Page 24 of Wood

My eyes meet his in surprise. “Seriously?”

He nods. “I have a giant house, pond, pool. There is a separate mother-in-law house, guest house, whatever you want to call it, take that.”

I set my phone down. “You are serious about this. For real.”

“Yeah, I am. I’ll admit I’m being a bit selfish here,” he says. “I’ve enjoyed the hell out of this last week, and the house is huge and … well, lonely. Give it a try, next few weeks before we leave? If you decide you can’t stand it, I’ll help you find a place when we get back from Ireland.”

Pondering his offer, I try to poke holes at it. “Won’t people talk?”

He huffs a laugh, “Screw em, what’s to talk about? Friends live together.”

“Don’t you want privacy for…” my voice trails off.

He shakes his head. “I don’t date, Geoff,” he admits. “I hook up and never host. You wouldn’t get in the way of that.” He hesitates, then apparently decides to trust me. “Look. You’ve realized I am gay, but I am not out, Geoff. I can’t be. There are no out golfers. None. So, I don’t date.”

I suppress a wince. What a lonely way to exist. I don’t like the thought of him hooking up. Is that what I want to do, hook up again? I don’t want to think about Ben and me. That isn’t happening. He has made that extremely clear.

And damn, I need to get laid badly. Explore. I have a lot of questions about myself that I need to answer.

He continues, “If you wanted to bring someone home, I won’t object. The guesthouse is on the opposite end of the house from mine, totally private.”

“Alright,” I agree. “But I’m paying you rent.”

He sits back with a contented grin. “Whatever. If it feels better that way. Or just consider it part of your salary.”

Ben was not kidding. This place is enormous. Hell, the little guesthouse is already furnished, giant four poster dark wood king bed with a pretty comforter, deep red and gold, kind of a paisley pattern but busier, swirls and little repeating shapes all over it. Best feature: it is soft and I flop back on it with a groan. My stuff barely made a dent in the massive walk-in closet. My dinky TV looks ridiculous on the wide dark wood dresser. I should have just left it with the guys.

Wandering out to the pool, I spot Ben on the wrap-around deck, reclining in a red Adirondack chair, gazing out at the pond. A glass of tea glistens in the sunlight on a little table next to a second chair, waiting for me. I join him, sliding back into the matching yellow chair and sip the sweet liquid.

“Settle in, ok?” he asks.

“Yep,” I reply. “Feel kinda like a kid pretending to be a grown-up in this place.”

He laughs. “Geoff, we all feel like that. I’m almost forty and still wondering what I’m doing sometimes. Life takes some odd turns.”

“You do all this?” I ask, motioning to the furniture. The living room furniture is heavy wood and leather and suits Ben well. The walls are gleaming pale wood slats, giving it a warm, inviting feel.

He scoffs. “Nah, I may be gay, but I’m not that kind of gay. I set my sister loose. She had a blast. You’ll meet her sometime. She brings her twins to play in the pool, terrorize the ducks.” He sips his tea. “So, what’s next?” he asks.

“I’m thinking new car,” I reply. “I’m still driving Mom’s Prius.”

“That is not a manly car,” he laughs. “You need something better. Yours. Any thoughts?”

“Thinking something… rumbly. Muscle.”

“Got a favorite make?”

I shake my head. “Folks liked Ford?”

“Let’s go,” he says, pushing out of his chair.

I’m glued to the chair. “What?”

He holds out a hand. “Let’s go buy you a Mustang, Geoff.”

The salesman looks us over and holds out a hand to Ben, then to me, almost as an afterthought. He’s maybe fifty, built soft in the middle in that way that says a desk job took over from whatever he used to do. His hair’s dyed a shade of brown that doesn’t quite match his eyebrows and combed over with enough product to survive a wind event. His golf shirt is tucked into khakis, with a dealership logo stitched over the heart. The sleeves are a little tight around the arms. The crease in his khakis is sharp enough to cut paper, belt cinched a notch tighter than comfortable. Mom would have eaten this guy for dinner and spit out his too-straight teeth.

“I’m Myron, what’ll it be today?” he asks Ben. “Buying for your son?”