13. Bryson

Texts from Jake:

Didyou volunteer me 2 hang out with Smitty and high school kids? No thanks!

He's the worst.

I'm not doing it.

K, fine. But only cuz he sucks and I can probably help. I accept payment in extra pancakes.

"I've gota funny question for you."

JC shot his signature single raised-brow look my way and continued slicing bread into cubes on the butcher block island in the kitchen. It was a sliver of space visible from the counter at certain angles and only when the diner wasn't particularly busy—like at three p.m. on a Thursday.

"Funny…I will laugh, or funny peculiar?" JC asked, his broad Quebecois accent lilting with humor.

I inhaled deeply and glanced around the empty counter. God, this was awkward.

"I called for a reservation at C'est Bon, and they were completely booked Saturday night. Is there any chance there might be a free table earlier in the evening? At say…five o'clock?"

JC's lips twitched. "This sounds more like a favor than a funny question."

"Is that a yes or a no?" I deadpanned.

"Oui, I will reserve a table for you. Is this a special occasion? Is Jake home early? No…Syracuse is playing Boston tonight."

"He'll be home next week for a couple of days, which is great because the season is about to start and he'll be busy. I'll be at the opening game for sure, but they have quite a few away games early on and—" I snapped my mouth shut, horrified by my uncharacteristic rambling.

No doubt JC was wondering what the hell had gotten into me.

Yep.

He set his knife down and ambled to the counter, his sharp eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You have a date."

"No, I don't."

"Ah, you are lying." JC pointed at me. "Your ears are turning pink. That's cute. Tell me everything, and don't worry, I won't get jealous. I am a happily married man."

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, well, good for you."

"Who is he?"

"Smitty. But it's not what you're thinking at all," I added hastily.

He arched a brow as he folded his arms over his barrel chest. "Oh?"

"No, I'm—he's…interested in buying property," I lied.

"In Pinecrest? Why? It's a very snobby town and expensive too."

"You own a restaurant there."

JC huffed. "That's called good business. Living there? No, thanks. I'll talk Smitty out of it and?—"

"No, that's not—he's not interested in Pinecrest, but options are good. I showed him the Rinaldis' house on Spruce too. He likes fixer-uppers."

Okay, I was a lying liar who ate lies for breakfast and reheated them at lunch. I had no shame and no chill. However, in this case, it was only a mini lie. Or so I told myself. I had shown Smitty the Rinaldis' house, and he had said he liked fixing things. God knew he was good with his hands.

"Ah, so you're buttering him for a sale. Is that the saying?"

"Close enough."

"That is good business too. I'll take care of zee reservation for you." JC patted my shoulder and returned to his chopping while I stewed over a cup of coffee I didn't want and the heavy weight of silly lies to keep me company.

Why did this feel so…complicated?

Smitty. That's why.

He might look like a larger than average, good-natured athlete, but Smitty was no ordinary guy. Sure, he was gregarious, playful, and rambunctious, but he was also thoughtful, generous, and almost selflessly kind.

I was having a hard time affixing a label to us that made sense in my mind. Every time I convinced myself I was having a simple albeit potentially Elmwood-newsworthy romantic tryst with my handsome neighbor, he'd say or do something that made me like him just a little bit more than I wanted to.

That little bit was growing by the day at an alarming pace.

It was the small gestures that got me. Like that fact that he didn't seem to mind getting trapped into lengthy conversations with loquacious octogenarians.

I'd spotted him in deep conversation with Dale in front of his mailbox almost every day this week and chatting with Crabby Annie at the bakery or in front of the fountain. Dale was his neighbor, and Smitty would never be rude…even if it meant listening to the same stories or reminiscence of people who'd been dead for years. But Annie was another story. He sought her out.

Smitty had made an effort to get to know her in his quest to draw Denny out of his shell. He encouraged her to come to the Hawks' scrimmages and even talked her into bringing maple cookies from the bakery for the boys after practice one day.

He'd chuckled when he'd relayed her crusty put-upon response.

"Cookies? What's next…a trophy that says everyone's a winner and no one gets left out? What a bunch a hooey. In my day, you won some, you lost some. It's called life," she'd grumbled. "Suck it up."

I'd tried to give Smitty some advice on how to handle the irascible old lady, but he'd just laughed and assured me he was a pro at dealing with cranksters.

