Page 11 of After the Rain

FIVE

SLEEPLESS IN CEDAR FALLS

WADE

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it held answers to questions I wasn't sure I was ready to ask.

Twelve-thirty AM, and my mind was racing through every moment of the day with Ezra. The easy way he'd fit into our morning routine, how natural it felt having him at our kitchen table, the way Cooper had curled up between us during story time like we were already a family.

That last thought made my chest tight.

Sleep clearly wasn't happening. I'd been tossing and turning for two hours, my body exhausted but my mind spinning like a hamster on a wheel. When insomnia hit like this, I had a ritual that usually helped.

I slipped out of bed, pulled on jeans and a hoodie, and grabbed my keys.

I paused in the hallway, glancing toward Cooper’s closed door. No matter how wired I was, I couldn’t just leave him alone.

Jazz answered on the second ring, groggy but familiar.

“You okay?” she asked, immediate concern in her voice.

“Yeah. Sorry for the late call. I just… need a drive. Can you come stay with Coop for a bit?”

“Give me ten,” she said without hesitation.

By the time she knocked on the door, I already had coffee brewing and a blanket waiting on the couch. She didn’t ask questions. Just gave me a sleepy smile and waved me out.

The drive took eight minutes through empty downtown streets.

I'd bought the Victorian house three years ago, back when Sarah and I were still trying to convince ourselves our marriage could be saved.

The plan had been to renovate it together, create our dream home, maybe have another baby to fill all those empty bedrooms.

Instead, it had become my refuge. The place I went when I needed to work with my hands and quiet my mind.

I parked in the overgrown driveway and let myself in through the side door. The house smelled like sawdust and lemon oil, familiar and comforting. I flipped on the work lights I'd strung through the main room and surveyed my progress.

The parlor was nearly finished—original hardwood floors restored to gleaming perfection, crown molding painstakingly repaired, walls painted in warm cream that highlighted the period details.

I'd been working on the built-in bookshelves for months, crafting each shelf by hand to match the house's 1890s character.

This was where I came when Sarah and I fought. When Cooper was at her place and the silence in my rental felt suffocating. When I needed to create something beautiful to balance out everything in my life that felt broken.

Tonight I came because I couldn't stop thinking about the way Ezra's eyes had crinkled when he smiled at Cooper's drawings.

I selected a piece of cherry wood I'd been saving for the top shelf, running my hands along the grain.

The wood was smooth and warm, with figure that would be gorgeous under a hand-rubbed finish.

Working with natural materials always grounded me, reminded me that some things couldn't be forced or hurried.

You had to understand the wood's nature, work with its grain instead of against it. Force a piece to become something it wasn't meant to be, and it would split, crack, become useless. But honor its natural character, and it would reveal beauty you never expected.

Like the Victorian itself. Previous owners had tried to modernize it—dropped ceilings, vinyl siding, cheap fixtures that ignored the house's essential character. They'd covered its truth with layers of convenience, made it functional but soulless.

I was stripping all that away, getting back to what the house had always meant to be. The process was slow, sometimes painful, but necessary. You couldn't build something authentic on a foundation of lies.

The metaphor wasn't lost on me.

As I set up the router to cut the decorative edge, my mind drifted to this afternoon.

Ezra's laugh when Cooper explained the engineering principles behind his Lego spaceship.

The way he'd looked at my workshop with genuine appreciation, asking thoughtful questions about joinery techniques and wood selection.

The way he'd looked at me when I explained the renovation process, like I was saying something worth listening to.

I'd never felt that kind of engaged attention from Sarah.

She'd been proud of my work in an abstract way—the successful business, the impressive client list, the financial security it provided.

But she'd never wanted to hear about the actual craft, the satisfaction of restoring something beautiful to its original glory.

The router's whine filled the quiet house as I shaped the wood, each pass revealing more of the grain's natural beauty. This was meditation for me, the kind of focused work that let my subconscious process what my rational mind couldn't handle.

Like the growing certainty that what I felt for Ezra went far beyond professional gratitude.

The bookshelf took shape slowly, each joint cut with precision honed over years of practice. I'd learned woodworking from my grandfather, spent summers in his shop learning that good work couldn't be rushed. Measure twice, cut once. Let the wood tell you what it wanted to become.

Maybe that's what was happening with me. Maybe I'd spent thirty-eight years trying to force myself into a shape that felt wrong, and now I was finally ready to let my true nature emerge.

By three AM, I'd finished the shelf and started sanding the surface smooth. The repetitive motion was hypnotic, my hands moving in practiced circles while my mind wandered to places I'd never let it go before.

I thought about Rick Lee from my sophomore year design studio.

How I'd volunteered to be his partner for every group project, told myself it was because he was the most talented student in our class.

How devastated I'd felt when he'd started dating Jessica and suddenly had no time for our late-night work sessions.

Had that been attraction? The way my stomach clenched when David smiled at other people? The way I'd find excuses to sit close enough to smell his cologne during our drafting sessions?

I thought about our monthly poker games during my marriage, how I'd looked forward to seeing Marcus and the other guys in ways that seemed disproportionate to simple friendship.

How I'd found excuses to brush hands when passing chips, noticed the way Tom's shirt stretched across his shoulders when he leaned forward to study his cards.

I thought about my bachelor party, how I'd felt nothing but relief when the stripper Sarah's friends had hired arrived. How I'd spent the evening in the corner, nursing a beer and watching my friends with a detachment that had worried me at the time.

Jesus. How had I missed all the signs?

The sandpaper rasped against the wood in steady rhythm, each stroke smoothing away imperfections, revealing the beauty underneath. Kind of like what was happening to me, maybe. All these years of trying to be what everyone expected, and now finally letting my real self emerge.

The memory that stopped me cold came from my wedding night.

Sarah and I in the honeymoon suite, both of us trying so hard to feel the passion that was supposed to accompany such a momentous occasion. I'd gone through all the motions, performed the role of eager newlywed, but the whole time I'd felt like I was watching someone else's life unfold.

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 gaps that 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.