The Right Words (6 page)

“Hey, hey, hey! I get it! I get it! Geez, man. Take a seat. You’re killing my neck here.” Michael motioned at the chair next to him.

I sat gracelessly, unsure now that I wanted to stay.

“You’ve decided you hate me already, eh?” He was smiling again. And this time it looked sincere.

I uncrossed my arms and turned to face him.

“I don’t like excuses. That’s all. Sorry to be so blunt, Mr. M—”

“Michael.”

“Michael. Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. Maybe you sh—”

“No. It is a good idea. Hear me out. Will you listen? No interrupting?”

I scowled but made a zipped-lips motion and batted my eyes comically. He gave a small half laugh before continuing.

“I’m not making excuses. But I’m not apologizing either. My life hasn’t been like yours. Sorry. Everyone has different shit to deal with, and everyone comes from a different place. Physically and mentally. Follow me so far?”

“I’m not a child, Michael,” I stated primly.

“No, but you’re quick to judge.”

I sputtered indignantly, but he held his hand up, determined to be heard. I sat back and recrossed my arms.

“I’m Latino. Mexican. I was raised in a strict Catholic home. You will never understand me or my world because you can’t. I’m not suggesting you’re racist or anything like that. I’m saying I began with a fundamentally different set of rules and morals than you. Not better. Not worse. Different.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hold on. I’m not finished.” He paused and licked his bottom lip. “In my heart, I know I’m okay. I’m good with who I am. I haven’t kept my secret for myself. I’ve kept it for my family. Out of respect. They don’t… understand same-sex relationships. At all. They’re good people, but they view homosexuality as a sin. The church tells them so. I know I’m not a bad guy, but how do I begin to explain? The answer is I can’t. I was born gay just as I was born with the ability to kick the shit out of a soccer ball. We celebrate the strong and pray for the weak where I’m from. It’s my responsibility to keep my weakness to myself to protect them.”

“Weakness! That’s ridiculous! And protect them from what, exactly? The truth?” My eyes were practically popping out of my head. How could we be conversing so casually about hiding yourself to save someone else’s sensibility? It made no sense to me.

“Whose truth? Whose truth means more, Luke? Yours? Mine? The church’s? My parents’? God’s? Who comes first? Don’t you see? Nothing is black and white. And no one person is more deserving than another. Why should I tell them what they don’t need or want to know? It would be selfish.”

I took my sunglasses off and stared at him incredulously, though I wasn’t sure what to say.

“That’s fucked” was the best I could do.

“Well said.” He sounded deflated. “Maybe it is. I don’t know. What I do know is I’m on borrowed time. I don’t trust Jamie and I don’t know if my knee will heal in time for me to re-sign my contract before the start of next season. I feel like I’m on the verge of literally losing… everything. Career, family… everything.”

“Maybe if you gave them a chance, they’d surpr—”

“Not fucking likely. It’s reality, Luke. You may not like it. I may not like it, but it doesn’t change things.”

“All worthwhile change should be fought for.”

“Who said that?”

“Me. Why?”

“You were quoting dead poets the other day, I thought maybe you….”

“Ha-ha.”

“Look, the only fight I’ve been concerned about was the one on the field. I’m not saying I don’t care about gay righ—”

“Well that’s a relief!”

He gave me a dirty look and continued warily. “You’re a sarcastic little shit, aren’t you? I care, Luke. I haven’t been free to be open about who I am. That’s all.”

We remained quiet for a while, letting the gentle ocean breeze act as a balm to soothe the turbulence in the air around us.

“So you’re a closet carer as well as a closet case.” I held up a hand in apology. “I’m sorry. I get a little wound up sometimes. I wasn’t expecting to have this type of discussion, and unfortunately my filter seems to be faulty today. Looks like you got the real me.” I gave him a chagrined smile, wondering if this was where we parted ways.

“Don’t apologize. I like that you’re strong-minded. A little less opinionated might be nice, but….”

He recoiled theatrically when I shoved his arm playfully.

“Baby,” I taunted with an eye roll.

