Page 19 of After the Rain

Afterward, as Sarah slept beside me, I'd stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was what everyone meant when they talked about marital intimacy. If the disconnect I felt was normal, if all men had to work so hard to summon desire for their wives.

I'd convinced myself it was nerves, that real passion would develop over time. Fifteen years later, I was still waiting for it to feel natural.

But thinking about Ezra's hands as he'd helped Cooper with his art project, imagining what those hands might feel like against my skin—that felt natural in a way nothing with Sarah ever had.

The admission scared the hell out of me.

I moved to the windows, stripping old paint with methodical precision. The Victorian had twelve-over-twelve sash windows throughout, each one a restoration project in itself. The previous owners had painted over the original hardware, caulked gapsthat should have been properly repaired, treated the house like something to be covered up rather than celebrated.

Just like I'd been doing with myself. Painting over the truth, covering up what didn't fit the expected picture.

But restoration required honesty. You had to strip away all the layers of paint and neglect, get down to the original materials, understand what the builders had intended. Only then could you honor their vision while adapting it for modern life.

The house had been built by a timber baron named Samuel Crawford in 1892. I'd researched its history obsessively, found newspaper clippings about Crawford's unconventional household. He'd lived here with his "business partner" James Morrison for nearly thirty years, two bachelors sharing a massive house that gossips of the time found suspicious.

Reading between the lines of those old society columns, it was clear what people had suspected about Crawford and Morrison. Two men, living together, never marrying, devoted to each other in ways that raised eyebrows even in an era when homosexuality couldn't be spoken about openly.

They'd hidden in plain sight, created a life together within the confines of what was socially acceptable. Had they been lovers? The house seemed to whisper yes in its too-intimate design—master bedrooms connected by a private sitting room, shared spaces that suggested domestic partnership.

Maybe that's why I'd been drawn to this place. Some unconscious recognition of kindred spirits, men who'd found a way to be together despite the world's expectations.

The work continued past dawn, my hands busy while my mind processed three weeks of interactions with Ezra. The way my pulse quickened when I saw him in the school parking lot. How I found myself taking extra time with my appearance on mornings when I knew I'd see him. The way our coffeeconversation had felt more like a date than a parent-teacher meeting.

The way I'd been thinking about him every day since.

By seven AM, I'd finished the window restoration and started on the wainscoting repair. The Victorian's original woodwork was exquisite—quarter-sawn oak with a grain pattern that spoke of old-growth forests and craftsmen who took pride in their work. Someone had damaged a section with careless furniture moving, leaving gouges that broke my heart.

But wood could be healed, with patience and skill. New pieces grafted seamlessly into old, invisible repairs that honored the original while making it whole again.

Maybe people could be healed the same way. Maybe thirty-eight years of living according to other people's expectations hadn't damaged me beyond repair. Maybe I could integrate this new understanding of myself with the man I'd always been, create something authentic without destroying everything I'd built.

I drove homeas the sun painted the sky in soft pastels, my body tired but my mind finally quiet. The physical work had done what hours of lying in bed couldn't—given me space to think without the panic that usually accompanied thoughts of changing my entire identity.

Cooper was still asleep when I slipped back into the house and Jazz sleepily greeted me before heading back home. I showered off the sawdust and made coffee, settling at the kitchen table with the newspaper like any other Sunday morning.

Except nothing felt like any other morning. I felt fundamentally different, like someone had adjusted the color settings on my life and everything was suddenly more vivid.

"Morning, Daddy," Cooper appeared in his dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up in three directions. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd get some work done on the Victorian."

"Can I come next time? I like helping with the sanding."

"We'll see, buddy. Want pancakes?"

As I cooked breakfast, Cooper chattered about yesterday's activities with Ezra. His teacher this, his teacher that, a steady stream of admiration that made my chest warm. Cooper had clearly claimed Ezra as an important person in his world, with the wholehearted enthusiasm that only six-year-olds could manage.

"He makes really good salad," Cooper continued. "And he knows about building things almost as much as you do. Plus he laughs at my jokes."

"He does seem pretty great," I admitted, and the words carried more weight than Cooper would understand.

At the grocery store later, I found myself paying attention to other shoppers in ways I never had before. A couple holding hands by the produce section caught my eye—two men in their forties, one tall and dark, the other shorter with graying temples. They moved around each other with the easy intimacy of long partnership, debating pasta sauce brands with the kind of domestic comfort I'd always envied in other couples.

I watched them longer than I should have, trying to imagine myself in their place. What would it feel like to shop for groceries with Ezra, to have that kind of casual affection, to be part of a family unit that felt natural rather than performed?

The thought made my palms sweat, but not with panic. With possibility.

The taller man touched his partner's shoulder when making a point, casual and affectionate and real. I'd never touched Sarah like that. Never felt the urge to make casual contact, to express affection through small gestures.

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