Page 85 of Puck Daddies
I giggle at that. “Good. Take tomorrow morning too. Late open at ten. I’ll cover early hours with Oliver.”
“You sure?” Bex asks.
“Yes. Sleep. Celebrate. Whatever. Do not come in before ten.”
They head home, and I turn off the lights and look through the glass at the hex wall. It’s full. That’s the goal I set on the night I thought we might lose this place. We’re still here. The building will be ours. Just a matter of time.
At home, the four of us eat leftover pasta and garlic bread in sweatpants at the coffee table. Hudson cracks a seltzer and toasts the room without words. Rocco sets a BRAVE tin on thetable and lights it. The apartment smells like the shop did all day. Oliver props his feet under mine so I stop bouncing my leg.
I go to bed tired in a way that feels good. The clock in my head is still there, but softer. We made a place we can keep. We showed it to the city. We told the truth about me and the guys without making a show of it. I was scared at first—not everyone is okay with what we are. But the city still supports us, still shows up for us.
This is the city that cheers for teams that are generously called underdogs. It’s not about winning or rankings. It’s about pride in trying hard. In doing a good job, despite the odds. We aren’t winners, but you never really lose if you keep trying.
That’s why Baltimore will always be my home. Home to John Waters, Divine, Edgar Allen Poe, the American Urology Museum, Graffiti Alley, Toilet Races, and more oddities. I haven’t traveled much, but I don’t need to. Baltimore is where I fit.
We’re weird, we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.
And we are staying open, no matter what. That is our legacy.
30
HUDSON
A monthafter the Grand Re-Opening, we carry boxes through the front door of our new home, and I feel the place settle, as if it was built for us.
Because it was.
Oliver’s designer asked a hundred questions, measured our habits, and gave each of us a room that works for our side interests on top of bedrooms for each of us. Solid floors. Quiet hall. An elevator that fits the couch. No glare. No fuss. How he found a place this big on short notice, I’ll never know.
Light wood floor, neutral painted walls, big windows, open concept. Those were my requests, and each one was knocked out of the park. The windows are big enough to jump out of, all four of us at the same time. We’re in the penthouse of a fifteen-story building, so I guess the amenities track. I don’t know—it’s the nicest place I’ve ever lived, which means I’m not a good judge of these things.
When we walked in the first time, Meg, Rocco, and I stood in awe of the place. But Oliver just said, “It might do.” Unimpressed,cool. The three of us looked at him like he’d sprung two more heads, but then he motioned to the real estate agent, and we caught on. Couldn’t let them think they had us.
But we still couldn’t keep cool about it. Especially not after Meg squealed when she saw the wraparound balcony. There were no cards to play for haggling after your excited girl shouts, “I can see forever!”
After that, it was time to sign.
“Just a few more boxes,” Rocco says as he hauls in the last of them. He stacks them by the pit couch. It’s a sunken blue U with deep cushions and a low table that lifts. The fabric feels like a worn sweatshirt. There’s a basket of chargers and earplugs. This is the center of the place. It’s cozy.
It’s perfect.
My candle studio sits off the back hall behind a heavy door. There’s a quiet hood, a deep sink, two melters on casters, and open shelving for tins, wicks, dyes, and oils. A pegboard keeps tools where my hands expect them. The floor is sealed, so spills clean easily. A small fridge takes the test oils. It smells like steel, not perfume. It’s the first shop I’ve had that doesn’t fight me.
Across the hall is Rocco’s studio. The door closes soft and the room goes still. Panels line the walls. There’s a small iso nook, and a live corner with wood slats so the sound has something solid to touch. His piano sits on a rug that looks like a hockey rink. A shelf holds scores and tea. A red light outside the door tells us when to leave him alone. He plays one note and nods at how it sits.
Meg’s meditation room is simple. Floor mats, four cushions, a low shelf with a kettle and cups, a thin cabinet for journals,a basket for phones, a dimmer that actually dims. Bea’s bee print hangs where you can see it when you sit. She turns in a slow circle and breathes. “This works. I’m feeling more relaxed already.”
Oliver’s corner balcony is exactly him. The railing is higher than code and gated, which they snuck past inspectors, either through trickery or bribes. Not that we care. He’s happy. Training rungs bolt into the brick with anchor points and pads on the deck. He can traverse a controlled line up and down, clipped in. “This is how I’m getting up El Capitan. Practice.”
The bedrooms run on the quiet side. Each of us has a bedroom. Each of them is big. Meg’s has dark curtains and a small table for lists. Rocco’s has a reading chair and a drawer of pencils. Oliver’s has a rack for gear and a hook for his pack. Mine has a low shelf for my journals and another for anger logs. A heavy bag hangs where it won’t rattle anyone else’s walls.
There’s a fifth bedroom set up as the hive room. The bed is custom and ridiculous—two frames, one platform, one mattress big enough for six, but we’re capping it at four, with drawers for sheets and a headboard that doesn’t shake. Yet. Two nightstands, a lock that slides smooth. We keep that door closed unless all four of us go in together. The rule always makes us smile.
Moving it in took six people, a strap system, and a lot of laughing. The mattress came rolled and still fought the doorway. We tipped it, breathed, and cleared the frame with half an inch to spare. The guys we hired were wise enough not to make smart remarks. Oliver held the hinge side and called cadence like a foreman. Rocco kept the path clear. Meg taped a line on the floor so we set the platform exactly where we wanted it, not where momentum put it. When it settled, we all stood and stared likethe thing might float. It didn’t. It felt solid under a hand. We made the bed together with sheets that fit without a wrestling match and stacked extra sets in the drawers.
No phones in that room. Same stop word as always. Same aftercare. Simple.
We spend the morning making piles. Tom and Anthony drop off a box of kitchen tools. Bex brings labeled spices. Aqua drops a fig tree and glitter, kisses Meg, and vanishes. The place stops looking staged and starts looking lived in.
