by Wade Lake
Nearly every wall of the house needs fresh paint. Interior and exterior. Choosing colors is going to be a challenge. And it's going to require some compromise.
Chase eventually sets down his phone and picks up his paperback.
Just after 11:00, Mack's phone rings.
Turns out to be an emergency plumbing job.
Pays double, and they need the money, so Mack agrees to take the job.
A minute later, Chase's phone rings—the neighbors have an electrical question. He tries to answer it over the phone, but that doesn't work. He sets down the paperback, halfway through now, and strolls across the street to help.
The day is far along into afternoon when Mack and Chase return home—Mack first, then Chase fifteen minutes later. It's now too late to see a movie. Too late to improvise a picnic in the park. They agree that going out to a bar or restaurant with live music requires more energy than either has in the tank. Maybe their evening would be better spent unpacking the rest of the boxes. There's only a few left. Non-essential stuff. But they still need to eat. Chase suggests they unpack his old record player and order a pizza with everything—literally every topping available. They’ve already blown their food budget, but Mack loves that idea.
It only takes ten minutes to set up the record player—a classic 3-speed turntable with built-in speakers. All their vinyl records are cheesy pop classics from second-hand stores. Unpacking them is hilarious. Each one prompts a story.
When the pizza arrives, it weighs a ton. Mack fetches a full roll of paper towels, and they sit on the new floor to eat it. It's messy. And delicious. And they laugh at each other spilling toppings as they carefully lift the ridiculously thick slices to their mouths.
It's hands-down the best evening Mack has had in the new house. He eats until his belly hurts then lays his head on Chase's lap. Both men close their eyes. Chase pets Mack's head.
It feels wonderful. Mack can feel Chase's cock against the back of his head. It's semi-hard, and that makes Mack semi-hard. He considers initiating a blowjob, but he's too full to fuck … so he just enjoys the warmth, the shape—the girth exaggerated by the thick denim—and his own contentment exaggerated by the sound of Chase's easy breathing. After several minutes, Mack asks, "Are you happy?"
When Chase doesn't answer, Mack begins to wonder if he heard the question. He's about to let it go, when Chase whispers, "Very much. But I worry that you're not."
Mack raises his head. "Why would you think I'm not happy?"
Chase shrugs … gently presses Mack's head back onto his lap. "Lately … since we got the house … before that maybe … you seem, sometimes seem to be, I don't know, nervous?"
"Nervous?" Mack asks.
Chase slides his hand to the side of Mack's face, continues petting. "Sometimes you remind me of a dog who's afraid of thunder."
Mack closes his eyes. "Strange thing to say—fairly accurate, though," he adds through a chuckle.
"Like there's a storm blowing in, and you see the lightning flash, and know there's a thunderclap comin' and you're all tensed up, just tryin' to be ready for it."
"I'm always ready for it," Mack brags.
"You don't have to be," Chase says, no hesitation. "That's why I'm here. I'll sit here and hold you through the thunder. I'll protect you from … whatever you need protecting from." He pauses before adding, "I know you don't believe that—"
"I do."
"You don't," Chase says with certainty, "but that's okay. I'm here for you whether you believe I am or not."
There's a long silence. Mack begins counting the seconds … he wants to say something just to fill the void but doesn't have a clue what to say. Should he ask him why they no longer make love? Should he tell him about the voice in the pipes? Every thought in his head feels trivial when set alongside Chase's promise. So he continues counting the seconds … imagining the thunderclap.
12
The Monday, they're back in their routine. Work from 6 to 6, followed by home improvements all evening. The pattern holds all week: They move the bed back into the bedroom, into the same spot with the headboard blocking the bottom of the window. Chase fixes the air conditioning unit in the living room and installs a ceiling fan in the bedroom directly above the bed. Mack pulls out the toilet and vanity in the bathroom. Chase wants double sinks. There isn't room for double sinks, but Mack finds an extra-large basin that can accommodate two people brushing their teeth at once. Chase is pleased. That makes Mack happy. He likes bumping shoulders with Chase while they shave in front of the same mirror.
