Brandon stood in the shower and looked down at the rivulets of soapy water that ran over his feet and down the drain of the rusty farmhouse tub.  It was going to be a busy day.  Dell was coming over to begin hanging sheets of bead-board on his bedroom ceiling, and he had a late morning appointment with a realtor at the Prescott Building.  He should have felt invigorated.  Things were taking shape, moving forward.  By as early as sundown he could be sitting in a bedroom that no longer looked like belonged on a Chernobyl tour, looking over lease papers for his very own design studio.

And yet…

He felt the weight of singledom pressing down on him like he never had before.  He was pretty sure it had been there most of his life.  But after being with Anthony–after feeling the reprieve from the constant strain of solitude–the return to that old life was starkly uncomfortable, like resuming an exercise that had previously caused injury.  The old, learned pain was all too eager to reprise. What’s more, he had been forced to spend the previous night in Anthony’s old room since his had to be cleared of everything for the installation of the new ceiling.  Returning to that bed under these circumstances–so different from the last time–made him feel raw.

He was just dropping a lumpy, heavy plastic bag of scoopings into the cat shit can outside–the grand finale to his typically choreographed morning–when Dell’s Tacoma glided up next to the kitchen.  “Howdy, brother,” he called jovially from the truck, cutting the engine.  “Whatcha doin’?  Getting ready to slop the hogs?”

Brandon grinned as he drew up beside the truck and leaned on the door.  “Don’t you know it?  Then I’m out to the orchard to pick the last of the cherries so that I can bake you a pie, sugar.”  

Dell’s laugh came hearty and deep.  He stepped out of the truck and clapped his hand affectionately on Brandon’s elbow.  “How’s my favorite farm boy?”  

“He’s glad you’re here.”  His answer was genuine.   Dell had become more than just a neighbor during his last five months at the loft.  A combination of his uncomplicated personality and circumstance–which kept bringing them together–had allowed an unlikely friendship to cement between them.  He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but it now occurred to Brandon that Dell had somehow stepped into the role that Anthony had once held as the stabilizing, straight buddy.  Unlike Anthony, however, Dell was seemingly at no risk of swinging for the other team.

The two of them stood and looked at the farmhouse.  The clear morning light had just crested the trees on the east side of the property, and the white siding of the second floor glowed with sunlight that had a touch of autumn amber.  Below, Boston ferns gently swayed, their ample, lush fronds dripping water to the railing below.  Dell nodded in silent approval.  “Building hasn’t been the same since you left.  Peter leased to a couple of college kids.  That loft is never going to look like it did when you lived there.  And I’ll probably never get a decent night’s sleep again.  But you’ve got a pretty good gig here, brother.”  He turned and smiled at Brandon, who drew his arms around himself in spite of the August heat.  “I think this place suits you.”

“You do?  Sometimes I think this whole thing was one colossal fuck-up.”

“Naw.”  Dell lowered the tailgate of the truck and began to draw out several tool cases.  “It’s good to move on to something new.  Doing the same old things makes you old and bitter.”

Brandon slung a Milwaukee bag over his shoulder that felt like it held lead ingots.  “Yeah–wouldn’t want to be in a rut.  That’s why I moved into my ex-boyfriend’s house.  Jesus, Dell.  What’s in here?”  

Dell chuckled and pushed a lighter, hard case toward him.  “Take this one.”  They started up the front steps.  “Is that what we’re calling him?” he asked as Brandon used his foot to incentivize Sherlock to move from the screen door.

“What’s that?”

“‘Ex-boyfriend.'”  Brandon blinked.  Dell raised his eyebrows, his question clearly not rhetorical.  

“I mean…he’s in another state about to celebrate the birth of a child with his wife.  I’m not sure what else I would call him.”

Dell stepped inside and set his bags in the doorway to the living room.  He briefly surveyed the living room, still shaded by the porch at this time of day and cast in a moody green light, before he walked over to the stairs and ran his hand over the smooth panels of bead-board that had been stacked against the bannister.  “Katrina, right?” he asked nonchalantly as he inspected the grooved edge of the first panel with a fingernail.  

“Yeah?” 