“I was kidding. You’re a little surprising, you know.”

“How so?” My brow knit in confusion as I studied his handsome features.

I loved his coloring. His light brown skin was in perfect contrast to his dark hair. It didn’t sound like an exciting combination, so I decided the allure had to be the man himself. He was pleasing to the eye with even features and a strong jaw. But when he smiled and engaged you, he became extraordinarily attractive. It felt like he kept himself so tightly bound, but something special seeped through when he relaxed.

“You seemed kind of… subdued and deferential when we first met.”

“Deferential?” I snorted derisively. I couldn’t help it.

“Yeah.” His grin widened as I chuckled. “I think I like the real you. Shall we start drawing up a plan?”

I held his smile for a second longer than I should have before taking a deep breath and looking away.

W
E
TOURED
the house room by room and began to compile a long list of to-dos. Thankfully, other than the living area and the master bedroom, the house was mostly unfurnished. We decided what could be salvaged (not much), given away (some things), or thrown away (a ton). We talked about the general look and feel of the home and what he hoped to achieve in this remodel.

“I want it to feel beachy. It feels more like a rustic cabin than a beach house, you know? So, I guess I want it to be lighter. Lighter colors and more open. You know, beachy.”

“Beachy. Got it.” I hid a smile as I took notes. His clumsy description reminded me of my attempt to talk about soccer.

“But I don’t want a bunch of seashells and anchors everywhere either. I don’t want something I see everywhere else. It has to be personal, you know?”

“I do. So, seashells would be okay if they were seashells you actually found on the beach?”

“Exactly!” Michael’s grin was enthusiastic, as though he were pleased to be understood.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Well, that goes well with a beach theme,” I mused as I took a good look around the master bedroom.

It was spacious and featured a generous window with a sweeping view of the Pacific. The carpet had to go, the ancient aluminum-clad window needed to be replaced, and obviously the room desperately needed a fresh coat of paint. A quick peek at the adjoining bathroom told me an overhaul would be great, but I supposed he could get by with retiling the larger-than-average shower stall and the floor. I hoped I could talk him into a new sink.

Since this was one of the rooms I knew Michael actually did inhabit, I carefully looked for clues about the man. There was a king-sized bed against the far wall with no headboard. It was neatly made with a navy-pinstriped bedspread. A lone side table with a lamp and a dresser were the only furnishings in the room. There wasn’t one photograph or personal memento on display. An e-reader sat on the end table, but otherwise it was bare. No personality. No clues to the guy standing next to me. It was clear that Michael hadn’t lived here long and had yet to embrace this place as his own. For some reason I was inordinately pleased I was the one who was going to help him create a home.

I was so immersed in my thoughts I didn’t notice his steady, thoughtful gaze upon me. I gave him an absent smile, which seemed to startle him.

“Sorry, I get in a zone sometimes.”

“Me too.” He returned my smile, but it was hard to ignore his tone. It was seductive.

I cleared my throat and kept the conversation trained to likes and dislikes of anything from texture to ambiance to remodeling trends. Michael professed to be a fan of open spaces and light colors befitting Southern California, with a modern edge. He was open to retiling all the bathrooms and replacing the fixtures. He wanted hardwood flooring in the main living area and carpet in the bedrooms. It was all so straightforward and very much in line with what I’d originally agreed to with Jamie that I was tempted to pull out the notes I’d made prior to meeting Michael. I didn’t and not just because things didn’t end well with his ex, but because I recognized something akin to anticipation as we discussed lighting and flow. Being a part of the process was what he was after. If he couldn’t physically contribute, he’d make do with what he could get.

“So tomorrow we can meet to shop for tile and hardwood flooring. Sound good? The best places will be in LA but—”

“Maybe so, but I can’t drive to meet you anywhere. So you’ll have to come here first to pick me up. Don’t look so sad, I’ll reimburse you for mileage.” He chuckled softly at my grimace. I should never play poker. It’s way too easy to know my thoughts. The memory of my nightmare commute that morning hadn’t faded, and I was about to get back on the road to LA.

