Surreal Estate

by Jesi Lea Ryan

  I paused before asking the next question, hoping Sasha wouldn’t take it badly, but I had to ask. “Are you into that shit? The drugs? That wasn’t what you went there for tonight, was it?”

  He reared back against the door, hurt written all over his face. “Fuck no! I’ve watched my mom struggle with addiction my whole life. I don’t need a PSA to know what happens to a brain on drugs. Never touched the stuff. I don’t even drink.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you, but I needed to make sure.”

  “No, I get it.” He sighed. “My mom’s in jail. She used her one phone call tonight to ask me to go over there to get her bail money. She doesn’t exactly believe in bank accounts.”

  “What’s she in jail for?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Said they picked her up on an old warrant. Probably prostitution or breaking probation for something. If it was for dealing again, she wouldn’t be expecting to get out tomorrow.”

  Prostitution? I wasn’t stupid. I knew that was a thing people did. But no kid should have to think of their mother in that way. I made a mental note to hug my sweet, boring mom next time I saw her.

  “I’m sorry, Sasha.”

  “For what? For my loser mother? Look, I’ve had this conversation a million times. I know I’m not her, all right? Every school counselor I ever had went to outrageous efforts to drill that into me. But I guess I understand if you look at how I’m living now and . . .”

  I waited, but he didn’t continue. He just stared out the windshield in the direction of the Bed Bath & Beyond, clearly not really seeing anything in front of him.

  “Hey, the only thing I see is a guy down on his luck who could use a little help. I don’t know your story, but you seem all right to me. Plenty of good people come from shitty parents, so I’m not judging. Hell, I have great parents, and you should’ve seen me a couple years ago after I lost my first business. It hurts to fall off that ladder toward the American dream. And you, you’re just starting out in life. You’re nothing but potential. You’ll figure it out, and then you’ll be on your way.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Wow, Nick. That was so . . . inspirational.” Then he broke into a chuckle.

  “Fuck off,” I replied, giving him a light slap upside the head. “So did you get your mom’s cash?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Then let’s deliver it and go home. We both could use some sleep.”

  A huge dumpster sat in the driveway when I got home from the coffee shop the next day. A couple of guys on ladders ripped vines off the side of the house, making huge piles at their feet. Inside, the walls vibrated with anxious psychic energy, raising the hair on my neck. I followed the banging to the kitchen, carefully avoiding walking through the phantom furniture strewn about the rooms. Nick and another guy had respirators on and were beating the hell out of the place with sledgehammers, laughing like little kids on a beach stomping on sandcastles. Remembering what Nick had said about breathing in mold, I lifted the hem of my shirt up over my nose.

  The muscles of Nick’s arms and back bunched and stretched impressively with each swing, and I was content to just stand there and watch him move. He lifted the heavy hammer and brought it down with a crushing blow onto a countertop, making the whole unit shudder away from the wall. He reached for the broken wood and pulled, tossing the pieces on a debris pile near the door.

  “You’ve got an audience, bro,” the other guy called out. He gave me a playful wink before turning back to the hole he was banging in the wall.

  Nick rounded in my direction, but before I could say hi, his gaze dropped to my waist and roamed over the exposed skin of my abdomen before raising to meet my eyes. The heat of that look blazed a trail straight up my body. Startled, I dropped the edge of my shirt from my face.

  “Uh, you shouldn’t be in here without a respirator,” Nick cautioned, no longer meeting my gaze. He stepped past me awkwardly, and I followed him to the living room. He bent over a giant toolbox and tossed me a heavy, black mask. “Here you go. I’m leaving this package of disposable masks here too. In an old house like this, it’s smart to always wear a mask during demo. I haven’t run into any asbestos yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not here somewhere.”

  I nodded and held the mask over the lower half of my face, trying it out.

  “You ready to get dirty?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the smile faded from his eyes and color flooded his cheeks. “Work, I mean. Ready to work? Um, yeah.”

