Brandon woke the next morning and knew two things with absolute certainty before he had even rolled out of bed.  The first was that the yellowed 1950’s acoustic ceiling tiles on the ceiling needed to go.  Today.  The morning sun was already high enough that it reflected off of the ripple glass patio table below, illuminating the pocked surface above him in a misshapen puddle of golden light.  

The second was that even a night of decent sleep had apparently not been enough reset the upheaval to his endocrine system from the day before.  The moment conscious thought coalesced from the cobwebbed recesses of his brain, the dull ache was already pulsing with his heartbeat.  He both reveled in it and felt taunted by it as he dragged himself from the damp tangle of sheets.

He paused–as he always did–by the doorway to Anthony’s bedroom before heading to the bathroom.  It looked the same as it had the night Anthony had dragged the last garbage bag of his clothing to the trunk of the Camry.  The stained plaster walls stared bleakly back, a few shreds of the old peony wallpaper stubbornly clinging in the corners and around the window frames, as if refusing to be forgotten in spite of Brandon’s best efforts with the steamer.  Anthony had said Brandon should consider the house his own and take the large bedroom for himself.  But Brandon felt that only one set of circumstances would see him spending the night in that room.  Until that time, those ceiling tiles—and everything else in the forlorn room—would remain untouched. Sighing, he trudged to the shower to start his day. 

Brandon was a creature of habit. His mornings were especially dense with rituals and systems that he relied on in order to feel his life wasn’t crumbling into chaos before he had even pulled out of the driveway. The cats’ dishes were filled on their respective sides of the porch while the coffee gurgled into the pot. He ate the same sprouted grain muffin and fruit in front of 10 minutes of the morning news whilst deleting the onslaught of emails that had sprouted like inbox weeds overnight.  He zipped a cordless vacuum around the downstairs to keep the fur tumbleweeds at bay.  Then it was outside to water the planters on the porch and patio on his way to finally ending up in the car to listen to approximately 28 of some bestselling novel on his phone. From bed to gallery door, that was the routine, more or less. 

He glanced at his watch while emptying the plastic watering can over an especially thirsty lily on the patio. Two minutes ahead of schedule. As he set the can by the tap near the corner of the house and grabbed his laptop bag from the porch steps, he glanced along the back of the house to the other end. The wall of corn that bordered the yard rose ahead in the shimmering heat, topped by a halo of golden silk.  The orderly lawn mower tracks that crisscrossed the backyard raced up to meet it before bowing out of sight into the curve of the swale. Brandon slung his bag over his shoulder, wiped the sweat from his face, and started along the screened in porch, across the patio, and into the grass.  

He lamely told himself that he wanted to see Kyle’s completed work in the side yard. He even went through motion of taking in the short, even grass on the sloping sides of the swale and admiring the clean trough that had been cut in the grass against the pathetic retaining wall before he found the outlet for the downspout pipe and squatted to examine it. As expected, the slime in the gulley had faithfully recorded the events of the previous day. The imprint of the toe Kyle’s boot was cleanly pressed into the earth, as was the place where the heel had been scooped out in a crescent where he had dragged his foot back. Brandon could already feel a drop of precum escape from the memory of it. It was going to be that kind of day—his body was thrumming.  Ready.  And it would have to wait. 

---

What started as a quest to secure a client’s sideboard from a semi-local supplier turned into a Google rabbit hole as Brandon digressed into scouring the internet for Kyle’s boots. It didn’t taken long. Between the neoprene slip-on style, the K emblazoned by the heel, and the assumption that it was footwear specifically made for landscapers, he found himself staring at high resolution images in a matter of a few keystrokes. They were called “Jags,” made by a company called Kujo Yardware, and his research did indeed confirm that they were probably the ugliest shoes he had ever laid eyes on. But that didn’t stop him from vibrating when he thought about the one Kyle had inadvertently planted in the mud.  Brandon was actually scrolling through reviews when Lydia passed by and glanced over his shoulder. 

“What are you shopping for?” she pried, coming closer. 

Brandon didn’t even try to conceal what he was doing. No one could ever guess there was any kind of significance to his browsing, least of all sexual. “They’re shoes for doing yard work,” he said, keeping his tone blasé and he continue to scroll. 

“Oh, God,” Lydia said in disgust, rolling her eyes. “So you move to the country and now you’re digging in the dirt and buying hideous clothes to do it in?” She giggled. “What’s happened to you, friend?”

Brandon swiveled in his chair to face her. Other than Anthony, Lydia was the only other person in the world to know his secret. But she didn’t know it’s extent.  “Reality,” he said simply. “There’s a lot of yard to take care of. Did you need something?”

