Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CLAY

I'm in Missouri, parked up on the edge of Ashley Park, where I lived most of the past ten years. I've spent the last couple of days driving around the region, checking out shops for rent and making lists of local crews. I've been dreaming of doing exactly this for years, but frustration roils through me, the joy sapped out of the dream.

My truck rumbles, and behind me, a lazy creek flows toward the woods. On the plains side of the Missouri River, everything is flat, and the trees and buildings are all familiar. Even the scent in the air pulls me back into memories.

And everywhere, I see reminders of the hard, cold reality. I'm alone, just like I've always been.

I've got no family in this town. I've been kicked aside by my old crew. I flat-out don't belong, just like I don't belong anywhere.

And no matter how much it hurts, missing Nicholas with every fiber of my being, I can't forget this truth.

He's not mine, and I'm not his. I'm alone, and Nicholas is going to move on and find the love he deserves.

I get out of my truck and walk toward the creek, cursing under my breath.

Hating the world.

This fucked up town never gave me anything. Why'd I even come back here? It's useless.

Everything is useless.

Living in Buffalo with Nicholas felt amazing, but that's not my life, either. Those happy people aren't my people. I'm like a sore thumb in the gayborhood.

I throw a rock into the water.

It occurs to me that I shouldn't curse out Ashley Park. When I think about it, there are good people in this town, too. There are gay people, like the high school principal and her wife, and the guy who owns the café. And there are people like Nicholas's parents, too. Genuine, sincere, nice people who keep themselves busy doing stuff for the community. Cleaning parks and organizing food drives.

My old neighbor Carla was like that. She's one of the only people who ever asked how I was doing, too.

So maybe it's not this town.

Maybe it's me. I sure as hell didn't try to get to know anyone.

That's part of what sucks so hard about losing Nicholas. Under normal circumstances, I'd never have even talked to him, let alone got on a first-name basis with everyone in his life. I'd definitely never earn a shot at Sue's crew, either.

Hurting hard and mad at myself for getting in this situation, I take off driving again. I've got no idea where I'm going, but as long as I'm moving, my thoughts can't catch up to me.

I want Nicholas to be mine. But I don't even know what that means.

He'd need things from me that I don't know how to give him. But all of his friends do know how to give him that affection and love.

He deserves someone who will make him swoon. Who will plan a big wedding with him and care about the tuxes.

I don't know how to be that.

It takes me until I turn up through Ohio that I realize I'm just driving back to Buffalo again. I stop off for another night in a cheap motel, where I torture myself and nearly call Nicholas about a hundred times.

I wake up the next morning, and slowly, an idea captures my attention. I go and find my grandpa's journal in my bag. It's one of the only things I brought with me when I fled Buffalo. Inside, I find the name of the town where Allen moved as well as his last name.

Curious, I type it all in a search engine and immediately get an address.

I put the phone down.

"Fuck it," I say.

Back in the truck, I find a radio station that plays that cheesy music Nicholas likes. I ruminate as the highway passes by, thinking about him.

So many people love him. And it's because he returns that love. He shines with it.

I'm lucky he turned that light on me for even a minute.

It's early evening by the time I arrive to the address, and I chuckle to myself as I roll to a stop. It really is in the middle of nowhere, like my grandpa complained about. But it's a gorgeous area, surrounded by miles and miles of old forests. Peaceful.

An old country house sits at the edge of the forest and a meadow. There's a big wooden fence around a spacious yard, like a fortress, and a cobblestone path that leads to the front door.

And everywhere, I spot flowering plants, from the shrubs and trees to the vines up the side of the house. Plants spill over the fence, line the drive, and frame the windows.

Hell. Nicholas would love this place. I even recognize a few flowers, I realize. The easy ones, the roses and sunflowers and stuff. But I wouldn't have known a couple of months ago.

I get out of the truck. I don't know what in the hell I think I'm doing. Allen might not even live here anymore. But I'm desperate enough that I'll look just about anywhere for an answer, and something brought me here.

After I knock sharply on the door, an old voice calls out from inside.

"Hold your horses, will you!"

I stick my hands in my pockets, and eventually, the door swings open. I see a short old man with pale skin, thick glasses, and tufts of gray hair sticking out the side of his head. In a tie-dye T-shirt and blue sweatpants, he peers up at me.

