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STEVE ASKED THEUber driver to let him off about a mile from his home. He wanted to walk a bit, stretch his legs, and absorb the conversation he’d had with Connor.
The night air was cool. A mist hovered above the sidewalk, muffling sound and giving an eerie, lonely feel to the night. Steve felt all by himself, even though it wasn’t that late. Maple Leaf was quiet for the most part, even during the middle of the day. The biggest and busiest places were an Ace Hardware and a Chinese restaurant that was deservedly popular. Otherwise, it was a quiet little area, one you wouldn’t expect to find in a bustling metropolis like Seattle.
He was far enough north that the light pollution from downtown didn’t interfere with his view of the sky. Although there were blue-gray clouds against the deep navy of the sky, they were mere strands, like cotton candy, and still allowed for a glimpse of stars. Steve paused to gaze up at the Big Dipper and to search for the Milky Way.
His footfalls on the pavement for company, he pondered his conversation with Connor. Even though Rory had turned Steve’s head when they’d first met last fall, Steve had never really fallen out of love with Connor, who continued to represent home and family. And now, in the wisdom of 20/20 hindsight, he knew he’d never really fallen in love with Rory. Sadly, he’d taken the qualities ofloveandhome, so vital and important, for granted. He’d chosen the spark of new love, lust really, as something to prioritize. It was no comfort that he wasn’t the first middle-aged man to do so, nor would he be the last. Yet, he maintained in his heart and soul that he was beyond those foolish men, chasing after excitement over stability and warmth.
He and Rory had been a mistake. Steve knew it pretty much from the start, but the roar of new lust drowned out his misgivings.
The error he’d made was no small thing. But neither was what he had with Connor and Miranda. They were a genuine family unit and the love they’d shared was real and, he’d once believed, lasting.
When Steve discovered that Connor had gotten married, he’d thought all was lost. That news, that shocking information, woke him up as much as someone coming into his bedroom late at night and hitting him over the head with a crowbar. A wake-up call indeed.
When he found about Connor’s nuptials at City Hall, Steve knew that the wedding he was planning was wrong, a huge mistake, and something, given odds, he’d bet would never last.
He recalled how he’d tried to cover up knowing about the wedding with Connor. He wasn’t sure why. Embarrassment? Grief?
Except for the very early days with Rory, he’d had misgivings. But he buried them and could make that burial with some comfort because he believed Connor would always be there. If he should deign to call off his and Rory’s summer wedding, he was sure Connor would back him and maybe, just maybe, welcome him home with open arms. The shame Steve felt was rooted in how he’d underestimated Connor, thinking he’d mope around, pining for him, until he realized his error and begged to come back. Connor was better than that, more than that.
Why did realizations like this take so long to make their appearance?
Tonight had changed everything.
Where he thought no hope existed, he’d found a miracle. There was not only hope for a reunion; there was a chance. That’s not to say Connor would simply divorce this new man (and Miranda had given him an earful about how mysterious the guy was—and not in a good way, but in the manner of lots of secrets and lies), but at least Steve now knew there was trouble in paradise. As a middle-aged fool himself who should know better, Steve bonded with Connor over the impulsive decisions none of us are immune to, especially when facing our own aging process and mortality.
He felt the door was open just a bit, for him to get Connor back, to once again live in the condo he adored, to be part of all the family holidays and celebrations. To once more wake next to Connor and gaze out at Lake Union from their bed as the sky changed from blue to purple to orange in spectacular sunrise. He could hope again that maybe there’d be the comfort of good silences, good food, warm affection.
Maybe not the fireworks of young love, but something that, really, was so much more.
Now, he stood in front of the gray-and-white Craftsman and debated whether he even wanted to go inside, for this was a house, not a home. He could lay no claims of ownership because the deed was in Rory’s name. They’d discussed adding him to the paperwork, but Rory always put it off. Maybe he knew, too, that their union was one big error?
The house looked dark and imposing. Unwelcoming.
Even Rory was in Miami.
Steve was tempted to take out his phone, call another Uber, and head downtown to the Westin. Their heavenly beds foretold oblivion. The next day, he could come back and gather his clothes, books, electronics, and find his own place. The road back to Connor, a possibility, was still going to be longer than the road away and most likely fraught with potholes.
He wasn’t so devious that he would deliberately scheme to ruin Connor’s marriage. Yet, if that marriage was a rocky wrong turn anyway (as Miranda had sworn it was), he couldn’t be blamed for hurrying its demise.
He put away his earlier fantasy of an escape for the night. A hotel was stupid. A waste of money. Besides, he’d be alone here in this “house not a home,” and he’d be comfortable. At least Rory was in Miami, and he didn’t need to contend with his life’s biggest error staring him in the face.
Steve freed his keys from his pocket with the distinct feeling this would be the last or at least one of the last nights he’d spend here. He had no place lying on sheets scented by a man for whom he really had no love.
He needed to get out. It would be a hassle, but he had no choice.
He mounted the stairs and paused on the top one.
Someone was watching him.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, despite the only sounds being the whisper of new leaves on the maple in front of the house. His only sights were the warm yellow windows of neighboring homes.
He shivered and pressed his key into the deadbolt. Just before he opened the door, he looked behind and up and down the residential street. The warm yellowish glow of streetlights revealed not even one person. The wind rustled the leaves and buds in the trees and the sound mocked his paranoia. A Prius glided up the street and passed him, not slowing.
Still, the feeling of eyes on him persisted, quickening his heart rate.
“Man, you need to get some sleep,” he said to himself as he opened the door. “Must be fatigue creeping you out.” Inside, he paused to turn off the alarm and then noticed that he must have forgotten to set it before leaving. He shrugged. It wasn’t like him, but he reasoned that since this wasn’t really his home after all, maybe he was subconsciously unconcerned with its well-being.
Whatever.
