Page 18 of After the Rain

NINE

WHAT AM I?

WADE

O ne AM, and I was still staring at the ceiling like it might provide answers to questions that were tearing me apart from the inside.

The kiss played on repeat in my mind—Ezra's soft lips, the way he'd kissed me back with such careful tenderness, the rightness of it that had shattered everything I thought I knew about myself.

My pulse raced just remembering it, my stomach doing those impossible flutters that felt both familiar and terrifying.

Shouldn't I know my own sexuality by now? Shouldn't this be settled territory, mapped and understood like the architectural blueprints I drew for a living?

But lying in the dark, I couldn't escape the truth that was clawing its way to the surface: kissing Ezra had felt more real, more right, more honest than anything I'd experienced in fifteen years of marriage.

What the hell did that mean?

I got up for water, nearly stumbling over the laundry basket I'd left by the bed. My hands shook as I filled the glass, and I caught my reflection in the kitchen window—hollow-eyed, disheveled, looking like a man coming apart at the seams.

The face looking back was the same one that had married Sarah in a church full of people who thought they knew who I was. The same face that had gone through the motions of heterosexual life, building a career and a family and a reputation as a good husband, good father, good man.

But if I was gay—and Christ, even thinking the word made my chest tight with something between panic and relief—what did that say about everything I'd built? Was my marriage a lie? Had I been lying to Sarah for fifteen years without even knowing it?

Back in bed, I found myself cataloguing memories with new eyes.

College. My fraternity brother Jake, whose attention I'd craved in ways I'd convinced myself were about admiration.

The way I'd felt devastated when he'd started dating seriously, like I was losing something precious I'd never known I wanted.

My wedding night. Sarah in the hotel bathroom, getting ready, and me sitting on the bed feeling like I was about to perform in a play I'd never auditioned for.

The hollow sensation in my chest when she'd emerged in white lace, beautiful and radiant and completely wrong for me in ways I couldn't articulate.

Even during sex with Sarah, I'd felt like I was following a script. Touch here, kiss there, make the right sounds at the right moments. I'd thought that's what intimacy was supposed to feel like—mechanical, dutiful, performed rather than felt.

By the time my alarm went off at six, I'd maybe slept two hours. Cooper found me in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker like it might provide answers to existential questions.

"Morning, Daddy. You look tired."

"Just didn't sleep well, buddy. Bad dreams."

"About what?"

About kissing your teacher and feeling more alive than I have in years , I definitely didn't say.

"Just work stuff. Nothing for you to worry about."

I made breakfast while Cooper chattered about his day ahead. When he mentioned Mr. Mitchell, my stomach did that fluttering thing again—part anticipation, part terror, part something I was finally starting to recognize as want.

"I can't wait to see Mr. Mitchell today," Cooper said. "He said yesterday that we might start working on our Mother's Day cards, and I have the best idea for mine."

The innocent excitement in his voice made me feel like a fraud. How could I explain to my six-year-old that I'd kissed his teacher and then ran away like a coward?

Driving to school, I took the long route, delaying the inevitable. When I finally reached the parking lot, I sat in my truck for five minutes, watching other parents drop off their kids with easy confidence. None of them looked like they were having existential crises about their sexuality.

I spotted Ezra through the classroom window, helping a student with their backpack.

Even from this distance, I could see the careful way he moved, the patience in his posture.

The memory of his hands on my face, his mouth soft and warm against mine, made my chest tighten with want and panic in equal measure.

Cooper was already unbuckling his seatbelt. "Come on, Daddy! We're going to be late!"

"Right. Sorry, buddy."

I forced myself out of the truck and into the organized chaos of morning drop-off. But instead of walking Cooper to his classroom like usual, I hung back by the entrance.

"Aren't you coming to say hi to Mr. Mitchell?" Cooper asked, looking confused.

"Not today, buddy. I need to get to work early. You go ahead."

Cooper's face fell slightly, but he nodded and ran toward his classroom. I watched through the window as Ezra greeted him with that warm smile, as Cooper chattered excitedly about something that made Ezra laugh.

For a moment, Ezra's eyes found mine through the glass. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the hurt and confusion there. He lifted his hand in a small wave, and I felt like the worst kind of coward as I turned away without responding.

At the office, I tried to focus on the Henderson renovation plans, but my hands were shaking too badly to hold a pencil steady. I spilled coffee on my desk, forgot the password to my computer twice, and spent twenty minutes looking for a file that was sitting right in front of me.

"Wade?" Marcus appeared in my doorway, concern written across his face. "You look like hell. What's going on?"

"Just tired. Didn't sleep well."

"When's the last time you ate something?"

I realized I couldn't remember. "I had coffee."

"Coffee isn't food." Marcus pulled his keys from his pocket. "Come on. We're going to lunch."

"It's ten AM."

"Then we're going to breakfast. You look like you're about to keel over."

The Moonbeam Diner was nearly empty at mid-morning, just a few retirees nursing coffee and reading newspapers. Marcus ordered for both of us while I stared out the window, watching normal people live their normal lives.

