Page 8

Spencer pulled his SUV into the driveway of the Brown Street house. He preferred not to drive if he could help it, but he couldn’t be hauling furniture around on his bike. The driveway was off the back of the house, which was actually helpful for their purposes because there was a walk-out basement, so they wouldn’t have to go far to put things in the trunk.

Ian pulled in as Spencer was getting out of his car. “Hey.”

Ian was wearing a pair of jeans and a med-school sweatshirt pulled up to his elbows and the same pair of boat shoes from the walkthrough. This man. Spencer’s chest felt ridiculously warm.

“Hey. I have something for you,”

Spencer said quickly, handing over the photo. He saw the look of confusion on Ian’s face. “Sometimes when people do renovations, they leave something in the wall for the next person who opens it up to find. A newspaper or a note. Or a photo. The crew found this behind the wall of the downstairs bathroom.”

Ian turned the photo over in his hands, expression wistful. “It’s my mom and her parents.”

“They must have been really proud of the work they did,”

Spencer offered. He knew he’d had no choice but to give Ian the photo—it was his property—but it seemed to make him sad, and Spencer didn’t want to start the night out like that given that they were about to go through about a million more personal effects.

“My grandmother died last year.”

“I’m sorry,”

Spencer said, almost as an reflex. He hadn’t been expecting Ian to share anything with him. Of course he knew that was how a lot of younger people came into houses like this, but he never wanted to assume.

“She lived with my parents for a while in Stockbridge, which is why the house is in such bad shape. Her care took a lot of resources, and there wasn’t a lot of extra time or energy.”

It was almost like Ian was apologizing to him, though Spencer didn’t know what for. Life and time caused wear to everything. “Thank you for this.”

Ian smiled weakly, then opened his car door and laid the photo on the passenger seat. “So, where do we start?”

“We have to go in the front. I don’t have keys to the basement. Unless you do?”

Ian shook his head, a brief twitch of a movement. “Sorry, no. I don’t think anyone has for decades, to be honest.”

They walked around the front of the house, and Spencer unlocked the front door. “Usually we don’t recommend the owners see the houses like this.”

He looked around to where a good portion of the first floor had been taken down to the studs. The stained glass in the living room had been boarded up to protect it. “It can be sort of emotional.”

“I trust you to put it back together,”

Ian said softly.

Spencer turned back toward his oddly earnest voice and found that Ian was following closer behind than he’d thought.

At the top of the basement stairs, Spencer said, “So I’m going to go down and turn the light on. Is there anything else that will help?”

Ian choked out a laugh and shook his head. “No. Thank you for doing this. I know it’s ridiculous.”

“Hey, we all have our shit.”

Spencer pulled his mini flashlight out of the pocket of his jeans and headed down the stairs. He turned on the portable light that was connected to the generator and heard Ian following tentatively behind him. He did look a bit pale but, Spencer thought, more overwhelmed than actually scared. “I think it would be easiest if we made a pile of everything you wanted to keep, maybe over there.”

Spencer gestured toward the foot of the stairs, where the biggest area of exposed floor was. “Maybe trash by the door? And anything we can donate by the washer and dryer because the crew is doing a run to Habitat for Humanity tomorrow. Stuff I’m taking . . . Well, hopefully we’ll clear a space for that at some point.”

“That sounds good.”

Ian moved toward a pile of stuff and started sorting through it.

Spencer had been to enough estate sales that he had expected a lot of personal items—boxes of photos and paperwork and ephemera.

But actually it was mostly a lot of ...stuff.

Very old appliances that would be dangerous to use, plastic toys that were weathered and cracked, Christmas lights that had probably burned out decades prior, monuments to lives lived over decades in the house above them.

The trash pile built steadily, and they took turns hauling loads to the dumpster on the front lawn.

Ian did find a few boxes of papers that he took out to his car, and he helped Spencer load some antique furniture into the back of his SUV.

“Are you sure you don’t want any of this?”

Spencer asked as he closed the trunk. “I’m not an expert, but some of it could be valuable.”

“I would have no idea what to do with it.”

Ian dusted his hands off on his jeans as they headed back inside. “You said you use this stuff in your projects?”