“No. I don’t mind driving,” I lied. “Uh, okay, there are some great places in Anaheim. We can go there, but it’s still at least thirty minutes from here.”

“There must be something local.”

“Not unless you’re willing to pay a serious premium. I’ll plan to be here tomorrow by ten and—”

“You’ll just sit in traffic. You know, not that this isn’t obvious, but the distance is going to be hard on you.”

“I’ll be fine,” I sighed but plastered a smile on my face. I really didn’t know how I was going to handle a daily drive.

“Look, I’m gonna throw this out there, but I won’t be offended if you’re not interested. I haven’t shown you the studio above the garage. If you want, you can crash there when you feel like it. No one’s using it. C’mon.”

I wasn’t sure what to think of his offer. It was too good to be true. I followed Michael warily down a hallway out the front door and along the side of the house closer to the street. I was skeptical of what condition the space would be in. Garages were a perfect breeding ground for spiders and other gross things. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. The garage was a separate structure adjacent to the main house with a breezeway in between. There was a single set of narrow stairs along the side of the garage, which I assumed led to the studio.

“Here’s the key. See what you think.”

Michael handed over a single key with a black ribbon laced through the loop. It would have been rude to refuse to at least look at the place, so I took the key and headed up the steep stairs. The lock was old, and I had to fumble a bit to get it to turn. I was already trying to think of a graceful way to decline his offer. Garages, spiders, sticky locks, and close proximity to a hunky though closeted boss sounded like a bad combination.

The great thing about low expectations was how fabulous it felt to be pleasantly surprised every once in a while. The room above the garage was definitely better than expected. Unlike the main house, this space had recently been updated. The light-colored carpet was new, the walls were painted a soft shade of gray, and the furniture was all brand-name quality from a well-known home goods store. A neatly made queen-sized bed sat along the far corner wall with a tiny table on one end. Library-style lights were affixed to the walls at either end of the bed for reading, and a few short steps away was a love seat and a small chair. A flat-screen television hung squarely in between the two delineated spaces, effectively creating a suite-like feel. In the corner on the opposite side, a low counter divided a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and a small refrigerator. I walked toward the counter and noticed a door leading to a small bathroom with a standalone shower. The fixtures and tiles were basic but the space was pristine.

There was a story here and I was very curious. I gave the inviting room one last look before I closed the door behind me and bounded down the stairs to rejoin him.

“It’s fantastic. Why aren’t you living there?” I asked as I handed over the key. Of course the moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d inserted my foot. Damn.

Michael caught my sudden change of expression and shook his head as if to say “no big deal.” “I can’t climb the stairs yet. At least not ones this steep.”

“Sorry. I should have realized.” I walked slowly at his side toward the main house.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m curious. Did you fix up the studio first as a place to stay while you worked on the main house?”

He let out a humorless chuckle and his expression darkened. Suddenly I was back in the company of the irritable man I first met the day I thought I was beginning a new venture with Jamie Wilson. I remember not particularly liking that guy, so I was a little sorry I’d brought up a sore subject. I needed to tread more carefully until I figured him out.

I started to sputter an apology, but Michael held his hand up to halt my speech. Tension radiated from him. The rigid set of his shoulders and the white-knuckled grasp on his crutches gave him away, though he offered a weak half-smile when he stopped in the breezeway. I watched him closely, trying to gauge his temperament while fighting my own growing alarm.

I had yet to figure out what triggered my fits of panic. I knew I was safe. So what if he was angry? It wasn’t me he was pissed at. I concentrated on my breathing and began an internal dialogue to soothe my nerves.

I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

“You okay?”

I blinked and swallowed hard. Michael’s head was cocked to the right as he leaned forward braced on his crutches just a couple of feet in front of me. His took his sunglasses off in a hasty movement and stared at me for a long second, his dark brow furrowed in concern.

“Sorry. Yes.” I gulped and tried a smile I knew wouldn’t fool anyone who knew me well. Michael raised one brow and set his glasses back on his nose, letting the moment pass.

“I didn’t fix up the studio. That was Jamie. It was a surprise.”