Reid interviewed me in the office below our apartment.
He wore a dark blue sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair had been longer then, brushing his collar, and silver already threaded his beard.
He asked precise questions.
More importantly, he listened to the answers.
When he asked why I had left Denver, I offered him the polished lie: restructuring, poor advancement, personal considerations.
Reid watched me for several quiet seconds.
Then he accepted the answer.
He didn’t pry. He didn’t make me prove my pain before he treated it seriously.
Afterward, he walked me through the yard.
Everyone greeted him. Not with fear or practiced enthusiasm, but with familiarity. Trust. Affection.
At the main bay, Caleb had been half inside an engine compartment.
“Is that the new electrician?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Reid said.
Caleb gave me a long inspection. “Can he cook?”
“I’m hiring him to repair boats.”
“We already have several people who can’t cook.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Reid looked at me.
Something in his face softened, there and gone so quickly I spent months wondering whether I had imagined it.
He offered me the position that afternoon.
Nothing happened between us for a long time.
Nothing, however, was not the same as absence.
Nothing was Reid leaning over my shoulder to study a schematic, his chest nearly touching my back.
Nothing was his palm resting briefly at my spine when we passed each other inside a narrow cabin.
Nothing was lunch on the seawall and conversations that lasted beyond sunset.
I learned he was gay because Caleb mentioned an ex-boyfriend while recounting a disastrous camping trip.
Across the break-room table, Reid went still.
I pretended not to notice.
Later, he found me alone in the tool room.
“Caleb has no filter,” he said.