“Yeah, when houses are missing their original architecture or a client wants furniture that’s contemporary to the house.”

Ian nodded thoughtfully, catching his bottom lip in his teeth in a way that made Spencer choke on air. “I like the idea that it will live on around town rather than being trapped in my apartment for eternity.”

Spencer found himself smiling at Ian’s earnestness and headed back to the pile he’d been working on before he did something stupid. “Oh, shit.”

Ian looked up from his own pile alert and ready to act, as though he expected Spencer to be bleeding out on the floor.

Spencer lifted a very dusty moving blanket. “I found the doors.”

They looked immaculate. He wondered if they’d been wrapped up down there since the 1960 renovation. “Want to help me get them upstairs?”

They carried each door one at a time up the basement stairs and into the living room. He’d have to warn Cat the next morning that they were there so she could protect them. Spencer ran his finger down the trim between the glass panes.

“You really care about this stuff, don’t you?”

Ian was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets like he was afraid to touch anything.

“It makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself, you know? Like, in 1910, someone built this door, and dozens of people have used it since. And here I am, putting it back so that dozens more people can use it. And hopefully, a hundred years from now, someone else will be opening this door because it’s still here.”

Spencer couldn’t read the expression on Ian’s face.

“I guess that’s why I asked you to restore the house. Because it’s all so much bigger than me.”

Spencer could see the weight that idea of legacy had put on Ian. “We’ll do a good job, I promise. Just leave it to us now.”

Ian seemed to absorb that and nodded. They walked in silence back to the basement.

It wasn’t particularly warm down there, but it was stuffy, and carrying solid-wood doors up a flight of stairs had made Spencer fairly sweaty. He tossed his flannel on the dryer, realizing that a white T-shirt wasn’t the ideal clothing for this activity. Oh well. He’d do laundry as best he could, then turn it into a rag if it was a lost cause.

They winnowed the mess down to one last pile. Spencer used a dusty forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. He could feel Ian moving around behind him on the other side of the room, and while they’d been sharing a companionable silence, Spencer was not going to miss being in this basement. He started in on organizing the pile of donations so the crew would have the easiest time possible loading things up.

An eerie stillness came over him, like the barely there sounds Ian had been making had disappeared, as though he’d left or just stopped breathing. Suddenly, Spencer heard a strangled sound behind him. By the time Spencer turned around, Ian was sitting on the ground, knees clutched to his chest, gasping for air. Spencer knew what that was. Fuck.

He rushed to the other side of the room and knelt in front of Ian. And apparently he was a little too old for that because his knees were definitely protesting. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”

He started emphasizing his breaths, counting like his therapist had taught him. Ian’s eyes were wide, and he wasn’t saying anything, but he was following along, and his face gradually began to return to a much more normal color. They sat like that for a while, the only sounds in the house the echoes of their breathing.

“Oh my god,”

Ian croaked. “This has never happened to me before. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Are you feeling better?”

“I . . .”

His voice faltered, and he took a massive inhale that must have been made up of more dust than air because he started coughing uncontrollably.

“Okay.”

Spencer stood up painfully and offered a hand to Ian. “I don’t think you should be driving right now, and I live close by. Do you want to go sit down? Maybe drink something?”

Ian looked up with wide, terrified eyes but took Spencer’s hand. “Please.”

Spencer locked up, and they left their cars in the driveway and walked toward his apartment. It had gotten dark since they’d been in the basement, and it was a bit chilly, but Spencer hoped that and the exercise would be grounding for Ian.

He unlocked the door to his apartment and led the way upstairs. “Would you mind leaving your shoes?”

Spencer kicked his boots off onto the shoe rack on the upper landing.

“Oh, no.”

It was the first thing Ian had said since they’d left the house.

Once they got inside, Norman lifted his head from his spot on the couch and, sensing a visitor, bounded over excitedly. “Shit.”

Spencer caught his collar. “Sorry, I forgot to ask if you’re okay with dogs.”

Ian was standing with his back pressed against the door, looking ashen, but he reached his hand down instinctively. “It’s fine.”

Spencer let go. “This is Norman.”

Norman was already licking Ian’s hand enthusiastically. “Like Rockwell?”

