Page 23 of After the Rain

TWELVE

TESTING WATERS

EZRA

I woke to the soft ping of my phone, and for a moment, lying in the gray morning light filtering through my bedroom curtains, I almost ignored it.

Saturday mornings were sacred—coffee in bed, grading papers in my pajamas, the luxury of moving slowly through my day without the weight of professional scrutiny bearing down on me.

But something made me reach for the phone anyway.

Wade's name on the screen stopped my heart.

Wade

Thank you for caring about Cooper. I'm working on some personal things, but I don't want that to affect his happiness. Can we talk soon?

I read the message three times, my pulse quickening with each pass.

After weeks of careful distance, of professional formality that felt like swallowing glass, Wade was finally reaching out.

The words suggested something I'd almost given up hoping for—that he was ready to stop running from whatever was happening between us.

But underneath the relief was a deeper wariness, the kind that comes from being hurt by someone you'd started to trust. Wade's mention of "working on personal things" felt significant, like maybe he was finally addressing his identity crisis instead of just drowning in it.

But I'd been here before. I'd seen the panic in his eyes after our kiss, watched him retreat so completely that I'd started to wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing.

I sat up in bed, my back against the headboard, and stared at the message until the words blurred.

How many times had I composed similar texts over the past two weeks, only to delete them before hitting send?

How many nights had I fallen asleep wondering if Wade was okay, if he was figuring himself out, if he was thinking about me at all?

The careful phrasing of his message suggested growth, maybe even therapy.

"Working on personal things" was therapist language, the kind of careful self-awareness that came from professional help.

The thought gave me hope and broke my heart simultaneously—hope that Wade was getting the support he needed, heartbreak that he'd been struggling alone when I would have gladly helped carry the weight.

My response took twenty minutes to craft.

Ezra

I'd be willing to talk, but I need you to understand that Cooper's wellbeing has to come first for both of us. Whatever confusion you're working through, he shouldn't suffer for it.

I stared at the words before sending them, knowing they sounded colder than I felt but needing to establish boundaries that would protect all of us. Cooper was the constant in this equation, the bright six-year-old whose happiness mattered more than any adult romantic complication.

Wade's response came within minutes:

Wade

Absolutely. Cooper comes first. Always. Are you free for coffee this afternoon? Same place as before?

The speed of his reply, the immediate agreement about Cooper's priority, the suggestion to meet at Grounds for Thought where we'd had our first real conversation—all of it suggested a Wade who'd been thinking about this as much as I had.

I agreed to meet him, then spent the next six hours alternating between hope and terror.

Grounds for Thought was exactly as I remembered it—warm lighting, mismatched furniture, the kind of coffee shop that existed in the space between small towns and college campuses.

Wade was already there when I arrived, sitting at the same table we'd shared weeks ago, but he looked different.

Less frantic, more centered, like someone who'd been doing difficult work on himself.

"Hi," he said as I approached, and even that single word carried more weight than our entire stilted conversation at school drop-off had managed.

"Hi yourself."

I ordered my usual—large coffee, too much sugar—and settled across from him.

Up close, I could see the signs of his struggle more clearly.

Dark circles under his eyes, the slight hollow in his cheeks that suggested he'd been forgetting to eat, the way his hands trembled slightly around his coffee cup.

But there was something new too. A stillness that hadn't been there before, like he'd finally stopped running from himself long enough to catch his breath.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I almost didn't."

The honesty hung between us, uncomfortable but necessary. Wade nodded like he understood, like he'd expected as much.

"How's Cooper doing? Really?"

It was safe territory, the one thing we could discuss without navigating the minefield of our own feelings.

I told him about Cooper's recent behavior in class—the way his writing had become more subdued, how he'd been asking careful questions about adult friendships, the obvious confusion about why the important people in his life seemed sad.

"He's resilient," I said. "But he notices more than we give him credit for. When you and I were... when things were easier between us, he was happier. More confident. The change in our dynamic affected him more than either of us intended."

Wade's jaw tightened, and I could see the guilt settling over him like a heavy coat. "I never wanted to hurt him. Any of this mess was supposed to be about me figuring out my own shit, not making Cooper's life more complicated."

"But that's not how it works, is it? Our choices affect the people who love us, whether we want them to or not."

"No. They don't." His voice cracked slightly. "I've been seeing a therapist. Dr. Marlow. She specializes in sexuality and identity issues."

The admission landed between us like a gift. Wade wasn't just struggling alone anymore—he was getting professional help, taking active steps toward understanding himself.

"How's that going?"

"Fucking terrifying," he said with a laugh that sounded more like a sob.

"She's helping me understand that I've been living someone else's idea of what my life should look like instead of figuring out what I actually want.

It's scary to realize how much of my adult life has been performance rather than authentic choice. "

I wanted to reach across the table and touch his hand, offer some physical comfort for the pain I could hear in his voice. But we weren't there yet. Maybe we never would be.

"That's brave work," I said instead. "Not everyone has the courage to examine their life that honestly."

"I'm not sure it's courage. Might just be desperation.

" Wade looked up at me then, his eyes raw with exhaustion and something that might have been hope.

"Ezra, I need to apologize. For how I handled.

.. after we kissed. I handled that terribly.

You deserved better than me freaking out and then avoiding you. "

The words I'd been waiting to hear for weeks, but they came with their own sting. Better late than never, but late nonetheless.

"It wasn't the confusion that hurt," I said carefully. "I understand questioning your identity. I understand needing time to process. What hurt was the way you just disappeared. One day we were... whatever we were becoming, and the next day I was a stranger again."

Wade winced like I'd slapped him. "I was scared. Kissing you felt more real than anything I'd experienced before, and I didn't know what to do with that information. I thought if I pulled back, if I pretended it hadn't happened, maybe I could go back to my life making sense."

"Did it work?"

"No. Nothing made sense anymore. Everything felt like a lie." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I kept thinking about you. About Cooper. About how happy we all seemed together that day by the river. It was the first time in years that I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be."

The confession hit me like a physical blow, right in the center of my chest where I'd been carrying all the hurt and hope and longing of the past few weeks.

"But you walked away anyway."

"I panicked. I've spent thirty-eight years believing I knew who I was, and suddenly everything I thought I understood about myself was wrong. It felt like the ground had disappeared from under my feet."

I could hear the pain in his voice, could see how much the admission cost him. But my own hurt was still too raw to just forgive and forget.

"I get that, Wade. I really do. But disappearing without explanation hurt more than the confusion itself. If we're going to rebuild any kind of relationship—friendship or otherwise—I need to know you won't just vanish when things get complicated."

"I won't," he said immediately. "I can't promise I'll have all the answers, or that I won't be scared sometimes, but I won't disappear again. You and Cooper both deserve better than that."

The promise felt fragile but real, like something we could maybe build on if we were careful.

"So where does that leave us?"

Wade was quiet for a long moment, staring into his coffee like it might contain answers to questions he was still learning how to ask.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I'm attracted to you.

That's not confusion or experimentation—it's real.

But I also don't know what that means for my life, for Cooper's life, for the future I thought I was building.

Dr. Marlow says I need to give myself time to figure out who I am before I can figure out what I want with another person. "

"How much time?"

"I don't know that either. Maybe months. Maybe longer." He looked up at me, and I could see the fear and hope warring in his expression. "Is that fair to ask? For you to be patient while I work through my shit?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implication. Was I willing to wait for someone who might never be ready? Was I strong enough to be friends with someone I had feelings for while he figured out if those feelings could ever be reciprocated?