“You just called her his wife.”  Dell looked up when Brandon remained silent.  “But you used to call her the ex-wife, if I’m not mistaken.”  

Brandon put his hands in his pockets.  “I’m not sure I get your point.”

Dell drew his mouth into a tight grin and shrugged.  “Eh, I’m not sure I even have one.”  He hefted the Milwaukee bag from the tile floor and started up the stairs.  Brandon watched the wheat-colored heels of his Timberlands progress up the creaking treads until they turned at the landing.

---

Brandon flicked his wrist and looked at his watch while Lydia droned on in his ear.  “Are you listening to me?” she demanded through the phone, her uncanny ability to detect his distraction never faltering.

“Sorry–I was just checking on the time.  The realtor is like twenty minutes late.”  He squinted up at the 1920s era building.  Seated on the bench just opposite the front doors, he was in the perfect position to catch the late morning sun mirroring brilliantly off of its gracious upper windows.

“That sucks,” came her somewhat uninterested reply.  “Who’s the agent?”

“Sam something.  Winesap, maybe?”

“Like the apple?  Never heard of him.”

“Her.  I’m not sure that was the name.  But we spoke on the phone.”  

There was only a moment’s pause before Lydia had decided she had given this part of the conversation it’s due consideration.  “So anyway, Emily Koser is over the moon about the whole polished concrete thing, and she’s definitely on board with the brass fittings I showed her, although she wasn’t in love with the faucet.”

“What did you show her?”  

“A really stunning Grohe.  Simple lines.  I love it–I think it’s just the thing.”

Brandon swept his eyes up the sidewalk looking for anyone who looked like a real estate agent.  A young couple held hands and giggled as they sashayed up Main.  An elderly woman shuffled along the parked cars in the opposite direction, pushing a small cart.  There wasn’t a single pantsuit, attache case, or bluetooth earpiece to be had.  “Pull the Dornbracht catalog from my desk.  I’m sure there’s something in there.”  He could hear the Lydia’s pshaw over the traffic.

“They aren’t going to drop two grand on a kitchen tap.”

“Probably not, but it might scare them into settling on something else.  Hey, think I’m going to check my messages one more time and then I’m probably calling time of death on this showing.”

“I’m sorry, Boo,” Lydia crooned in obligatory sympathy.

“You aren’t in the least.  But it’s fine.  Wasn’t meant to be, I guess.  Talk soon.”  Brandon swept the phone from his ear and glanced at the screen.  He had one email, which turned out to be nothing more than a promo from DoorDash.  Heaving a sigh, he took one last look at the facade of the Prescott Building.  The honey-colored brickwork stood in crisp contrast to the cool blue sky, its expanse framed by fluted concrete accents that stretched to the roofline and crowned with a band of diapering.  Three sets of large-paned windows rose in orderly columns to the third story, the space between each floor inset by a stylized scrollwork copper panels that had long since patinated to a Statue-of-Liberty green.  It was an impressive structure—distinctly Art Deco, it had a presence no other building in town could boast. 

Brandon knew that he could make another call, try to set up a meeting again.  But he was wary of investing any more time on a dream.  Sometimes, he guessed, fighting for something ended up being nothing more than that–a fight.  He slung his satchel over his shoulder and stood.  

“Excuse me,” someone called from across the sidewalk. Brandon swiveled to look.  A middle aged man with ruddy brown hair in tousled peaks and a stubble beard—who looked like he had stepped out of an L.L.Bean catalog—approached.  “Are you,” he paused to consult his phone, “Brandon Arbogast?” He looked up hopefully with dark eyes. 

Brandon’s pulse quickened. “Uh, yes. I am.”  

The man stepped forward and extended a hand. “Hi, Brandon.  I’m Sam. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Brandon could feel the stupid expression on his face as he accepted the warm, firm handshake. “Sam…Winesap? The realtor?”  He was thoroughly confused, having spent a good ten minutes on the phone with a distinctly female voice earlier that week. 

The man released him and laughed.  “I think you mean Sam Courtland.  Wrong apple.”  

Brandon blushed. “Oh man, I am so sorry…thank God I didn’t go with Pink Lady!”  Damn.  Why always with the cheesy humor?