“What? Oh. Maybe? That was his name when I got him, and it just kind of fit.”

Norman was now basically sitting on Ian’s bare feet, trying to get as close as possible to have his head petted. “You’re welcome to have a seat.”

Spencer gestured to the couch.

Ian didn’t move. “I’m covered in dust.”

Spencer laughed. “That couch is at least fifty percent dog fur at this point. A little dust isn’t going to hurt anything. Though I’d be happy to wash your clothes and loan you something, if you’d prefer.”

Ian exhaled a long breath, looking relieved to find air readily available. “If you wouldn’t mind, I think that might help.”

“No problem.”

Spencer went over to his dresser and grabbed a T-shirt and the longest pair of flannel pants he had. “The washer is in the bathroom.”

He pointed to the only door in the apartment. “So once you’re done changing, feel free to get it started.”

Ian moved silently to the bathroom, and Spencer changed as quickly as possible into a new T-shirt and sweatpants so Ian wouldn’t accidentally catch him half naked. Norman had tried to follow Ian but was stuck out with Spencer when the pocket door slid closed, and he immediately started whining.

“Alright, bud, none of that.”

He’d already fed Norman before leaving that afternoon, but he went to an estate-sale cookie jar on the kitchen counter that he kept filled with dog treats.

Momentarily distracted, Norman went to lie on his bed, and Spencer heard the washer start before Ian came out of the bathroom. Ian was maybe six feet tall, and Spencer was definitely not. Their torsos were similar sizes, so the shirt fit him fine. But Spencer’s pants were comically short on him.

“Do you like tea?”

Ian seemed startled that Spencer was no longer in the living room, but then he said, “Yes, thanks,”

though his voice sounded far away.

“Peppermint? Chamomile? I might have some jasmine here somewhere.”

He rifled through his beverage cabinet. He also had a really nice genmaicha that he had to order online, but now didn’t seem like the right time to be getting into the intricacies of specialty tea blends.

“Peppermint is fine.”

Spencer turned on the kettle and got his supplies down, filling the tea infusers with leaves and dropping them in the mugs. When the kettle flicked off and everything was steeping, he was surprised to find Ian leaning over his desk.

“Did you draw all of these?”

Spencer looked at the pencil and charcoal portraits tacked to the wall. “Yeah. That’s—”

“Norman.”

Ian gently lifted his finger to one. At the sound of his name, Norman trotted over to Ian’s side.

Spencer shook his head and laughed. “Yeah.”

“Are these all people around town?”

“Some of them. Those are my parents and my sister, Jenny.”

He pointed at a cluster of drawings on the right. “They’re back in California.”

“You’re really talented.”

Ian turned toward him, eyes bright. It seemed that he was maybe feeling a little bit better.

“Thank you.”

No one but friends had seen his art in a long time, and while he wasn’t necessarily embarrassed about it, he felt oddly exposed.

A timer went off, and he headed back to the kitchen.

“What’s that?”

Ian had followed.

“Oh, my steeping timer. I’m kind of . . . intense about my beverages.”

Ian laughed, sharp and short but the first happy sound he’d made all night. “You’re kind of intense about your beverages, but your tea infusers are corgi butts?”

Spencer tossed them in the sink. “Jenny is addicted to kitschy housewares. Like, can’t pass up buying them. And when her kitchen gets too full, she sends the extras to me. Do you take anything in your tea?”

“You’d let me mar the tea like that?”

Ian was smiling now. Spencer wanted to hug him.

“I was trying to be accommodating.”

“I’ll take it the way you do, to have the full experience.”

Spencer handed him a mug and headed for the couch. They sat at opposite ends, knees up, facing each other. Norman jumped up between them, sitting on both of their feet. “So, you don’t have to tell me anything obviously, but you said none of your friends know about the house, and it seems like it might help to talk about it?”

He blew on his tea.

Ian sucked in a breath and looked down at his mug. Spencer assumed he was weighing whether he wanted to tell his personal business to a total stranger. “My parents inherited the house from my grandmother.”

Spencer waited silently, holding space for Ian to say whatever he needed to say. He suddenly wanted to touch him, but he reached down between his knees to pet Norman’s back instead, and Norman started licking Ian’s ankles.