  I fought off a grin and put him out of his misery. “I have to change my clothes first.”

  “Sounds good. Whenever you’re ready.”

  I watched him walk back toward the kitchen, and admired the way his tool belt tugged the waist of his jeans down just right.

  Jesus, Sasha. Stop lusting after your new boss. Landlord. Whatever.

  I went upstairs to change. Maybe I was lonely. Living on the streets made sex either inconvenient or dangerous, especially if you were gay. Most of my encounters were hurried handjobs in grubby alleys or behind trees in late-night city parks. Shelters were absolutely off limits for sex. Not only did it go against the house rules and the sensibilities of the church volunteers, but coming on to the wrong person was a good way to get bashed. I’d once seen a guy get beaten and stabbed in a communal shower. He’d lived, but had lost a kidney from the knife wound. Kid had been young too. Not even eighteen. Anyway, after that, I’d known enough to play it straight around people whose only option to assert dominance over others was through discrimination and violence.

  In my room, I changed into my oldest pair of jeans and a threadbare Nirvana T-shirt from Goodwill. I wound my hair into a knot so it wouldn’t get tangled with the respirator’s elastic band.

  The house was so anxious, it made my teeth buzz. I pressed my palm to the wall, letting the energy course through me. My eyes drifted closed. “This work is a good thing, House,” I said in a barely audible whisper. “You’ve been through changes and updates before. It won’t be anything like those assholes in the seventies. I have a feeling you’re in good hands with Nick.”

  Back when I’d first moved in, the house had felt like this too. Once it had realized I was going to stay, it settled. But since Nick bought the place, the mood swings had been worse than a hormonal teenager’s. I didn’t need the house interfering with my concentration while I worked. There was only one way to dial it back. I opened my mind, letting the energy fill me. I allowed the house to have its say for a moment before I latched on to my inner calm and slowly willed the house down to a light hum.

  After a few minutes, my limbs felt both heavy and buzzing with energy. I shook them out and opened and closed my fist a few times. Altering the emotions of a space always did funny things to me. Thankfully, the demolition work would burn off some of the energy I’d absorbed.

  When I returned to the kitchen, the guys were tossing large chunks of mildewed wood and plaster out the back door into a wheelbarrow.

  “Sasha, this is my brother Damien. Damien, Sasha.” Nick waved between us.

  Damien slid his hand out of his work glove and shook mine. “Nice to meet you. I’ve seen you walking around the neighborhood. Figured you lived around here somewhere.”

  “Hey,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

  The family resemblance was there in the eyes, but Damien’s hair was longer and lighter than Nick’s close-cropped style.

  Nick flung another piece of plaster into the wheelbarrow. “Damey, can you dump this? I’m gonna get Sasha started on finishing the cabinets.”

  “Aye, aye, Capt’n.” Damien gave Nick a mock salute and wheeled the rubbish down a makeshift ramp.

  Nick handed me a hammer the size of a baseball bat. “All these cabinets need to come out. Uppers and lowers. The sink too. I already unhooked it from the pipes, so no need to be careful about it.”

  I lifted the hammer, testing its weight in my hands, and then I dug deep to retrieve the old gym class memories from our soft
ball unit. I rotated into a batter’s stance with the hammer perched over my shoulder.

  “Whoa, hold up there, Slugger. Let me show you how to do that without throwing your back out.” Nick sidled up beside me, so close I could smell the light spice of cinnamon gum on his breath. He wrapped his large hand over mine and moved it so it was up close to the head. His heat, even so briefly, made my blood rush.

  Nick continued, a wobble entering his voice, betraying some lingering unease that his confident words couldn’t contain. “Standing sideways is a good way to take out your shin. You want to face the counter head-on.” He placed his hands on my hips and tilted them parallel with the countertop. His firm grip sent a warm shiver down my back. His hands seemed to linger a second longer than they needed to, but maybe that was just my imagination.

  I blinked and tried to clear my head. “Oh, okay.”