"Yes?"

I swallow. "Sorry to bother you. I'm looking for someone named Allen."

He pushes his glasses up, takes me in one more time, and knocks them back down. "I'm Allen. And if you aren't Randy's grandson, then I'll eat my shoe." He gestures quickly. "Come in!"

I blink, surprised.

Allen's house is like being inside a hobbit den, coziness clearly being the top priority. The old oak beams are exposed across the ceiling, and there seem to be knitted blankets draping every couch and comfy old armchair.

"I'm Clay," I tell him as I follow through the maze of the house. "You knew about me?"

"Clay! I can't say I ever expected to meet you. But after Randy passed, you crossed my mind."

"He left me the house."

Allen stops and turns to me in the middle of the kitchen. "I know. I might have left Buffalo, but I didn't sever every connection I have to the gossip mill. I'm not a puritan." He wiggles his nose. "Tea?"

I clear my throat. "Sure. Thanks."

As Allen goes to making the tea, I try to take everything in. He's not at all what I imagined from my grandpa's journals. I imagined some virile sex god, but Allen is gentle and fussy, kind of dorky, too.

He gestures to the counter. "Sit," he says. "And what brings you to our doorstep?"

I sit down. "I'm not sure. I'm about to leave Buffalo. I'm selling the building to this architect, Jacob," I venture, figuring he might know.

Allen turns from the tea kettle. "Jacob's a kind man," he says simply. "I'm glad the building is staying in good hands. You were saying?"

Swallowing, I decide to lay it all out there. "I've been reading a journal my grandpa kept. It was from when he broke up with you."

Allen hums. "Difficult times."

"Yeah. Sounds like it. You two weren't in touch after that?"

Probably easier that way. If I can't have Nicholas, I don't know how I could be his friend, watch him with other guys. It would kill me.

"We had a few moments. Phone calls, mainly. Lunch once when we were both in Toronto at the same time. But mostly, our lives went in different directions."

I nod. "Right. Life moves on."

Allen brings the tea over to the counter, where he pours us each a cup. "I suppose so."

"Thanks," I grunt as I take the warm mug.

"Why are you interested in our breakup, anyway? That was thirty years ago."

"Not sure," I answer. "I don't have much family. And I guess I'm just trying to figure something out about myself. Maybe trying to understand him, too." I rub my hand over my scratchy face, my beard growing out. "He chose to be alone," I say. "And I'm trying to better understand why."

Allen nods sympathetically. "Well, that's a different question. You see, in the case of our relationship, Randy might have fallen madly in love with me. And I fell in love with him, too. But the truth is we were never going to work out."

"Because you're not monogamous," I say. "And he is."

"That's just the start! I wanted to live in the country, and he wanted to live in the city. Randy was allergic to cats, and I love my cats. I'm a vegetarian, he ate meat for every meal. Our cleaning styles clash, our life goals conflict, and in general, we'd have been a disaster as a relationship."

I try to take that in. "Seriously? He didn't say any of that in his journal."

Allen laughs with a shrug. "We loved each other! And we wanted to make it work. But the polyamory did become the ultimate deal-breaker. Randy enjoyed being single, but if he was going to even consider a relationship, no way in hell he would share."

Another way my grandpa reminds me of myself, I realize.

I take a sip of the tea, sweet and light. "How'd it work out for you?" I ask.

"For me?" He gestures to the back of the house, talking delicately. "I'm happy. My husbands are busy in the gardens, and we made the home I wanted." He studies me and then shakes his head. "But Randy was one of the most important people in my life. That doesn't mean I forgot him."

I nod.

I'm glad to know that Allen is happy, even though it stirs something in me, something complicated and knotted up.

He moved on and found the life he wanted. It's my job to let Nicholas do the same. We're opposites in so many ways, just like Randy and Allen were.

Allen drums his fingers on the table. "How about you?" he asks. "Anyone special in your life, Clay?"

"I'm not sure," I answer. "There's a guy in Buffalo. But I'm leaving town. I guess it's like your situation with my grandpa."

"You don't want the same things. That's tough."

I consider it. What I want is a good job, work I can be proud of, a home of my own.

All things that Nicholas wants, too.

"It's not that we want different things, exactly," I say. "But I've been hurt and kicked aside enough in my life. I'm like Randy was, I guess."