Ian petted him absentmindedly behind his ears. “My mom grew up there, and it was always her dream to fix it up and live in it again. But, as you know, it needed a lot of money put into it. So she and my dad were sitting on it, saving up. And then . . . I guess three months ago now, they died in a car crash.”

“Fuck,”

Spencer said without thinking.

“The roads were icy, and the other driver was drunk. And the house passed to me. By the time I sold their house and collected their life insurance, I could afford to fix the place up, just like she wanted. But it also feels like blood money because I’d rather my parents were alive, even if that meant the house rotted.”

“Of course you do.”

It made sense now how ambivalent Ian had seemed about the whole renovation during the walk-through. Spencer wanted to offer him more comfort than some ill-fitting pajamas and a cup of tea, but he didn’t know what else to do. The silence stretched out between them as they drank their tea and petted Norman.

Ian took one last long sip and put his empty mug on the coffee table. “Thank you for everything you did back there. And here. You didn’t need to do any of that.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you hyperventilating on the ground. Cat doesn’t do bodies at her worksites.”

Ian tilted his head in question. “Cat?”

“My contractor. And your contractor, I guess.”

“Oh.”

Ian chuckled quietly. “I appreciate that you didn’t leave me to actually turn into a ghost down there.”

He pressed his lips together. His eyelids were starting to droop, and Spencer figured the day had taken a lot out of him. He couldn’t stand the thought of Ian driving back to Stockbridge alone with that photo of his family as his only company.

“I know this is kind of weird, but you’ve had a brutal day, and it’s going to be late by the time your clothes are dry and you get back to your car. You’re welcome to stay here if you’d like. I actually just changed my sheets this morning.”

Ian looked surprised but didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand like Spencer assumed any reasonable person would. “That would be nice, thanks. I can take the couch, though.”

“Jesus, I’m not making you sleep on the dog couch.”

Spencer nudged Norman off his feet and took the mugs to the sink, then went into the bathroom to put Ian’s clothes in the dryer. He came out to find Ian standing at the foot of the bed, staring.

“Would it make it even weirder if I asked you to lie with me? Just for a bit?”

It definitely would, but Spencer wasn’t wholly opposed to it. If they’d met under other circumstances, Ian might be sleeping in his bed that night for entirely different reasons. But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. “Pick a side.”

He turned the lights off and got into bed on the side Ian wasn’t on.

Ian was still sitting up, head tipped back against the headboard. Spencer couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed. “I know the basement isn’t actually haunted,”

he said into the dark. “Those were just the sounds of that ancient furnace and the stories my grandpa used to tell me when I was little. But the whole place is full of so many memories. And then you gave me that photo. And that last box . . . It was all mine. I used to spend summers with my grandparents when they were younger and able to keep up with me. It turns out they kept all my little arts and crafts projects and rocks I found behind the house that I thought were shaped like frogs.”

He inhaled sharply. “I’ve treated so many panic attacks in the ER. But I didn’t know it felt like that.”

Spencer took a breath, not exactly sure how to react, given that he had very platonically been asked to keep his client company in his own bed. “It sounds like it might help if you let your friends know so they can support you. That’s a lot to handle alone.”

He knew from experience that dealing with all your feelings by yourself never led anywhere good.

“I’m clearly not handling things as well as I thought. It would probably be a good idea to look into getting a therapist, too, if I’m breaking down in basements.”

Ian’s self-deprecating chuckle threatened to break Spencer’s heart.

“My therapist saves me from a breakdown at least once a month,”

he offered. Spencer did think Ian could probably benefit from a therapist, but that wasn’t really any of his business either way.

He felt Ian shifting beside him, so he slid down under the covers and rested his head on his pillow. He could hear Ian taking long, deep breaths as though he was still trying to calm himself down. Spencer reached over Ian and patted the bed on the other side of him. Norman hopped up and curled against Ian’s side with an exhausted huff. “This usually helps me.”

Ian rolled onto his side and curled his arm over Norman, sticking his nose in his fur. “I think it’s helping me, too.”

Spencer lay on his back, not wanting to overstep, and as soon as he heard Ian’s breathing even out, he promptly fell asleep.