Chase wants to replace the tub-shower combo with an over-sized custom shower. With subway tile. And a rainfall showerhead. Mack knows that isn't practical in such a small bathroom, but he draws up plans to make it happen.
They choose paint colors together.
They agree on Vanilla Eggshell for the kitchen. Scarlet Dust for the living room. Cotton Gray for the exterior, Union Blue for the trim and shutters. Sundried Tomato for the front door.
For the bedroom … they can't decide.
Chase wants something with yellow: "Not fast-food yellow," he explains, "yellow like egg yolks."
Mack doesn't see a difference. He's not a fan of fast food or eggs. He'll eat either in a pinch, but in his mind, both smell like dirty socks. Colors and smells are somehow linked in his head; ergo, he's not a fan of yellow in any shade or scent. "Can we sleep on it?" he asks, and Chase shrugs.
A week and a half later, they still haven't decided on a color.
They haven't even discussed it. Mack is more concerned that the refrigerator keeps refilling with Widower George's uniquely foul-smelling eggs. It's like some kind of prank. No matter how many times he throws them out, they keep reappearing. Chase is more concerned that Mack hasn't begun work on the new shower. The hardware isn't ordered, the subway tile isn't ordered, the fog-proof door isn't ordered. A modern shower is the one upgrade Chase says he wants most of all. What Mack doesn't say is that the new shower will require new pipes. He can’t start one project without the other. In truth, much of the plumbing throughout the entire house needs replaced. They both knew that before they bought the place. It's going to be a huge job. Mack can handle it, but … for some reason, he doesn't feel comfortable opening that can of worms. Not yet.
It's weighing on his mind when he climbs into bed and snuggles close to Chase.
Chase quickly reaches for his paperback on the nightstand.
Mack takes the hint and slides over to his own side of the bed.
Chase opens the book and adjusts his glass.
Mack can see that Chase is nearing the last chapter.
This could get awkward.
Mack retreats to the shower.
When the water is running, he steps under the spray. Eyes closed, he reaches up and grips the showerhead's scaly neck … strokes it with his thumb.
"He's going to replace you, too." The pipes tell him.
✽✽✽
Mack steps out of the shower and dries himself with the nearest towel. The creamy rub of the terrycloth gives him a chubby. Everything gives him a chubby lately. He spends a little extra time in front of the mirror, practicing his apology. He's actually just postponing the inevitable. He's feeling guilty about sabotaging Chase's paperback and isn't sure he wants to be in the same room when Chase figures it out.
As Mack steps into the bedroom, Chase looks up from his book and beams Mack with a severe eyes-over-the-glasses stare. The motion stops Mack in his tracks.
"Everything alright?" Mack asks.
"I wanted to ask you about something."
"Sure." Mack steps to the chest of drawers. His phone is there on its charger, and Mack pretends to be concerned with checking the connection.
"I want to invite our neighbors, Jim and Jeremy, over for dinner."
Shit, that’s a worse topic than the one Mack was expecting.
“What do you think?” Chase asks.
"Let's not," Mack says casually. He picks up his ph
one and pretends to check his messages. "The older one will criticize our paint colors, and his boy will just nod mechanically like a ventriloquist's dummy."
Chase pats the mattress. "Come here. Let's talk about it."
"Let's not," Mack says without looking at him.
Chase's voice lowers. "Mack, come here. Sit down." He pats the mattress again.
Reluctantly, as if protesting a leash, Mack zigzags and ambles his way to the bed. He finally takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, head bowed.
Chase strokes the back on Mack's neck. "Why would you say that?"
"Because it's true."
"It might be true," Chase agrees. "But you used to be a kinder person than that."
