Paul shook his head to clear it of thoughts from last night. The last thing he needed was to pitch a tent in the car next to his brother.
Steven wasn’t kidding about those tickets — or that parking pass. Paul had never gotten into his seat quicker or with less hassle. Hell, their seats even came with waitresses to bring them beer. This is how you celebrate a birthday, he thought. He could feel his hangover lessen with the familiar rhythms of a ballgame getting ready to begin.
“So, when is the house going on the market?” Paul asked as they settled in to seats that were about fifteen rows right behind home plate. “You said something about waiting until spring got warmer, and I’m here to tell you, it has come to pass.”
“Signed all the papers with a realtor this week,” Steven said. “He did a walk-through and gave me this whole damn list of things I need to do.”
“Sucks being a homeowner.”
“Says the guy who doesn’t even have to mow his own lawn,” Steven scoffed. He flagged down a waitress, who brought them the necessary beer and hot dogs and popcorn.
“What’s on that honey-do list, then?”
“Well, he’s setting me up with a home stager, whatever the hell that is,” Steven said.
“That would be someone to tell you how useless your furniture arrangement is, kiddo.”
“Thank you, Dr. McDonnell.”
“Who is he sending?”
“Some chick named Acelin. Never heard of a name like that before. Or maybe it was Allison. I didn’t read it that closely.”
“Of course not,” Paul said under his breath.
“Doesn’t really matter who’s doing it,” Steven said. “David said my house needs to be staged, and this was the stager he uses.”
“Clearly, your realtor could tell you desperately need a feminine touch,” Paul said dryly.
Steven snorted. “Clearly, I get touched by something feminine a hell of a lot more often than you do.”
Paul cleared his throat and acknowledged the truth of that, though not the whole truth.
“Speaking of,” Steven continued, “any prospects for your arm candy at my wedding?”
Paul grimaced. “That’s a pretty thankless job, being the date of the best man. I’m going to be a little busy that night, what with the inappropriate toasting, the drinking to excess, the embarrassing words I’ll need to spray in shaving cream on your getaway car.”
“What about that secretary of yours?” Steven was undeterred. “She’s healthy looking. And – what’s the word I’m looking for? Avid?”
“That’s a word, yes. Avid.” Paul took a drink to rid his mouth of the unpleasant taste that had popped up. “She’s really and officially not my type. Plus, you know better than to date an employee, come on.”
“Okay, fine. Not the avid secretary. But you gotta find somebody.”
“Oh, I gotta, little brother?”
“You’re 36 now, big brother,” Steven persisted. “Gotta make a decision sooner rather than later.”
Paul shrugged. “Well, I figure your wedding spares me a couple more years of mom’s nagging. Even more if you and Holly start squeezing out grandbabies.”
“Yeah, you totally owe me.”
“Amen.”
“So, help me with the home stager chick,” Steven reasoned. “I need backup in case she wants to put pink flowers everywhere or something.”
“You think it will take two big, strong men to stop one woman from forcing you to live in a girly dollhouse?”
Steven blew out a big breath. “Yes.”
“Fine,” Paul sighed. “I’ll protect my widdle bwutha one more time.”
“Excellent.” Steven finished his second beer. “And who knows? Maybe she’ll be cute and you can bring her to my wedding.”
“Jesus, you’re worse than Mom. Are you sure pink flowers aren’t your thing?”
Steven threw peanuts at his head.
Steven wasn’t wrong. Paul knew he couldn’t keep up the bachelor facade forever. And inside, he knew his calculations were off — once Steven was married, there would be nothing to distract his mother from resuming her relentless push for him to settle down with a nice girl.
But it was more than that. How long could he realistically live with random encounters and vague answers to pointed questions? Paul had been living his life in limbo for two decades now, sort of hovering over the path he wanted to be on.
It’s time to find your yellow brick road, buddy.
**********
All day Saturday, Ace activated his go-to defense mechanism to distract him from his brain: He cleaned.
If there had been even one errant renovation task he could have performed, he would have played that card. He did this every time. Whenever Ace’s love life — or, in this case, his fuck life — threw him for a loop, he threw himself into his house.
In the last nine months, he had stripped floors and walls, painted every room — then repainted when the color didn’t work — learned plumbing, drywalled, insulated, tiled, spackled, de-molded, re-moldinged, caulked, rewired. Every project gave him something to cuss about other than his love life.
And now, he was done. Finished. Project-less. Distraction-free.
If something didn’t happen in the long term, he was going to have to move. Find another house to remake from scratch.
In the short term, though, he decided to clean the living hell out of his house.
Every piece of funky college student artwork got dusted, every stray cobweb got evicted, every curtain got laundered, every piece of furniture got steam cleaned.
All that work bought him about seven hours of distraction.
Then came Sunday. More than any typical date night, Sundays reminded Ace of the best of times with Cameron — the long, sun-soaked afternoons under the sheets, the naps in each other’s arms, the blissful domesticity that he craved.
So, of course, without those teasingly perfect days, Ace had filled his Sundays with distractions, assisted by his best friend, Erik Wallace. Together, they rebuilt this broken house and tore down their exes in the process.
Facing an empty Sunday — and, now, a clean house — Ace called Erik and Olive and Vince for an impromptu housewarming party on Sunday afternoon. Ace hadn’t seen Olive and Vince for months, which was a little unforgivable considering his old friends from Baltimore were the reason he landed in Kansas in the first place.
He’d been staying with them when he first moved to town, and there at this end of their block was this breathtaking mess of a house.
He shouldn’t have bought this house – or any house, for that matter. He should be living in an ecru and probably temporary apartment next door to stressed-out grad students.
Good bones – that’s what realtors and remodelers say. This house had good, out-of-place, out-of-time, Victorian, sharp bones. Lawrence boasted some schizophrenic streets where consistency was clearly considered to be the hobgoblin of little minds. But even among such neighbors, Ace’s house had stood out.