"No worries. I've got years' worth of experience on this one. Dealing with cranky coaches, parents, and teammates was just another day ending in Y for me when I was a kid. I got this."

Apparently he did, 'cause not only did Annie bring enough cookies to feed an army, she also talked the Hendersons into sponsoring the new hockey booster club. That was awesome, but the best part, according to Smitty, was that she was getting to know Denny's teammates. Her habit of cheering or yelling semi-helpful words of encouragement had made her a mini celeb amongst the teens, who got a kick out of the old broad.

I loved that, but I was also a little…jealous.

I hadn't been to a single scrimmage, I didn't know the team's dynamic—how they played together, what their strengths or weaknesses were. I only knew what Smitty reported. I was a good listener, but the truth was that I'd erected an invisible line between my life in Elmwood and Smitty's.

To the outside observer, nothing had changed for me over the past two months. I sold real estate, volunteered in town, and…not much else. In reality, I led a double life.

I spent my evenings at Smitty's. We made dinner, watched preseason hockey and baseball, played foosball and video games, and we had a lot of sex. We talked a lot, too. I felt like I knew him better than people I'd been friends with for years. I knew he had a soft spot for The Office, hated mushrooms and capers, and that he loved to fix things around the house. He'd regrouted tiles and rehung the cabinet doors in the rental's bathrooms, and repaired loose shingles on Dale's roof.

But he didn't know much about me. I mean, yes…I shared tidbits from my day and reciprocated basic likes and dislikes, but…I never really let him in.

For example, Smitty had never slept in my bed. He'd actually only been inside my house once, and that was to fix a leaky faucet in a guest bathroom. He'd been outraged at the idea that I'd call a plumber when he was practically an expert.

"My dad was a plumber. I was born with a wrench in my hand and skates on my feet. Don't fuckin' piss me off, Bry."

I'd politely offered him a drink afterward and had answered a hundred questions about the copious family photos of Jake and assorted friends on the walls in my great room, but he must have sensed I was uncomfortable. We ate at his house that night, and he hadn't been back since.

That was on me. I stiff-armed him like a tight end pushing away the defense to gain a few precious yards closer to the end zone. It was my mad specialty. I protected my world at all costs. Sure, I'd dated occasionally in the past, but none of those men had entered my home or met my son. Even JC hadn't known Jake until we'd agreed that we were better off as friends than fuck-buddies, and that was ancient history.

But something about Smitty was different and I couldn't help but feel that by keeping him to myself, I was missing out. There were people in Elmwood who potentially knew him better than me and I didn't like that idea at all. Besides, he wasn't an out bisexual man. He wasn't going to want to hold my hand or kiss me on Main Street, for fuck's sake. We were friends, though, and I could certainly act like it in public.

So, I decided it was time to put it all out there and attend the Saturday afternoon scrimmage between the Penguins and the Hawks. I figured we could go from the game straight to Pinecrest and not waste any time. That was what I told Smitty anyway. If anyone in town asked why I was there…well, I hadn't gotten that far, but I'd think of something.

Of course,no one cared.

The stands were half-full, but the parents and fans in attendance screamed their lungs out as if the Stanley Cup were on the line. Their focus was locked on the boys hacking at the ice in an inexpert attempt to score. And unfortunately, the Hawks weren't doing so well.

"Come on, Adam! You've got this!" Tracy yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth as she jumped like a circus performer on a pogo stick. And when Adam let in the eighth goal of the game, she added, "It's okay. You'll get the next one."

Not that it would have mattered. With a minute to go in the third period, the Hawks were down two to eight. Both goals belonged to Denny Mellon and after each one, his grandmother smacked the plexiglass and blew an obnoxious horn that the ref had threatened to confiscate. I was fairly certain she told him to kiss her ass, but my ears were ringing at that point.

I blocked out the excess noise and concentrated on Smitty. I couldn't hear him, but I had a good view of the coach's bench, and I was impressed at his even-tempered fa?ade. I knew he had to be frustrated with the countless missed passes and wonky shots on goal that never had a chance of landing, but he kept his cool. His body language spoke volumes—shoulders back, arms open, and constant nods of encouragement. He was there to teach, and he understood this group was a work in progress.

"Gonna be a long season for the Hawks," someone two rows ahead of me griped.

"Cool it with the doomsday BS, Ned," Annie replied. "No one likes a sore loser…or a booger-picker."

