AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Rochelle appears behind the bar, counting stock and checking each off a list. “Yes, Bram, they’re”—she uses air quotes—“just roommates.”
I ignore her. “Thanks, man. I’ll take it.” It’s a sweet gesture, and I’ll never turn my nose up at free furniture, so I load it up on the truck on my next break.
Lady Luck is a bar first and foremost. Performances areFriday to Sunday and all genders, becausefuck the dominant culture. Nobody gets naked, and private performances require a lengthy consent agreement and the concession that security will be watching.
Our found family crew consists of Rochelle, Jet, Frankie, Karla, Bram, Damon, and me, along with a steady rotation of Rochelle’s friends when they’re in town. She spent years of traveling the country in her van, and the connections she made keep us in good company.
Most everyone has a second job: receptionist, mechanic, and Karla is a schoolteacher, who competes in pole comps and only dances occasionally.
Bram is a former body builder. He quit because he grew sick of the culture. Frankie has been a Pilates instructor for years and is using her tips to save for her own studio. Jet’s mom is the loudest to cheer at her comps. It’s a rare week that we don’t see at least two of Damon’s friends after work, and we’re all convinced Bram’s sister has a crush on Rochelle.
I’m happy to work here, but maybe Bram’s right. Maybe I need to start thinking about what comes next.
“Well, is your ‘roommate’”—there go those damn air quotes again; they’re going to be a thing now, aren’t they?—“coming to my engagement party next month? I want to meet the woman who saved your ass.”
“Me too,” adds Damon, who has just walked in.
Rochelle leans on the bar. “I’ll third that. She’s got to be something to put that look on your face.”
“There’s no look,” I tell her, but even I’m not convinced.
We’re roommates and no more.
I’ve seen how Bee looks at me. When her attention lingers, the flush that floods her skin when I catch her and she looks away. I just need to know if those looks are going to turn into anything more.
The succulent shakes on the passenger seat as I park, and as I walk it into the house, I’m at a loss for the second time today. Should it be by the window? Do I need to know which way the house is facing and make sure it’s getting sun from the east? And what about air? The kitchen is about the only option unless I want to keep it in my room, but will cooking near it damage it somehow?
Christ. Five minutes into owning it, and I’m already the worst plant owner in existence. Is this what new parents feel like?
I’m a grown-ass man. I should be able to look after a tiny plant, especially one that is practically kill proof.
And yet it’s suddenly imperative that this little guy doesn’t die. It’s the first item in this house that isn’t just mine or Bee’s but ours. And since I’ve decided I’m really going to do this whole responsible homeowner thing, then where better to start than with Gus?
Yep. I just named a plant.
I’ve always wanted a family. Settling down. Nesting. If I can’t have my own kids, I’ll open my doors as a resource for queer kids who need accepting adults in their life or kids who need a safe place and an open ear.
Yes, I want a family. What scares the crap out of me is letting them down.
It’s difficult to ignore the nagging thought in the back of my mind, the one that has been there since I turned thirty. If only I’d started sooner. If only I hadn’t spent my early twenties throwing my money away on cheap clothes and party rounds. If I had seen settling down as something I could have.
Maybe I wouldn’t be standing in a rundown craftsman with empty cupboards and bare walls.
But I didn’t start earlier, so I need to start now.
Surrounding the front yard is a faded picket fence. The stakes on the right side shift any time the wind blows, but otherwise, it’s solid. The yellowing paint needs to be stripped. Calling what it contains a yard is generous. Right now, it’s a weed’s paradise, but I’ll wrangle it into shape once I get the tools and time.
Everything here is my responsibility now. My walls, my floorboards, my shitty tiles. The leak in the shower. The broken sideboard. The creaky front door. It’s on me.
And Bee. If I’m honest, really, truly honest, I’m relieved. Ever since I walked into the bank and kick-started this whole process, the weight ofall of thishas been clamping around my lungs.
I’m not the only one who lives here. Half of this is hers, and whether she has an opinion on tiles versus hardwood or not, she’s earned the right to be asked.
Although I’d be forgiven for only now remembering that, considering how little she occupies the house she owns half of. Every time I try to strike up a conversation or invite her to eat with me, she quietly apologizes and shuts herself in her room.
She’s hiding from me. I just wish I knew why.
The floors are hardwood, covered at some point by carpet and then removed again for staging the sale. There are scrapes and scuffs and marks from the work, and maybe I’m getting sentimental as I near middle age, but I prefer it this way. In the same way Bee likes the potential of a clean slate, I like imperfection. This house has a past. A history. There are cracks and creaks and groans, but it’s still here, still capable of becoming something new.