Mack chuckles because he's not sure how else to respond. What's the correct response to a statement like that? It hurts to hear the disappointment in Chase's voice. It hurts to hear that he's no longer the man Chase fell in love with. And maybe it's true. It's probably true. When Mack and Chase began dating, it was insta-love. The stuff of steamy romance novels. Mack had assumed their happy-for-now would draw out into happily ever after. Instead, it seems they've settled into what feels like a cautious tolerance for one another. Buying the house seems to have done little more than test that tolerance. They still haven't made love in their new bedroom. At this point, Mack assumes they never will.
He's not okay with that.
But he's almost okay with that.
At this point, sex with Chase would feel … dangerous. Not dangerous like anonymous trucker sex, dangerous like being naked with someone you don't trust isn't going to insult you.
Chase snaps his fingers, rousing Mack back to the conversation. "This Friday? Dinner with Jim and Jeremy? That gives us three days to prepare."
"Please don't make me."
"Seriously, when did you stop giving people a second chance?"
Mack isn't sure when that happened. He feels guilty of … not being the same person he was when they first met. "I'm sorry," he says, and he's apologizing for more than not liking the neighbors. He's apologizing for who he's become, who he is, who he wants Chase to be.
"Why don't you want us to make new friends?"
"They just … I have nothing in common with them. Neither do you."
"Are you jealous of them?"
Mack doesn't answer. He knows Chase wants to fuck the neighbors.
He's not okay with that.
But he's almost okay with that.
Mack doesn't know what else to say, so he says nothing. He's afraid. It's the kind of fear that can't be spoken aloud. Speaking it might make it come true. But this voluntary silence between them, it’s concealing their souls. It feels … like an urge to scream. And no mouth.
Mack pulls his knees to his chest, slips his legs under the sheet, and lies back—the center of his pillow flattens, and the ends puff up, covering his ears. Arms propped up at the elbows, phone in his hands, he looks past the screen and watches the ceiling fan above the bed. It's spinning slowly enough that he can focus on a single blade and follow it round and round … anything to distract him from Chase's frown.
For four or five seconds, he can feel Chase staring at him … and he can feel it when Chase grows bored of the view and shifts his hips in the memory foam. Mack allows himself a sideways peek as Chase adjusts his glasses and returns his full attention to the trashy paperback.
Looks like … how many? It's hard to tell. Maybe four or five pages left?
Maybe there’s a similarity between a used book relationship worn thin. Maybe there's a comfort between the covers of both. Everybody has a story to tell—the same story to tell—and everybody tells it, over and over: clichés, fatigued archetypes, and the hero's journey. Maybe, in Chase's mind, he's a detective on the case. Maybe he's searching out justice, forcing order on a disorderly world. Maybe Chase imagines himself as the detective in his paperback, and every crime is a metaphor for what went wrong in his own life. Glasses low on his nose, nose close to the page, he's really just searching for the relationship he once had, the man he once held, the love he once made.
Three pages to go.
Chase's upper lip makes an involuntary twitch. Something he wasn't expecting is happening on the page. His eyes grow bigger.
Two pages to go.
Chase sucks his lower lip. Bites gently.
One page to go.
His breathing quickens.
His thumb flips the page—
"The fuck?"
Mack pretends to be scrolling on his phone. "Hum?"
"I'm not sure … I think there's a page missing."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, it matters. Detective's about to name the killer. We know how, we know why, only two suspects left, and—nothing. Definitely a page missing." He holds the paperback wide open. "Look. It's been torn out. At least one page. Maybe more. What the hell?! Why would someone do that?"
Mack shrugs. "You get it from a used bookstore?"
"Yeah."
"I heard that happens sometimes."
"I've never heard of that happening."
Mack shrugs again. "Well … now you have."
"Sonofabitch!" He throws the paperback across the room. As it hits the wall, he rolls out of bed and retrieves it—flips to the back of the book again, as if throwing the thing might have made the last page reappear. Frustrated all over again, he throws it again.
The violence of his reaction is more than Mack was expecting. He almost likes it. He definitely likes seeing Chase show a little passion. It's more sentiment than he's shown for the house—or Mack—since they moved in.
