Tipping the Balance (50 page)

Philip didn’t say anything for a while, and Brad resumed his own hazy thoughts. Just when he was about to turn the volume back on, his brother said, “Was it that guy I saw you with at the dedication of the boat?”

Brad jerked his head around to stare at Philip. So he had been there. A denial was on the tip of his tongue, but then he thought,
That’s what got me into trouble in the first place
. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Philip said, leaning back on Brad’s bed.

“You’re not surprised?” Brad said.

Philip smiled. “Not really. I saw you kiss him at the boathouse. I’ve had a little while to get used to the idea.”

And when Brad opened his mouth, it all came pouring out. “So I screwed up.”

“Maybe,” Philip said with a shrug. “At the very least, it sounds like some epic miscommunication. I think you need to call your old coach, for starters.”

“I need to get out of here,” Brad muttered, reaching for another beer. He paused, then grabbed a water instead.

“So what’s it like?” Philip asked. “Kissing another man? You looked pretty happy.”

“I was,” Brad said. He looked at his brother with a hint of his old humor. “The facial hair came as something of a surprise, at first.”

Philip laughed. “I can imagine. He must be something special.”

Brad smiled sadly. “He sure was.”

“Okay, what about… um… the,
you know
,” Philip said. He made gestures with his hands.

“The butt-sex? Dude, you’ve got no idea. It’s
so
much tighter. If I’d known that, I’d have come out sooner.”

Then the door banged open. “Come out? What the hell are you boys talking about?” Randall demanded.

“Get out!” Brad thundered, up and out of his chair in a flash.

“This is my house, and I’ll go where I please,” Randall said. He spoke softly, but over the years Brad had mastered the art of interpreting his father’s lack of tone, and this one meant fury.

Brad grinned. It might not be smart, but what the hell. “Yeah, Randall, I’m gay. A cocksucker. A fudge-packer. A butthole bandit. A—”

Then Randall was on him, knocking Brad back into his chair. Both men were impaired, Randall by his rage, Brad by his beer. But Brad was used to beer, and he brought his knee up hard into his father’s groin.

Brad shoved his father off and stood up. This time, Philip jumped between them. “Knock it off, both of you!”

“You disappoint me, Bradley,” Randall said, apparently back in control.

“Like that’s anything new,” Brad said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ll rant and you’ll rave and then you’ll do what you always do: go back to ignoring me, and I’ll go back to hating you, except that I never stopped.”

Randall shook his head. “Well, I guess I taught you to stand on your own two feet, and this is the thanks I get.”

“No,” was all Brad said.

“No, what?” Randall demanded.

Brad knew what Randall wanted. The “sir.” But Brad’d be damned if he was going to give it to him. “No, Mom taught me to stand on my own two feet. You taught me to be afraid and to think I’m not worth anything. It’s taken me a while, but I think I’m finally remembering Mom’s lessons.”

“Oh really?” Randall said. He pushed Philip out of the way, who slipped out of the room.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Brad said. It figured Philip would bail sooner or later.

“You always were chickenshit,” Randall sneered.

Brad’s own fury rose to match his father’s, and he almost took the bait. The gangly, hurting kid in him wanted nothing more than to pummel the older man. He knew he could. He was bigger and stronger, even if Randall was meaner. His jaw ached from the pain of clenching.

“You’re not worth a prison record,” Randall sneered.

“This whole situation is just stupid. I’m moving out as soon as I find a place, and as soon as the Bayard House renovation is back on track, I’m done at Suburban Graveyard,” Brad said as he forced himself to relax.

“If you quit, you’re fired!” Randall shrieked, losing control again.

“For being gay, Randall? Isn’t that against company policy? I’m pretty sure it is. You try it, and I’ll file a complaint with the state for wrongful termination, and who knows, maybe I’ll tell them about a few of the other shitty things you’ve done over the years too,” Brad said. He was bluffing, but the look on his dad’s face said he’d hit closer to the truth than he knew. He filed that away for future use.

He spent
the next morning at Suburban Graveyard making calls about apartments. He’d been a little worried about first and last months’ rent, but Philip had quietly slipped him a check with the words “no-interest loan” written on the memo line, and just when he was about to write him off again. It certainly surprised him how by not caring and risking it all to tell Philip he was gay meant he now had a brother, probably for the first time since their mother had died.

He found a few places in decent parts of town, just studios, and it looked like he’d be using a Laundromat until he could afford a place with a washer/dryer hook-up. Still, it was funny how priorities could change, and right then, freedom, dignity, and self-respect looked like pretty nice amenities.

He was about to leave to grab lunch before viewing the first of them when he was struck by a thought. He pulled up the webpage for the Capital City Rowing Club, the local masters rowing outfit. He knew they were there. They were the older guys wobbling back into their dock when the CalPac boys were heading out. He never gave them much thought, since masters rowing started at age twenty-seven, but after all that beer, he needed to get back into regular workouts, and he didn’t think he’d be able to pull off the Sundstrom corporate gym membership too much longer.

