avoid riding the bus alone, which always led to someone kicking the shit out of me—that I understood I wasn't.
Instead of lurking near Matt, I watched the cheerleading squad and found myself in the uncomfortable position of concealing a short-lived erection and the messy aftermath.
I spent years trying to determine whether it was possible to be gay and find women attractive. This was a major point of confusion and stress, and though I'd always thought I kept it well hidden, Matt took up the topic the day he left for college.
He was two years older but I'd skipped a grade, and was starting my senior year of high school. I wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible, and I would have been able to finish high school in three years if I hadn't caught pneumonia and spent four weeks in the hospital the previous winter.
I was young for college, and in plenty of ways, I was immature, too, but anything would have been better than living with Angus.
We never talked about the kids who tormented me or the names they called me, but Matt knew that year would be difficult. He was aware I'd get my ass handed to me more times than I could count when he wasn't around to intervene.
"Here's what you need to do. You need to put on about thirty pounds of muscle and you need to start running. I know it's hard with your asthma, but you can start slow. Take Riley with you. He needs to stay out of trouble, and if you let him believe he's training you for a half marathon, he won't have nearly as much time to smoke weed in the attic."
I had been reading The Count of Monte Cristo for the ninth time—all twelve hundred pages of it—and set it on my bed. "Okay…"
"And then you need to get laid. In my opinion, you stare at tits too much to be gay, but I'm not about to tell you who you are. Fuck who you want to fuck—consenting adults only, please—and don't apologize for it. Not to yourself, not to me, and definitely not to Angus."
I did what he said, and though getting my ass into shape was one of the most physically grueling things I'd ever done, he was right. That wasn't to say my graduating class suddenly became my best friends or stopped making jokes about me enjoying the boys' locker room too much, but I found my confidence, and with it, I learned to stop giving a shit.
When I went to Cornell the following year, that confidence spawned a reinvention. I left all of the old Sam—the pale, skinny, sick kid who peed his pants during a fire drill in the first grade—behind, and tried on a new version of myself.
"Listen, maybe you aren't into her," Riley said as I pulled into the fire engine bay and came to a stop behind the old pickup I used for camping trips. "Whatever. But she's into you, and she thinks it's mutual."
"Riley, you're blowing this out of proportion," I said. "She's a friendly person. She'd invite you to her parents' house for Sunday dinner if you asked. She'd offer you her extra ticket to next weekend's Patriots game if she had one—she might, so speak up if you're interested. She's authentically nice, and it's hard for us to recognize that because we're a far cry from well-adjusted adults."
"Don't say I didn't warn you, dude," he said.
We retreated to our separate corners of the firehouse, and I spent an hour on the treadmill in my basement gym. I hoped to burn off the sickly feeling that I'd been carrying since Tiel walked out on Friday night.
It didn't work, and I was too irritable to wander around the house much longer.
My workshop held no appeal either, and after a shower, I headed to Alibi at The Liberty Hotel.
The converted jail was one of my favorite preservation projects of late. Not only was it the coolest fucking idea I'd ever heard—unfortunately, it hadn't been my idea—but it was the best spot to see the most fascinating people.
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