Allen frowns. "And how, exactly, was Randy?"

"He wasn't meant for something like you have," I try. "He needed to be alone, and you needed to have your life."

Allen shakes his head. "You keep saying that Randy was a loner, but I don't see it that way. And he was no martyr, either, suffering alone so I could be happy. We can all be happy, and he chose his single life just like I chose this one. He chose a life filled with friends and casual sex and a busy gayborhood around him. Meanwhile, you're so hung up on whether you're good enough for your guy, you're forgetting to ask yourself a very important question."

"What question is that?"

"Whether you want what he has to offer."

Immediately, I answer. "He's right for me. Couldn't be anyone more right for me than Nicholas."

"Then stop making decisions on his behalf," Allen says. "Even Randy worked up the gumption to tell me how he feels. And I'll tell you, there's no way you're more reluctant to share your feelings than that old grump was."

Something unlocks in my brain.

My ribs expand, and my perspective shifts.

This isn't inevitable. This is a choice.

I'm not destined to be alone.

And I'm not guaranteed a relationship with Nicholas, either.

But I know what I want. I want him, and the life we could make together.

I love him.

And if I don't find a way to fix this soon, I'm going to lose him.

The door to the back opens up, and two men come strolling in, each with baskets full of cut flowers. They're both about Allen's age, each with curly gray hair, a shorter, pale guy in suspenders and a taller, bulkier guy with a scruffy red beard. I quickly get to my feet, but I'm lost in the commotion of all three men talking at once.

"Seriously! Three baskets today?" Allen asks, exasperated. "What am I going to do with three more baskets?"

"You're lucky there aren't four!" the short guy says. "The way our husband was going at the peonies. It was the Barber of Seville out there." He turns to me with a smile. "Hello. I'm Mack. Who are you?"

I clear my throat. "I'm Clay."

Before I can say more, the other man drops a basket of flowers on the counter. "Complain all you want. I need the space to help the dwarf azalea establish. We can make bouquets for the retirement home. They'll always accept them." He slaps me on the back suddenly, and I notice the tattoos up his arm. "I'm Nathan. What are you doing here, Clay?"

"My grandfather was Randy Dixon," I say.

Before I can say more, both men light up. "How about that!" Mack says, and this time, Nathan hugs me.

"Great to meet ya."

"Clay had some questions for me," Allen says. "I'm answering the best I can."

"I got exactly what I came for," I tell him. "Thank you."

"You know what you're going to do with your man?" Allen asks.

Nathan's deep voice rolls out. "Now that sounds juicy."

I rub the back of my head. "Yeah. I'm going to go tell him that I love him."

It almost makes me puke to say it, but the second I hear my own words, I know there's no other choice.

All three men cheer, and I can't help but laugh as I rub the back of my head, embarrassed.

"This is the kind of news we like to celebrate," Mack says. He grabs a whiskey bottle from a shelf, but hesitates. "Are you staying a while? Or do you have to drive?"

Feeling like I've already imposed on their hospitality, I try to decline. "I should get out of your way," I say. "But hey. Did I hear you right? Do you have too many flowers?"

Allen rolls his eyes. "It's like I'm living in a perpetual state of poetic irony. I've always loved flowers. I even used to leave bouquets for Randy, back in the city. I think it's one of the reasons he started to fall for me in the first place. After marrying two gorgeous men who love growing me flowers, I'm now drowning in them."

"It's good for the plants to cut the flowers back," Mack explains.

"We donate as many as we can," Nathan adds. "But processing them and distributing is a job."

"And part of the fun!" Mack concludes brightly.

Allen laughs and pulls a bouquet close, deeply inhaling the scent. His eyes roll back slightly, and his husbands watch adoringly.

He blinks a few times and pushes the bouquet back. "I'm spoiled rotten," he says. "You should at least stay long enough for a garden tour."

"And dinner," Nathan adds.

I shove my hands in my pockets.

I'm so used to being alone. I'm accustomed to everything going wrong. No one ever showing up for me. No one caring.

But maybe it doesn't have to always be that way.

Maybe I can choose to care.

Maybe I can be the man that Nicholas deserves.

"Okay. Sure," I say. "But about those flowers. I might be able to help you out."