Page 22 of After the Rain

"Jesus Christ," Jazz said, attacking the pink tile with a sledgehammer like it had personally offended her ancestors. "Whoever designed this bathroom didn't just hate joy—they declared war on it."

"It was the 1980s," Kane said, carefully removing the pedestal sink with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. "Everyone hated joy in the 1980s. It was considered bourgeois."

"The 1980s explain the color choices," I said, prying up linoleum that had been installed over the original hardwood floors like some kind of crime against nature.

"They don't explain why someone thought a toilet positioned so close to the bathtub that you could wash your hair while taking a shit was good design. "

"Efficiency," Kane said with absolute seriousness. "You could multitask. Very modern."

"That's not modern, that's dystopian," Jazz said, but she was laughing despite herself. "This bathroom is what happens when cocaine makes design decisions."

"Speaking of bad decisions," Kane said, wrestling with a medicine cabinet that appeared to have been installed with construction adhesive and pure stubbornness, "remember when we tried to remove the wallpaper in the kitchen and discovered there were seven layers of it?"

"Each layer more hideous than the last," I said, remembering the archaeological excavation that had revealed decades of questionable taste. "Like digging through the geological record of bad interior design."

"And under all of it was this gorgeous original plaster work," Jazz added, taking a break from tile destruction. "Sometimes I think houses are like people—all their beauty gets covered up by other people's damage, and you have to strip everything away to see what was always there."

The metaphor hit closer to home than she probably realized, and I found myself thinking about layers of expectation and assumption that had been built up over thirty-eight years of living as someone I'd never really examined.

"Speaking of stripping things away," Jazz continued, "have you thought about what you're going to tell Cooper? About any of this?"

The question made my stomach clench. "I don't even know what to tell myself yet."

"Kids are usually better at accepting love than adults are," Kane observed, carefully disconnecting the plumbing from the sink. "They don't get hung up on the packaging."

"Cooper likes Ezra," I said slowly. "A lot. He talks about him constantly, and he was devastated when our library plans got cancelled. I think he already knows something's different, even if he doesn't have words for it."

"Kids are like that," Jazz said. "They can sense when the adults in their lives are struggling with something, even when we think we're hiding it perfectly."

We finished demolishing the bathroom as the sun was setting, three years of ugly design choices reduced to debris bags and open space.

Standing in the gutted room, I could finally see its potential—a spa-like retreat with a clawfoot tub positioned under the window to catch morning light, separate shower with custom tile work that honored the house's Victorian character, double vanity with period-appropriate fixtures and enough space for two people to get ready without choreographing around each other.

"You know what this room needs?" Jazz said, surveying our destructive handiwork with satisfaction.

"Everything," Kane replied promptly. "Literally everything. Plumbing, electrical, flooring, walls that aren't just exposed studs..."

"Besides all that," Jazz said, rolling her eyes. "It needs someone to enjoy it. All this beautiful restoration work is meaningless if you're too scared to actually live in the space you've created."

The observation hit like a well-aimed hammer blow. I'd been building this house for three years, creating spaces for the life I wanted without having the courage to actually live that life.

After Kane and Jazz left, I sat on the front porch steps with a beer, exhausted but oddly peaceful.

The house felt different after a day of work with friends who understood both my renovation goals and my personal struggles.

Three years of careful restoration, and I was finally starting to understand that I wasn't just fixing a house.

I found myself sitting in a waiting room forty miles from Cedar Falls, palms sweating as I stared at a magazine about mindful living that I couldn't focus on.

Dr. Marlow's office was nothing like I'd expected. No leather couch, no intimidating diplomas covering the walls. Instead, it felt like someone's comfortable living room—soft lighting, overstuffed chairs, a small fountain that created gentle white noise in the corner.

"Wade," she said when she came to get me, and I was surprised that she looked like someone's favorite aunt rather than the stern professional I'd imagined. "Thank you for coming. I know taking this step isn't easy."

We settled into chairs positioned at an angle to each other, close enough for conversation but not so direct that it felt like an interrogation. She had a yellow legal pad but didn't immediately start writing.

"So," she said with a warm smile, "tell me what brought you here."

I'd rehearsed this moment for days, but sitting there, the prepared words scattered like leaves in wind.

"I think I might be... I don't know what I am," I said finally. “Not that long ago, I kissed a man, and now I feel like everything I thought I knew about myself was wrong."

"That sounds overwhelming," she said, her voice carrying no judgment, only curiosity. "Can you tell me about that experience?"

So I did. I told her about Ezra, about the river, about the kiss that had shattered my understanding of myself.

I told her about my marriage to Sarah, about how it had always felt like performance, about Cooper and my fears for his wellbeing if I turned out to be something other than what he'd always known.

Dr. Marlow listened without interrupting, occasionally nodding or making small sounds of understanding. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.

"Wade, can I ask you something? Before this experience with Ezra, had you ever found yourself attracted to men?"

The question hit like cold water. "I... I don't know. Maybe? I mean, there were times when I'd see a guy and think he was attractive, but I assumed everyone did that. Like, objectively handsome, you know?"

"Mm-hmm. And how did those observations make you feel?"

"Confused, mostly. Like there was something wrong with me for noticing.

" I paused, remembering. "In college, there was this guy in my architecture program.

David. I found myself looking forward to group projects because he'd be there, and I told myself it was because he was smart and easy to work with. "

"But?"

"But I had dreams about him. And not just friend dreams." The admission felt like pulling out a splinter. "I convinced myself it was just... I don't know, curiosity or something. Guys experiment in college, right?"

"Some do. Others use that assumption to explain away feelings they're not ready to examine." She leaned forward slightly. "Wade, sexuality isn't a switch that gets flipped one day. For many people, it's something they discover gradually, sometimes over years."

"But I was married for fifteen years. I have a son."

"And how does having been married to a woman change how you felt when you kissed Ezra?"

The question stopped me cold. Because it didn't change anything. The kiss had felt like coming home, like discovering a room in my house I'd never known existed.

"It doesn't," I said quietly.

"Sexual orientation isn't determined by your past relationships or your family structure," Dr. Marlow said gently.

"It's about who you're attracted to, who you could see yourself building a life with.

Some people call themselves straight, some gay, some bisexual.

Some don't use labels at all. What matters is understanding what feels authentic to you. "

"But what about Cooper? What kind of message does it send if his dad suddenly decides he's... what, gay? Bisexual? What does that do to a six-year-old's sense of stability?"

Dr. Marlow smiled. "What message do you think it sends when a parent lives authentically? When they show their child that it's possible to grow and change and still be a good person?"

I hadn't thought about it that way.

"Wade, children are remarkably resilient when it comes to their parents' happiness. What's usually harder for them is living with parents who are unhappy or dishonest about who they are."

We talked for the full hour, touching on everything from my fears about small-town judgment to practical concerns about dating as a newly single father to the difference between sexual attraction and romantic connection.

"I want to see him again," I said as our session was winding down. "Ezra. But I'm terrified of making things worse for him professionally, and I'm terrified of what it means about me."

"What would it mean about you?"

"That I'm not who I thought I was. That I've been lying to myself for thirty-eight years."

"Or," Dr. Marlow said gently, "that you're exactly who you've always been, and you're just now giving yourself permission to see it clearly."

She gave me some resources to read and suggested we meet again the following week. As I drove home, her words echoed in my mind.

Give yourself permission to see clearly.