Lydia leaned on a credenza, a donning a worried expression. “I had another talk with the Kosers. You aren’t going to like it.”

Brandon narrowed his eyes. “Tell me.”

“Let’s just say the name Joanna Gaines was thrown around.”

Brandon issued a derisive snort. “I could have seen that coming a mile away.” He turned back to the screen and zoomed in on a photo of the shimmery neoprene upper, thinking of it undulating as Kyle weed whacked. 

“So what are we going to do?  Yet another house with shiplap and black wire pendant lights?”  

It wasn’t simply that they were fatigued with this kind of design. There was a concern that the gallery’s portfolio was not diverse enough. Once the shiplap phase had passed—and it had passed—there wouldn’t be much to recommend M. Michaelis to future clients if they had entire photo galleries devoted to one extinct style. Having a well-balanced mix of project concepts and still keeping every client happy was a brutally thin line to walk. Lydia and Brandon both knew this. He turned back to her. 

“What if we could achieve something in the neighborhood of Waco chic with different materials?”

Lydia blinked. “I’m listening.”

Brandon scanned the gallery, as if the answer were there. “I’m thinking polished concrete floors with Persian rugs and…” he trailed off for a moment, his mind working.  He glanced at Lydia with a tentative sidelong look.  “Zinc countertops?”

Lydia chewed on his lower lip and slowly nodded. “Layer in some high end finishes as a counterpoint to the patinated and industrial surfaces.”

“Like crystal,” Brandon chimed in. “And burnished brass.”

“I love burnished brass,” she whispered dreamily. 

“I know you do,” he said sympathetically, patting her on the shoulder. 

“This could actually work,” she said as though to herself, starting toward the work room. She stopped a turned, head cocked. “How did you do that?  You’ve had your head up your ass for weeks, but then—“ she trailed off and dramatically gestured to him, her hand indicating his sudden brilliance. 

Brandon shrugged. “Guess some of the cobwebs are clearing out.”  No cleaning agent more potent than a good strong dose of testosterone. 

“I guess,” she agreed absently. Her stare lingered. 

Brandon shifted uneasily. “What?”

“You’re really good at this.  You know…when you’re sane. Maybe you should start your own boutique firm.”  At this, she walked off. 

Brandon looked back at the Kujo Jags. Lydia’s words hung in the air. Maybe she was right. Change seemed to be coming naturally just now. 

---

The air in the farmhouse was at a gentle boil by the time Brandon got home. Both cats were sprawled across the kitchen tiles, tails flicking and heads barely stirring when he entered. He turned on the air conditioner in his bedroom—the ancient kind that dimmed the lights in the entire house when he turned it on and would horrify the EPA to know it was still in use.  It faithfully rumbled to life, and frosty clouds began to issue from the vents.  As the temperature in the room began to plummet, and the disk on the electric meter began to flick at frightening speed, Brandon headed to the garage to find what he needed to declare war on the bedroom ceiling tiles. 

Even the old, dark block building was stifling when he shoved against the swollen door and stumbled inside. The familiar smells of oil, dust, and rope were amplified in the heat.  If the garage had been disorganized before, it was a chaotic tidal wave now. It was the one place that had gotten worse with Brandon’s presence on the farm. Anthony’s unused Jeep had been parked in the bay, evicting all matter of previously stored junk to the workshop side, which now had a smattering of his own belongings in addition to all of Anthony’s mother’s things that still overflowed the loft above. What had once required a sideways shuffle to traverse the building’s depths now demanded parkour. 

Brandon scaled an old desk, hopped from a metal porch glider to a battered cooler, and slung his legs over a bike to reach the Shop Vac. How he was going to extricate it by retracing his steps was a mystery. He threw the hose and attachments across the landfill to the door so that he only needed to boost the tank above his head and make one trip. As he gathered the cord from under neighboring boxes, however, he came across Anthony’s Asics wrestling shoes, jammed between a crate of rags and a sagging box labeled “records.” Even in the dim glow of the August light in the filthy garage windows he could see the chalky splatter on the right one’s upper and tongue. 

The lid that Brandon had kept firmly clapped over the turbulent brew of emotions that had festered since Anthony had departed threatened a breach.  To him, the dusty suede sneakers were significant, in spite of the manner in which that had been swept aside and forgotten.  They were what Anthony had worn the first time he had ever directly interacted with him.  It was a memory like black licorice–pungent in its blend of murky and sweet.  He scooped the Asics up and chucked them toward the open door as well.