Necessary Restorations (The Walsh Series) (A) (19 page)

We walked through each room, presenting the plans, photographing, noting things I missed the first time around. We debated techniques for two hours, and reveled in the freedom of a near-limitless budget.

The demolition would be quick, and by my estimate, we could start late next week. We were only looking at pulling up some linoleum in the kitchen, treating some lead paint issues, blowing out the god-awful green tiling in the bathrooms, replacing drywall in most rooms, and reconstructing the joists.

It was late when we wrapped up at the Turlan property, and considering I managed fewer than two hours of sleep last night, I wasn’t interested in going back to the office today. I wanted the hottest shower in the universe, kale and kabocha squash soup, and a nice blend of anxiety meds and sleeping pills to drown it all out for the night.

Full belly, empty head.

My phone vibrated with a text, and I dug it out of my pocket immediately. When I saw it was a message from Shannon reminding me that I owed her designs for a charity auction—some stupid shit where I drew up plans for an outrageously elaborate and expensive home, and though people always bid on the auction, they never went through with building the damn house—I nearly smashed it on the sidewalk.

I hadn’t heard from Tiel in three days, and it was the longest I’d ever gone without talking to her. Sure, we’d only been hanging out for a little more than two months, but we had a rhythm. We were friends, or something like that, and we talked at least once a day. Add to that her complete bastardization of the English language via texts, and I heard from her on the hour.

Now that I was captain of my own douche ship, she didn’t want anything to do with me. I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t what anyone would call decent, healthy, worthwhile. I didn’t care about people the same way Riley did, and I didn’t want to fix things for others the way Matt did. I stared at tits and asses, and I rejected a gorgeous, kindhearted woman without explanation, and the sidewalk panic attack was the cherry on top.

I didn’t deserve a nice girl.

We were inching through traffic when Riley turned to me and asked, “Where did you meet Gigi?”

That nickname was annoying but acknowledging that would only lead to its permanence. He was a stubborn brat like that. “At an event last year,” I said. “Some design magazine was sponsoring a spec house in Newburyport, I think, and she was there. We started talking about the sustainability features, and how they were completely wrong for the house. It looked cool in the magazine but it was ridiculous in practice.”

“And that’s when you decided she was going to have your babies?”

I choked out a laugh and glanced over at Riley. He looked completely serious. “No, not at all. She’s very nice, and I appreciate the way she thinks about preservation and landscape architecture. I like talking through design problems with her, and I’ve referred many clients to her, but . . . no.”

“Dude,” he sighed. “That was not what I saw.”

“What is it you think you saw?” I asked.

Riley shifted to face me but I kept my eyes on the road ahead. “First, she hugged the shit out of you.”

“That’s how she greets everyone,” I said.

“I didn’t get a hug,” he said. “Second, you two touch each other all the fucking time. Every time you opened your mouth, she was right there with her hand on your arm and all, ‘Oh yes, Sam, I
love
that idea! That
is
brilliant, Sam! Put your sperm inside me, Sam!’“

“That’s how she is.” He gave me an exaggerated look, and I said, “You can get out here. I’m sure you can walk home.”

“Let me remind you—she didn’t touch me once.” Riley plucked his water bottle from the cup holder. “I mean, she is hot in that ‘I’m the boss of your cock’ kind of way, and I can see how she’d find my dominant aura in conflict with that.”

I thought about Magnolia, and her bright smiles and shiny hair. She was one of my favorite thought partners, and could always be counted on for local industry gossip, but I wasn’t attracted to her.

Not at all.

These were the rare moments—the ones where I was forced to remind myself that not being attracted to one woman didn’t mean I wasn’t attracted to women in general—that resurrected my father’s words.

Abomination.

Filth.

Queer.

He started calling me gay before I finished kindergarten, and then I was too young to make sense of it. I only knew it was wrong in his eyes.

That
I
was wrong.

Shannon always told me to ignore him, but it was more difficult when kids at school started saying the same things. I was eight when I comprehended what everyone was saying to me, and it was overwhelming.