Tracy caught my eye and snickered, then tugged me through the crowd toward the exit and craned her neck. "Is Jake with you?"

"No, he'll be here next week and he's going to help with the boys' practice. I, uh…thought I'd swing by and give him a report," I lied. So much for keeping it real.

"Oh, smart! The boys are going to love having another pro on the ice."

I typed a quick text for Smitty to meet me in the parking lot and braced myself for a post-truth bomb reaction, blurting, "Actually, I'm here because I wanted to see the team and…I offered to show Smitty around Pinecrest."

Tracy furrowed her brow. "Pinecrest? I heard he was interested in buying something, but I thought he wanted to look at the Rinaldis' house again. I meant to ask you about that yesterday, but—oh, shoot! Gotta run. Mike and Adam are waiting for me at the car. I'll see you Monday, Boss!"

Huh. So, I'd basically canceled out my truth bomb with a previous lie.

I was turning into a real asshole.

"This one looks fine."

I studied the nondescript rectangular coffee table and shook my head. "No, it's too boring."

Smitty snorted, gamely following me to the next vignette at Pinecrest's premiere home and furniture boutique. "It's a coffee table, Bry. It serves two functions—a footrest and a place to leave dishes…and the remote control. Anything is fine."

"Yeah, right," I huffed. "Somehow I doubt the guy who couldn't live with yellow walls and had lots of opinions about the sectional he special ordered doesn't care about the coffee table that will go in the same room."

Smitty darted his gaze around the store and leaned in close. "Places like this intimidate the fuck out of me. It smells like a perfume factory and everyone is smiling…but their eyes are dead. Like they're zombies. Is this a Pinecrest thing or a bougie thing? I don't do well with hot cotchure."

I burst into laughter. "Haute couture?"

"Sure, whatever."

I brushed my hand against his in a show of solidarity, then linked our pinkies for a brief moment and pointed at a handsome dark-wood coffee table with a wide base. "What about that one?"

Smitty shrugged. "Looks nice."

"I think so too." I clandestinely checked the tag. "Yikes. It's pricey. Let's keep looking."

"Do they have a coffee table with cupholders?"

"Absolutely not, and why would anyone want a cupholder in a coffee table?"

Smitty widened his eyes comically. "Are you kidding me? Why would anyone not want a safe place to plop a cup? You never have to worry about spilling a drink or knocking it over, and you wouldn't have to fumble for it when you're watching a game, 'cause your cup is right where you left it."

"Okay, that's a whole lot of nonsense. And thankfully, a moot point." I glanced at our surroundings as if to be sure that was true and noticed the salesperson watching us from the register. I couldn't remember her name off the top of my head, but I was pretty sure I'd sold her and her partner a house two years ago. I lowered my voice and added, "They don't have such a thing, but even if they did, I'd stop you from buying it."

"How? I'm bigger than you. And I'm fast. I could whip out my credit card in a flash and shove this fucker into my truck before you could say ‘No, bad table!'"

I threw my head back and laughed. "I would never?—"

"Bryson?"

My heart hammered in my chest as I turned, sobering immediately at the sight of the elegant blond dressed in casual designer wear. "Piper. I…hi. I thought you were in Argentina or on a cruise."

My ex-wife pushed a strand of her long hair over her shoulder, nearly blinding us with the glare from the five-carat diamond rock on her left hand. Piper liked the finer things in life and had been sure to marry into money—twice. Not that she was a gold-digger. She was just…fiscally ambitious. But she was also a good person, a dear friend, and a wonderful mother to our son.

And I was the idiot gaping at her as I tried to figure out how to explain Smitty while simultaneously wondering if that was necessary.

"We got home yesterday. Jake told me he'd be home next weekend, and I wanted to see him before his season begins and life gets crazy for him," she said, offering a bejeweled hand to Smitty. "I'm Piper, by the way."

"Nice to meet you. Smitty Paluchek."

"Oh, I know who you are." Piper beamed. "Congrats on your retirement, and welcome to the area. I couldn't believe it when I heard you were here to stay."

"Thanks. I like Elmwood. It's been great so far."

"Don't tell anyone I said so, but Pinecrest is very nice too." She winked and squeezed my arm meaningfully. "Be sure to show him that house on Chester Road, Bryson. And call me later. We should catch up."