  “Now, lift it up over your shoulder like this and push it so it falls. The hammer is heavy enough to generate its own force. You’re only guiding it, see?” We took a few practice swings. “You’re a pro now. Have at it.”

  When Nick stepped away, I took a deep breath to clear the cinnamon from my nose. Then I gripped the hammer and unleashed my sexual frustration on the cabinets.

  A few hours later, Nick shoved a bottle of water in my hands and said, “Take a break.”

  The kitchen had been torn down to the studs. In the far wall, there was a new opening for a doorway into the future library.

  “I’m developing new respect for people who work construction in July.” I was soaked in sweat, and it was only April.

  Nick smiled at me over the push broom he was scooting across the floor. “Thanks.”

  “Where’d your brother go?”

  “Over to his place to get cleaned up. He has to work. Friday nights are busy at the bar. They do a really good fish fry.” He paused. “Speaking of, if you got something going on tonight and need to bug out early, feel free.”

  It took me a moment to realize what he was getting at. “Oh . . . no. I don’t have any plans.”

  “What?” He leaned on the broom handle, grinning. “Figured a good-looking guy like you would have a social calendar filled with the ladies.”

  “Nope.” I took a quick sip from my water. “No guys either.”

  There. It was out now. Not that I was ashamed of being gay or anything. I’d come out of the closet at fourteen, literally. My zayde had been the janitor at my high school, and he’d walked in on me and a kid from my math class making out in the supply closet during lunch period. Although to be honest, I think he’d known before then. But it was different with new people. I never knew when to do the big reveal. I mean, when was the last time a straight guy walked up and blurted out how much he liked fucking women? It wasn’t exactly appropriate dinner conversation.

  “No guys either? You’re bi?”

  “No, I’m all the way gay. That a problem?”

  Nick made another distracted sweep with his broom. “Course not. I wondered if you leaned that direction anyway when you didn’t take to Kelly.”

  “Kelly? The intern?”

  Nick let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, man. She was dealing out some of her best moves, and they were sailing right over your head. She’s pretty cute too.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Then you date her.”

  He scrunched up his nose. “No way. Not interested. Besides, I’m too old for college girls.”

  “Yeah, you’re ancient. What are you? Fifty? Sixty?”

  He lifted the broom over his shoulder and made like he was going to smack me with it. “I’m thirty-nine.”

  “Dang. That’s old.”

  “Break’s over. Get back to work.”

  We labored until the diminishing sunlight forced us to call it a night. Then Nick produced a couple of cans of soda from a cooler, and we sat on the back steps letting our sweat cool in the evening breeze. I loved sitting outside this time of year, before the mosquitos woke up from their winter slumber and ruined everything.

  Nick popped open his can and sipped the foam off the top. “As soon as the demo’s done, I’ll rewire the house and get some electricity in here for you.”

  I leaned back on my elbows and tried to pick the stars out from the glare of the city lights. “I’m getting by okay. It’s nice now that the water’s on.”

  “I bet.” He paused. “Have you given any thought to where you’re gonna go when this is done?”

  Yes. It was all I’d thought about for days. “Still weighing my options.”

  “Well, my brother Steven gets back from vacation soon. He might be able to help you find an apartment in your price range. The company he works for has a department that handles rental property management too. That’s how I found my place. It’s just a studio, but it works for me.”

  But would I be able to find something in my price range that wouldn’t also be so filled with negative energy that I’d want to crawl out of my skin? That wasn’t exactly something a realtor could help me with. I decided to change the subject.

  “So, no Mrs. Cooper waiting for you at home tonight?” Now, why the hell did I have to ask that? It was none of my business if the guy was married.

  Nick smirked. “Not anymore. The former Mrs. Cooper is now living in Shorewood with Husband 2.0 and her brand-new twin baby girls.”

  “Shit. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Sometimes things don’t work out. We weren’t happy together. Now she has everything she ever wanted.”

  “And you? Do you have what you want?”

