My realtor departs with a pleasant wave, and I’m left all alone.
This is my space. My dreams are finally becoming reality.
I bring in the first box of stuff I’ve been collecting over the years, small knick-knacks to fill the space and bring joy to the people that enter.
Hand-painted flowerpots displaying the various LGBTQIA+ identifications, art that I’ve created to hang on the walls, and I have a few chairs already picked out. I’m just waiting for them to be delivered.
But all of that aside, the feeling of glee runs through my veins, and I turn around, taking in every nook and cranny of this space. The high ceilings will leave enough room for me to make a second floor, where I’ll be able to create a reading nook for my customers. The options are endless.
I did this. I didit.
Box after box, I carry them in until my muscles ache and twitch in rebellion. The space slowly fills up with my things. Things that are going to be displayed for customers and let them immerse themselves in an experience they can enjoy. I especially hope that it becomes a safe space, like my dream has always included. Where people can unapologetically be themselves without worry or concern for how the world sees them.
Just like I am now, living loud and proud and not ashamed of the fact that I’m gay.
I’m gay.
Even thinking the words to myself in a town close to where I grew up gives me a sense of rightness. The one place I was never safe, let alone safe to live my truth. But that doesn’t matter anymore.
The final box is heavy, way heavier than the other ones, and my arms give out halfway between my car and the front door, so I resign to pushing the cardboard across the cement sidewalk and maneuvering it over the slight lip of the entrance.
I pull in deep lungfuls of oxygen, intertwining my hands behind my head to help the air flow faster. I saw a runner do it once, so surely if it works for them, it should work for me.
I yank the lid off the box, and a smile the size of Texas takes over my face. My babies, carefully protected with bubble wrap, and each one individually wrapped in a thin layer of plastic to prevent them from becoming damaged in the move.
The custom covers I agonized over every detail for hours, placing each minuscule feature in place and moving it around until it satisfied the voice inside my head.
The sprayed edges took forever and a lot of trial and error to get perfect. But I like how they came out. The combination of the icy landscape, with smaller significance to the story, like hockey pucks and sticks, is carefully placed. An omnibus of two books. I send a secret apology to every other book in the series, but maybe one day I’ll be able to create one for those as well. This was an important project to me, though, one I’m still giddy over when the author agreed to let me take on this mission.
This book was one that changed reading romance for me, and I am humbly grateful for her seeing my vision.
I close the box, securing it tightly to make sure no damage comes to it while I set up the rest of the store with what I can, until the rest of my stuff arrives.
I don’t know when I started crying, or why, but the intense feeling washes over me until I’m sobbing on the floor with my head in my hands. The tears trail down my face for what feels like forever, until I have nothing left inside. The only thing now is cathartic release, letting go of the past and starting my new life.
My old life was great, working as a graphic designer, but here my dreams are actually becoming a reality. One day, I’ll look back on this memory and know that this is the day my life truly began. It took twenty-seven years to get here, and I don’t plan on wasting another moment.
40
ADAM
“Ihave a date,” Trent announces loudly as he walks into the office. I roll my eyes and then watch as he happily skips to his desk. He doesn’t actually skip, but there’s a definite pep in his step that I haven’t seen since his ex left town.
Good for him.
“You know you don’t have to take your hand on a date, right? It’s already attached to you.”
“Okay, you fucking smart ass.” He hits me in the head with a balled-up piece of paper, and I watch as it falls onto my desk. I cut my glance over at him, and he’s smiling way too wide. He kind of looks like a psycho.
“Quit smiling like that, it’s weird.”
“Can you be happy for me, dude? You know how rough it’s been…” He trails off, and I do feel bad for the guy. I never thought he would get over Kian, but here we are.
He’s what my therapist wishes I were.
“Yeah, I know. I am happy for you,” I offer, even if it doesn’t sound the most sincere. But I tried my best, that’s all he can ask of me. “When?”
“I’m going over to his house for dinner tomorrow.” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.