With that, she was gone, sailing out of the store in a haze of Chanel No. 5. I opened my mouth just as the salesperson approached us.

"Hello, Mr. Milligan. It's good to see you again. And welcome, Mr. Paluchek. We've heard a lot about you in town. I'm Tina. Let me know if I can help you with anything."

"Thank you and yes…I like this coffee table. Any chance it comes with cupholders?"

Fifteen minuteslater I was still chuckling over the look of utter horror Tina hadn't quite been able to cover at the cupholder request. It was better than freaking out about running into my ex-wife. It hadn't gone badly by any means, but if I knew Piper, she'd have lots of nosy questions I wouldn't know how to answer. I could practically hear the amusement laced with concern.

Bry, you know he's straight, right? What are you doing? He's much younger than you. Be careful. Be smart.

Nope. I didn't want to go there. It was better to stay in the moment, sipping Sauvignon Blanc at a table for two at C'est Bon, Pinecrest's finest eatery. French music set the mood in the contemporary space with its exposed ceiling ducts and modern chandeliers.

We sat in the corner near a window overlooking a small garden, perusing the menu, my shin resting against Smitty's.

I liked this bubble. I felt safe here, lulled by Edith Piaf, good wine, and a handsome companion who wore his newfound celebrity with grace and humor.

"You traumatized poor Tina," I chided.

"Nah, I just gave her something to talk about. I think I'll have the tenderloin. Want to share some appetizers? The crab cakes look good and the coconut shrimp and?—"

"Are you sure you can eat all that?" I raised my glass to my lips and almost spit my wine at his deadpan stare.

Smitty's lips twisted as if he were hiding a smile. "I'm not even gonna answer that one."

A waiter came by the table to take our orders and promised to send bread. We thanked him and gazed at each other, smiling like idiots. God, I felt like a teenager.

"You were pretty amazing today. At the game," I clarified, gnawing my bottom lip.

"Were we at the same game? You know we got murdalized, right?"

"Yes, but you handled it well. You're a very good coach." I grinned as I leaned forward. "Wait. Are you blushing? Oh, wow…that's really cute. And sexy."

Smitty rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not fucking blushing. I don't blush. It's probably the lighting."

"My bad, but I'm serious. You're patient, and you teach. Screamy coaches are the worst. Maybe that's an effective method of learning for some, but I don't like a lot of yelling."

"Hmph. At my house, that was just how we talked. You didn't ask someone to pass the pepper at dinner, you yelled it." Smitty cupped his hands over his mouth and whisper-yelled, "Pass the fuckin' pepper!"

I chuckled. "Seriously?"

He shook his head and snickered. "The Palucheks weren't your average family. We didn't sit at a dinner table and talk about our respective days. We scrounged for whatever was in the fridge, and if we happened to be in the kitchen at the same time…cool. If not, also cool. Maybe even better."

"Same. I split time between my parents' houses, and neither of them bothered with so-called traditions. I ate alone a lot."

"Poor baby."

"It gets worse," I confided. "My mom had a huge kitchen all decked out with roosters. They were everywhere…on the walls, curtains, dish towels. To this day, I don't like roosters."

"Shit. I'd better cancel the rooster cookie jar I bought you online."

"Don't even joke about it. Imagine being surrounded by rooster eyes in dead silence every morning while choking down a bowl of Cheerios." I shivered theatrically. "I still have nightmares."

"I feel that way about Furbys. Remember those weird little fuckers? It was like an ‘owl had sex with a mini troll'-looking thing. Ugh. They creeped me out. My mom decided my brother and I should collect them when I was a kid. Like what the actual fuck was I gonna do with a closet full of Furbys?"

I snorted with laughter and immediately fell into that easy familiar rhythm with this sweet, funny, sexy man who gave me butterflies and made my heart skip a beat. This was us in his basement, in his kitchen, in his bed, on his sofa with our legs tangled…snickering at our younger selves, sharing pieces of our lives with no judgment, no expectation.

We talked through course after course, happy in our little insulated corner. It took everything in me not to reach across the table to touch him…his fingers, his hand, his forearm. I felt giddy with a bone-deep contentment I wasn't sure I deserved. I wondered if it was the same for him.

So yes, of course I had to ruin it.

"I'll take that." I grabbed the bill the server left on the table and pulled out my wallet.