Summoning his courage, Mack begins cautiously: "What if … what if I could tell you how it ends? What would that be worth to you?"
Chase squints doubtfully. "You've read this book?"
"Well, I've … I've read part of it."
"Which part?"
"The last page."
"You're kidding, right?"
Mack sits up in bed. He's not sure he should continue with his plan, but he goes for it: "Would knowing how it ends be worth, maybe, twenty or thirty minutes of amazing sex?"
Chase grins a confused grin. "I don't think I understand. I hope I don't understand."
Mack raises a single eyebrow. "All I'm saying is … fuck me, detective, and I'll reveal the killer."
A severe disappointment pulls Chase's grin downward. "Did you rip up my book?"
Mack's eyebrow drops. "I was … frustrated. I shouldn't have but—"
Chase covers his face with his palms as if to contain his anger.
Mack imagines the anger Chase is feeling. He imagines it trickling through the spaces between Chase's fingers. He imagines it rolling down his forearms and off his elbows, dotting the floorboards.
A couple seconds pass.
When Chase drops his hands, he simply says, "I'm sleeping on the couch tonight," and makes a beeline for the living room.
"Chase, I'm sorry—"
"Just, just don't talk to me, Mack. I'll say things I don't want to say. Goodnight."
* * *
Mack watches the ceiling fan for ten minutes. As soon as he hears the rolling rumble of Chase's snores, he climbs out of bed and steps into the living room. The air conditioner is on low, but the room is still hot. Mack reaches over the couch where Chase lies sleeping and turns the dial to High. The fan roars louder but doesn't come close to drowning out Chase's snoring. How does he not wake himself up? How do I ever fall asleep with him snoring this loudly right beside me?
How will I ever sleep again if he leaves me?
Mack walks into the kitchen. He takes a plastic cup out of the upper rack in the dishwasher. Holds it underneath the faucet and turns the cold-water knob. The cup fills … to the top … water spills over the top … Mack lets it keep running. He leans on the knob and drops his head close to the faucet. "Talk to me," he whispers.
"He's going to leave you."
"You've said that plenty of times. How do I stop him?"
"That answer doesn't work for me. I've built my whole life around this man. I can't lose him."
The pipes don't respond.
The faucet continues running.
"Talk to me!" Mack pleads. "How do I stop him from leaving?"
"Hit him."
13
The next evening, following an exceptionally late day at work, Mack pulls his truck alongside the curb. He hasn’t found an alternative spot to park his old truck, and he doesn’t intend to. As soon as he has the time, in fact, he plans to repaint the signage on the driver’s side door with bigger letters and a brighter color—maybe yellow. He steps out of the truck.
A breeze from the west smells like rain. It'll be dark soon. The enormous, knobby limbs of the mossy oak are smeared with sunset. The beads and trinkets in its branches are all turning gold and pink. The breeze has them swinging like loose jewelry on a dancer. As Mack stares, they appear to uncoil, loosening their own knots and snaking their way to even higher branches.
Chase isn't home yet.
That's unusual. Chase never works overtime, and he's usually the first one home.
Inside, the house feels empty.
There are socks and underwear on the bedroom floor and dishes in the kitchen sink. In every room, the air feels … lumpy, congealed, like it's been stuck in the same place all day. Maybe that's because Mack feels he's been stuck in the same place all day: Thinking about Chase. Nothing but Chase. How to apologize, how to win back his affections, how to make him the kind of happy he's never quite been but could be. And he could be. With Mack’s help. But that’s the question: How to convince him they could be happy? How to convince Chase to love this house? To appreciate this house? How to make this house less of a chore, more of a sanctuary? How to make it their safe place, their safest place in the world, their favorite place in the world, their only place in the world?
This house is waiting for a pair of lovers, waiting for a couple to chase each other room to room, to play-wrestle on its newly polished floor, and make the kind of love that knocks books off the shelves and causes the spoons in the sink to rattle.