"Okay," Marcus said when the waitress left. "Talk to me. What's really going on? And don't say 'nothing' because I've known you for eight years and I've never seen you this rattled."

I wanted to tell him. The words were right there, pressing against my teeth. I think I'm gay. I kissed Cooper's teacher and now I don't know who I am anymore. I feel like I've been living someone else's life for thirty-eight years.

Instead, I said, "I'm having some... personal questions. About myself. About what I want."

Marcus leaned back in the booth, studying my face. "This about Sarah? The divorce?"

"Kind of. More about... what the divorce means. What it says about who I am."

The waitress brought our food—eggs and bacon and toast that I couldn't imagine forcing down. Marcus waited until she left, then studied my face with growing concern.

"Wade, talk to me. What's really eating at you?"

I stabbed at my eggs, trying to find words for questions I'd never thought I'd need to ask. "Marcus... can I ask you something? Hypothetically?"

"Of course."

"How do you know... I mean, how do people figure out what they actually want? Not what they think they should want, but what they really want?"

Marcus raised an eyebrow, processing the question. "That's pretty philosophical for breakfast conversation."

Heat crept up my neck. This was harder than I'd expected. "I just... I'm trying to understand something about myself. About how people know when they're living the right life."

Marcus studied my face, and I saw the moment he understood something was seriously wrong. His expression softened with genuine concern.

"Can I tell you something? Something that might help?"

I nodded, grateful for any distraction from my own fumbling attempts at explanation.

"A few years back, when we were working on the Riverside project—you remember that nightmare renovation?

—I went through this period where I questioned everything about my work, my choices, whether I was even good at what I do.

" He paused, stirring his coffee. "I'd been in construction for fifteen years, thought I had it all figured out, and then this one project made me feel like a complete amateur. "

I remembered that project. Marcus had been uncharacteristically stressed, second-guessing every decision.

"What happened?"

"I realized I'd been doing things the way I thought they should be done, following all the rules and expectations, but I'd stopped listening to my instincts.

I was so focused on meeting other people's standards that I'd lost track of what actually worked for me.

" He met my eyes. "Julie finally told me I needed to stop trying to be the contractor everyone expected and start being the contractor I actually was. "

"How did you figure out the difference?"

"Trial and error. A lot of honest conversations with myself about what I actually wanted to build, not what I thought I should want to build.

" Marcus leaned forward. "Wade, the questions you're asking, the way you're struggling—sometimes life forces you to reconsider everything you thought you knew about yourself.

That doesn't mean you were wrong before. It just means you're growing."

I felt tears prick my eyes. "I feel like I'm losing my mind. Like everything I thought I knew about myself is just... gone."

"When did this start? These questions?"

I couldn't tell him about Ezra, about the kiss, about how one moment by a river had shattered everything. "Recently. There's been... someone. Someone who's making me question everything I thought I understood about what I want."

Marcus nodded slowly, not pushing for details. "Someone important?"

The careful way he phrased it made it easier to respond. I nodded.

"That's... that's significant," he said gently. "And probably terrifying."

"Is it crazy? To be thirty-eight and just figuring out you don't know yourself as well as you thought?"

"No. God, no. Wade, I've seen guys our age completely change careers, move across the country, discover talents they never knew they had. There's no expiration date on self-discovery."

I pushed eggs around my plate, appetite completely gone. "What if this costs me everything? Cooper, my business, my place in this community?"

"Can I tell you what I learned from that Riverside project disaster?"

I nodded.

"You can't build something solid on a foundation that isn't true to who you are.

It might look good for a while, but eventually, the whole structure becomes unstable.

" He paused. "Wade, whatever you're working through, the people who matter will want you to be happy.

And if they don't, maybe they weren't really your people to begin with. "

I made a decision that felt both terrifying and necessary. I found the number for a therapist in the county seat, someone far enough away that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew in the waiting room.

Dr. Patricia Marlow specialized in sexuality and identity issues. Her website talked about creating a safe space for people questioning their orientation, for adults coming out later in life, for individuals navigating the intersection of identity and family obligations.

I made an appointment for the following week, giving the receptionist a fake name and paying cash in advance. It felt both deeply shameful and vitally necessary—the first step toward understanding who I actually was underneath all the assumptions and expectations.

That night, I dreamed about Ezra. We were back at the river, but this time I didn't panic after our kiss.

This time I cupped his face in my hands and told him I was falling for him.

This time he smiled and kissed me again, and when we broke apart, the world was still there.

Cooper was still there, laughing as he chased ducks through the shallows.

I woke with tears on my face and the absolute certainty that whatever I was feeling for Ezra was real, and deep, and worth fighting for.

But first, I had to figure out who I was fighting as.

The work ahead was terrifying. But for the first time since our kiss, it also felt possible. I wasn't just drowning in confusion anymore—I was taking concrete steps toward understanding myself.

And maybe, if I was very brave and very lucky, understanding myself would be the first step toward building something real with the man who'd changed everything with one tender kiss by a river.

The thought scared me. But it also filled me with a hope I hadn't felt in years.

I was going to figure out who Wade Harrison actually was.

And then I was going to decide what to do about Ezra Mitchell.