He fired off a quick e-mail. “I graduated from CalPac in June and rowed for Nick Bedford. I’m looking to get back into crew. If you’ll haul my underage ass around for a few years, I’ll pull my hardest for you.”

Later
that afternoon, Brad sat in a coffee house and considered his apartment options. One was near the freeway, which would make getting to Suburban Graveyard easier, but given his plans to bail on that just as soon as things got going with the Bayard House again, that was at best irrelevant and possibly a negative factor. One was close enough to the Bayard House that he could bike there, although from what he’d seen of drivers downtown and in Midtown, that seemed risky. The third… the third was close to Drew’s neighborhood. That tugged at his heart. He knew they weren’t a couple because of him, but the thought that maybe they could sleep in the same zip code at night comforted him.

He figured there were worse reasons for taking a given apartment. That decided, he checked his e-mail on his smart phone. One from the men’s coach at the masters rowing club.

“There’s a new younger age category, so you can race too. Come check us out!”

Just knowing there might be another rowing home for him, on top of a new home-home, buoyed him. He felt more optimistic about life, maybe even better about himself, than he had since… since right before that fight with Drew.

On a whim, he drove by Drew’s house. The two of them had made a real mess of their relationship, with a little help from Nick, but Brad was honest enough with himself to admit he felt strongly for Drew.

What he saw when he pulled up in front of Drew’s house appalled him. The yard looked like the Middle East after an American military incursion. He circled the block and then parked across the street.

He had an hour or two to get back to the rental office to check out that apartment close by. Not a lot of time, but Drew’s yard needed more than he could give it in a single afternoon, anyway.

Checking to make sure he still had his key, he jogged up to the house and rang the bell. If Drew were home, he’d act like he was just returning the key, but based on appearances, no one had been by for a while.

He let himself into the garage by the side door and located the key to the back shed containing the lawn mower. He’d see what he could get done, maybe enough to appease the neighbors, maybe enlist Nick and Morgan. It wasn’t like they—or at least Nick—didn’t owe him.

Drew
stared at the calendar on the corkboard over his desk in his home office. It still displayed November’s page. He had left home to go dancing for his birthday and hadn’t come home until late February. That was some trip, he thought as he ripped pages. When he found the back cardstock, he realized he didn’t have a new calendar for this year.

He sighed. One more thing that he hadn’t done while he healed. He knew he had no reason to complain. No breathing tube. That had been utter hell.
The next time he deep-throated something in the future, it’d better be flesh.

No feeding tube inserted into his stomach, either, and his jaw worked again, even if it hurt to talk too much or chew anything too tough.

Nothing to show for his ordeal but some aches and pains that would fade in time and scars that would never disappear entirely.

He tried not to look in the mirror much. He couldn’t stand to see where his teeth had been, even though he wore a decent temporary bridge and would soon have replacements that screwed directly into his jawbone, now that his jaw had healed. He didn’t like seeing the new wrinkles, either, and just as soon as he’d sold a few houses, he’d be investing in some ruinously expensive man-cosmetics.

He still needed a cane, but that, too, was temporary. His physical therapist assured him he had made good progress, but some days—most days—it felt like all pain and no gain. In the mean time, he limped along and rested when he had to, grateful every day for his blessedly temporary handicapped parking placard.

Speaking of selling houses, his broker had been so understanding Drew was giving serious thought to nominating the man for sainthood. The broker had allowed him to come creeping back into the business knowing full well that when the renovations of the Bayard House resumed, Drew would give real estate less than his full attention. It helped that when he was at his best, Drew was a damned good agent. He just wasn’t at his best and wouldn’t be for a while.

At least he could catch up on life now. The first hurdle for a man used to near-constant connection was to retrieve messages left for him. Despite periodic sweeps of his voice mail, his home and work mailboxes were full, and who knew how many calls he’d missed?

Then there was his cell phone. He’d been grafted to it. His attackers had crushed it. He’d kept the account current by paying the bill online, but he hadn’t been able to replace the phone until recently. He had no idea if there were even any way to retrieve old messages or if the calls were just lost. If that one message he most wanted had been lost or had ever existed, now that he knew a call from Brad would never come again.

Not long before his release from rehab, Nick had come to see him, and he knew something was wrong immediately. The last time he’d seen Nick that upset and nervous had been when he and Morgan had been on the skids. Before that, it’d been when Nick came out to him. When Nick told him what was up, Drew understood. In that moment, and for the first time, Drew hated his best friend.

Despite their fight, Brad had been wild with worry when he hadn’t been able to track down not only Nick and Morgan, but Drew as well. And then Nick had told him not to visit. The thought still raised the bile in his throat. Brad had wanted to but thought he was unwelcome because of their fight. So Brad had left him one final message, and when Drew finally was able to access his voice mail, it broke his heart to hear. It looked like they were done. At this point, he didn’t see a way out of the sorry, tangled mess of miscommunication. Too much time had passed, and feelings were too hurt all around.