I believed I was gay for years. It wasn’t until I stayed after school to watch Matt’s track and field practice one day—it was a thin excuse to avoid riding the bus alone, which always led to someone kicking the shit out of me—that I understood I wasn’t.

Instead of lurking near Matt, I watched the cheerleading squad and found myself in the uncomfortable position of concealing a short-lived erection and the messy aftermath.

I spent years trying to determine whether it was possible to be gay and find women attractive. This was a major point of confusion and stress, and though I’d always thought I kept it well hidden, Matt took up the topic the day he left for college.

He was two years older but I’d skipped a grade, and was starting my senior year of high school. I wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible, and I would have been able to finish high school in three years if I hadn’t caught pneumonia and spent four weeks in the hospital the previous winter.

I was young for college, and in plenty of ways, I was immature, too, but anything would have been better than living with Angus.

We never talked about the kids who tormented me or the names they called me, but Matt knew that year would be difficult. He was aware I’d get my ass handed to me more times than I could count when he wasn’t around to intervene.

“Here’s what you need to do. You need to put on about thirty pounds of muscle and you need to start running. I know it’s hard with your asthma, but you can start slow. Take Riley with you. He needs to stay out of trouble, and if you let him believe he’s training you for a half marathon, he won’t have nearly as much time to smoke weed in the attic.”

I had been reading
The Count of Monte Cristo
for the ninth time—all twelve hundred pages of it—and set it on my bed. “Okay . . .”

“And then you need to get laid. In my opinion, you stare at tits too much to be gay, but I’m not about to tell you who you are. Fuck who you want to fuck—consenting adults only, please—and don’t apologize for it. Not to yourself, not to me, and definitely not to Angus.”

I did what he said, and though getting my ass into shape was one of the most physically grueling things I’d ever done, he was right. That wasn’t to say my graduating class suddenly became my best friends or stopped making jokes about me enjoying the boys’ locker room too much, but I found my confidence, and with it, I learned to stop giving a shit.

When I went to Cornell the following year, that confidence spawned a reinvention. I left all of the old Sam—the pale, skinny, sick kid who peed his pants during a fire drill in the first grade—behind, and tried on a new version of myself.

“Listen, maybe you aren’t into her,” Riley said as I pulled into the fire engine bay and came to a stop behind the old pickup I used for camping trips. “Whatever. But she’s into you, and she thinks it’s mutual.”

“Riley, you’re blowing this out of proportion,” I said. “She’s a friendly person. She’d invite you to her parents’ house for Sunday dinner if you asked. She’d offer you her extra ticket to next weekend’s Patriots game if she had one—she might, so speak up if you’re interested. She’s authentically nice, and it’s hard for us to recognize that because we’re a far cry from well-adjusted adults.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, dude,” he said.

We retreated to our separate corners of the firehouse, and I spent an hour on the treadmill in my basement gym. I hoped to burn off the sickly feeling that I’d been carrying since Tiel walked out on Friday night.

It didn’t work, and I was too irritable to wander around the house much longer.

My workshop held no appeal either, and after a shower, I headed to Alibi at The Liberty Hotel.

The converted jail was one of my favorite preservation projects of late. Not only was it the coolest fucking idea I’d ever heard—unfortunately, it hadn’t been my idea—but it was the best spot to see the most fascinating people.

Actresses in town shooting the latest movie, athletes showing off their championship swagger, bankers and CEOs who needed to talk about how much they’re worth, the few remaining old Boston socialites.

And me.

I didn’t have any Hollywood producers in my phone book, but I folded right in each time. It helped that I knew the architects who worked on The Liberty’s restoration and could speak fluently about the process of transforming it from a decommissioned jail to high-end hotel.

Everyone loved that shit.

I was self-aware enough to acknowledge that seeing and being seen offered a degree of validation that I craved. Any kid who was systematically relegated to humiliating daily taunts or dismissed by pretty girls would relish an evening spent chatting with the Celtics’ point guard.

To the best of my knowledge, none of the dickheads I knew from school enjoyed anything like this.