"Put it away. And don't argue," Smitty insisted. "This is a date, remember?"

"Yeah, but I asked you out."

"No, it was my idea and it was a good one."

I waited till we were alone to blurt, "I lied about us…to JC and Tracy. I told them you were interested in buying property so we had an alibi in case anyone got curious. I should have mentioned it earlier. I didn't want you to get blindsided, and it was the only logical excuse I could think of for us to be in the same place on purpose. Which was why the salesperson and my ex-wife both made that assumption. And it was probably very awkward for you to meet Piper like that?—"

"Not for me. I was curious about her. But I don't get the impression you're hung up on your ex or?—"

"Good Lord, no! No. We're friends."

He shrugged. "That's nice. So…I met your friend."

"Who thinks I'm selling you a house and also probably thinks I have a crush on you. Along with everyone else in this restaurant."

"Who cares what they think?" he scoffed. "We don't have to confirm or deny anything. We don't owe anyone an explanation. No one."

He was right. We didn't.

"I still lied."

"That was a baby lie. Barely counts." Smitty scribbled his signature and stood. "But we can make it true. Let's take a walk and check out the houses in Pinecrest."

Pinecrest was Elmwood's posher,more sophisticated older sister. The awnings matched on their main street, the windows were spotless, and their fountain didn't just trickle…it cascaded over a statue of two figures holding pinecones. And the homes were stately and well-maintained. Not one stinker in the bunch.

A house like the Rinaldis' would never have been tolerated in Pinecrest. A preservation society would have taken over while Mrs. Rinaldi was still alive and kicked her to the curb if necessary. Okay, maybe not, but they had stringent codes and they were sticklers about uniformity. I sold a lot of real estate in all four towns in the Four Forest area, and I knew for a fact that it cost a pretty penny to live in Pinecrest.

I led Smitty down Lakeview Avenue, pointing out the mayor's two-story colonial and the palatial waterfront estate that belonged to a B-movie actress from the fifties. We strolled along an empty stretch of boardwalk beyond a park filled with pines, and stopped at the edge of a low cliff to stare at the sky full of stars.

"This is the crest," I explained, widening my arms with a flourish. "The towns were named for their specific features. In this case, pine trees and this little jut of rocks on the water. Funny, isn't it? There's a copse of elms near Carlton Creek, so…Elmwood. In Wood Hollow there's a variety of tree that has a hollowlike opening at the trunk and Fallbrook is where the only waterfall in the area spills into the brook."

"I love it. This is beautiful. I've never seen this many stars at once." Smitty shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his chin skyward. "I can see why you stayed here."

"I stayed because it's safe," I admitted. "Very low crime and drug use. I needed that for myself as much as my son. At least I did when I first moved here."

"Hmm. If I haven't mentioned it today, I want you to know I think you're a very cool human."

I smiled and stepped closer. "Thank you. So are you."

"No, I'm ordinary. I'm…thin ice."

"What does that mean?"

"I've always equated life and people to ice. Rough, smooth, frosty, thick…solid." Smitty gave a bashful shrug and glided his hand in front of him as if skimming water. "If this whole lake froze in winter, only ten to fifteen percent would be solid enough to skate on. The rest would be too thin. It's the majority, the masses, the normal, nothing special crowd that makes up most of the planet. We take the easy way out, we look for loopholes and make deals with the devil. We have talent, but we don't always test it."

"O-kay…"

"I guess I'm trying to say, I know I'm part of the problem here. I don't blame you for being wary of me, Bry. I would be too. I talk a big game, but the fact is…I'm not out. I hate that you have to lie to explain me."

I linked our pinky fingers and swallowed hard. "Even if you were out, I'm not sure I'd know how this works—dating and being…together. It's been so long and I'm so?—"

"Shh." Smitty cupped my chin and brushed his thumb over my bottom lip. "No need to explain. I get it. This makes me nervous too."

The raw honesty in his voice cracked at the hard shell I'd shielded my heart with for years. And in the smallest fissure, I felt something pull at me, shifting and rearranging spaces inside me I'd thought had been dead and buried. A tiny ray of light and hope broke through the barrier, and I just didn't have it in me to fight it.

I slanted my mouth over Smitty's and kissed him as if my life depended on it.

When we finally paused, panting for air, I linked our fingers and inclined my head. "Come to my house. Stay with me tonight. All night."