  He sighed. “I’ll get there someday. You got anyone special you have your eye on?”

  “Nah. I don’t make the best boyfriend material at present. Not a lot to offer someone.”

  “I don’t know about that. There’s more to a guy than just a bank account and a swanky apartment. The right person would see past all that.” His eyes met mine, startling me with their intensity. “You’re a good guy, Sasha Michaels. Smart. Hardworking. I hear you’re plenty talented too. This place is only a pit stop on your incredible journey.”

  My chest tightened, and my gaze fell to those thick lips. I wanted to worship that mouth for saying such beautiful things to me, and then bite it hard for making me hope.

  I stood abruptly. “Guess I haven’t met the right person yet, then.” Having this conversation with a straight guy was a surefire way to drive me into Unrequited-Crushville. “I’m gonna grab a shower and hit the sheets. See you in the morning.”

  For the rest of the weekend, I put the pedal to the metal and channeled all my energy into demoing the house with Sasha and Damien. For a rookie, Sasha really seemed to understand the house and how all the materials fit together to form solid construction. His idea about exposing the brick wall in the dining and living rooms was genius. We’d gotten all the lath & plaster knocked off. All it needed now was a little tuck-pointing, and it’d look fantastic. It was nice having an employee who did everything I asked and caught on quickly.

  And we were getting along great. Sasha was easy to talk to, and surprisingly funny. He had a talent for doing celebrity impressions and had me laughing Sunday afternoon with his mock radio show hosted by Christopher Walken and Matthew McConaughey. I swear the guy was magnetized. I found myself constantly glancing over to check on him, as if he were some fascinating, but wild, creature that might disappear any moment. Maybe it was because I knew that as soon as this project was over, I’d likely never see him again. Or maybe he was simply a welcome distraction, something other than the fuck-ton of work on my plate to obsess over. Either way, my body sensed him in the room, and I gravitated to him without consciously thinking about it.

  Monday afternoon, Damien and I stripped the old knob-and-tube wiring. He’d agreed to donate his labor to me if I would buy him the Extra Innings TV package so he could record and watch his games. That deal worked fine for me since it meant I could crash at his place and watch them with him on his giant TV of Overcompensation.

  I’d jus
t sent Damien off to take a load of scrap metal to the recycling plant when a familiar voice called out, “I go out of town for two weeks and you can’t seem to keep yourself out of trouble.”

  I looked down from the ladder I was perched on to remove a light fixture, to see Steven stood in the doorway of the master bedroom wearing a gray suit and a new tan.

  “Aren’t you worried about skin cancer?” I asked as I passed the light cover to him so I could climb down.

  “Nope. It’s a spray tan.”

  “Like those kids on Jersey Shore?”

  “Bite me.” He waved a leather-bound portfolio at me. “I ran some comps for you, since you didn’t bother asking me before you bought this heap.”

  “I ran my own comps.”

  “Sure you did. And I redid them the right way. Come here.”

  Steven leaned on the windowsill, extracted several papers. “The good news is you didn’t overpay on the purchase price.”

  “Ha! Told you I got a deal.”

  He shot me a glare. “Oh, you got a deal all right. The problem will be making enough money on the sale to cover all the cash you’re sinking into it and still eke out a profit. Houses in this part of town just aren’t performing well. Check out this place.” He stepped up beside me to show me the first listing. “It’s five blocks away and similar in size. Completely updated. And see what it sold for?”

  Steven circled the bold number with a red pen as if I was too stupid to read an MLS sheet.

  “Yeah, but that house is located on a six-lane street and has no yard. Who wants to live there with little kids? Did you see my yard out here? Private, wooded. A mom could send her kids outside and not worry about them having to play Frogger with cars every time their ball gets away.”

  “True. But this place has a Jacuzzi tub with a marble surround.”

  I tossed the screwdriver I’d been holding in the general direction of the toolbox and rubbed my stubbled face with my palms. After a moment, I said, “I’m adding a master bath. I can put in a Jacuzzi.”