Mondays were slow nights, and I watched a group of guys who seemed to be reciting scenes from
Swingers
while I nursed my drink. Women approached, and some were bold enough to sit beside me and attempt a conversation. It should have been enough to pull me out of my head tonight, but it wasn’t.

My funk, my gorge, my black hole . . . whatever it was, I was falling further.

Most women moved on when I didn’t reciprocate their interest, but one didn’t get the hint. I could have excused myself; I did have an early meeting back at the Turlan property.

Instead, she rattled on about her work (ignored that part), her friends (bitches—all of them—but she’d find one for a threesome if I wanted), her Twitter followers (quite a few, apparently), and I just wanted her to shut the fuck up.

It got as far as letting her pull my cock out in the coat check room before my skin was crawling, and it wasn’t from an impending anxiety attack.

Isn’t that why you’re willing to accept quick, emotionless sex from women who expect nothing from you? Isn’t it your way of repossessing some youthful irresponsibility?

It was Tiel. I couldn’t stomach the idea of anyone else touching me.

Without a word, I zipped up and all but ran home.

Once my front door was closed behind me, I dropped to the ground and pulled out my phone. It wasn’t drunkenness or depression. The polished concrete just seemed like the best spot to hate myself.

I scrolled through my texts and missed calls, hoping I’d see something from Tiel. There was nothing, and though I didn’t know what time it was, it felt like the right time to call her. This needed fixing, and if she tore my beating heart out of my chest and sliced it like pastrami, at least I wouldn’t have to live with the regret of not trying.

I started thinking about how to explain what happened on Friday when I realized she was talking to me.

“Sam, I can hear you breathing. If this is a butt dial at one in the morning, I’m going to be epically pissed. You know I have studio time at six every Tuesday.”

“You’re fun,” I laughed. “You’re my Sunshine.”

“You’re drunk.”

Was I? No. Not as much as I should be. “Quite hardly,” I said. “You really are fun, Tiel. I enjoy your company.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When are we going out again?” I heard her yawn and glanced to my watch. It
was
after one in the morning. “We can go to another filthy music house if that’s what you want, but I think you’d like The Liberty. You’d find it adequately strange.”

“Sam,” she sighed. It was a long, elaborate sound, and it landed somewhere between annoyed and fire-breathing. “Do you remember Friday night?”

“I do,” I said slowly. “I think I might have been an asshole.”

Tiel laughed, and as it rang in my ear, I realized I was smiling.

“You were just being yourself, honey. Don’t beat yourself up about it,” she said.

“That was the sweetest insult I’ve ever heard,” I chuckled. “I’d take your abuse any day. But seriously, when are we going out next? I’m beginning to tolerate hillbilly music, but I’d listen to anything if it meant I could kiss you again.”

“Hillbilly music,” she repeated, her voice bubbling with laughter.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“How drunk are you?” she said.

I wasn’t acknowledging the drunk comment. I didn’t care if she thought alcohol was greasing the words. “I’m in a weird place right now, like a funk. It reminds me of the last time I was camping near the bottom of Quechee Gorge in Vermont except I’m stuck there, in the canyon. But when I’m with you, I don’t feel stuck.”

“Oh, Sam—”

“Don’t do that, Tiel. Yell at me for being a dick, give me shit for ordering cucumbers in my gin, but don’t talk to me like I’m a three-legged dog.” I slid farther down, pillowing an arm under my head as I stared at the ductwork on the ceiling. “I want to see you.”

“I don’t think that’s good for me,” she said.

“Come out with me on Friday,” I said. “I’m getting an award for something. We can do that, and then go wherever you want. I want to see you.”

“I don’t know, Sam. I want to see you too, but . . .”

“There’s nothing to deliberate,” I said. “I’m a lonely perv without you.”

She sighed, and I realized I should have gone after her. I should have followed her home and explained the web of crazy in my head, all of it, and if I had done that, I wouldn’t be sprawled on the cold concrete floor right now, alone.

“What’s the award for?” she asked.

“I built something and people liked it,” I said. “I’m pretty great like that.”

Tiel burst out laughing, and I let the sound unravel all my twisted misery. With each of her gasping breaths, I felt lighter, freer, and if it was possible, happier.