He smiled broadly.  “No, please—you’re fine! I’m not that Sam, anyway. Samantha’s my listing agent.” He splayed strong fingers across his plaid-covered chest. “I’m Sam Vogel.  I own the building.”

Brandon found himself glancing up at the towering edifice next to them as if it could be somehow unclear which building he meant. “Oh, is that right? It’s great to meet you.” He smiled and gave his head a little shake. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, you weren’t,” he agreed sympathetically. “Samantha had a family emergency at the last minute. I’m kind of surprised she didn’t let you know I would be coming instead.” If there was the slightest trace of annoyance in his voice, it was only evident to Brandon when it suddenly grew louder and more pleasant. “But we’re here now,” he gestured to the sidewalk, “and if I haven’t wasted too much of your time already, I’d love to show you the property.”  

“I’m dying to see this property.”

Sam smiled appreciatively. “Great, then. Follow me.”  As he fumbled with the keys, Brandon found himself distracted from the drawn-out anticipation of finally setting foot inside the building as he regarded the owner. Though he was a hair shorter than he was, he had a solid athletic build and the unassuming air of a guy who liked to spend time outdoors. Kind of like someone else he knew. His button down was trimly cut and cuffed at the elbows, and his jeans looked tailored, crisply breaking over a handsome pair of moccasin boots that were made of soft, coppery pebbled leather—the kind that always reminded Brandon of the weathered arms of the fisherman that used to loaf off of the sound pier when his family visited the beach down south. 

“So how long have you owned this beautiful building?” Brandon asked as he followed Sam through the door into the cavernous space beyond. It had the comforting scent of varnished floors and dusty old wood.  Sam flicked a column of old toggle switches with his arm and a dozen milk glass globes suspended from the tin ceiling illuminated. 

“It was my father’s.  I inherited from him.” Sam surveyed the room as though trying to see it with fresh eyes. Brandon ventured further back, the long diagonal floor planks crackling and popping beneath him as he went. 

“The Deco detailing is just phenomenal,” he breathed as he took in the sunburst motif on the ceiling and the fanned out capitals on the octagonal support columns spaced throughout.  “No other building in town has this.”  Sam moved to stand beside him, placing his hands on his hips. 

“I agree.  It is something. But you know, this building wasn’t originally in this style.”  He turned to watch Brandon as he registered surprise on his face. “It’s actually much older than that. 1880s, in fact.”

“Really?” Brandon could tell from the glint in his brown eyes that he was in his element. Sam thrust his hands in his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Yep. It wasn’t until the 1920’s that Elmer Prescott completely renovated it when he opened the Prescott Trust.”

Brandon chuckled and shook his head. “Amazing. I’m sure it’s been a lot of things ever since.”

“Oh, it has. But the name Prescott has endured.”

“It probably helps that it was literally carved in stone on the front of the building.”

Sam laughed.  It rang through the empty space. Brandon felt a resonance inside him as well. “Yeah, I’m sure that has something to do with it. How would you want to use the space?”

Brandon was impressed at the casual ease with which he turned the conversation to business—especially because he was sure that Sam the realtor had already mentioned his intentions. He slowly paced the room, pausing to admire the street view through the enormous front windows. The light refracted through a cornice of leaded detailing at the top—probably pre-1920s. He had never noticed it before. “An interior design studio, actually.”

Sam looked around and nodded as though he could envision it. “I’ll bet you could really make this place sing.”

“It wouldn’t be hard. You’ve kept this up beautifully.”  

“Well, it’s kind of what I do. Restoration, that is.”  

Brandon turned to him. “Is that right?” He was growing more dazzled by the minute. 

“I specialize in old barns and churches, but I’ve done some work here, too.  Do you have a business plan I can see?”

This was the part of the conversation Brandon had been dreading. “I have one in the works.  It’s not exactly finished,” he admitted. Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly and he nodded as though hanging on his every word. “I started one years ago. Just as a pipe dream, you know?  But recent events made me realize that maybe it was time to dust it off and take another look.”

Sam turned his chin upward.  “Life events?”

“My boyfriend left me.” Brandon was silently mortified. It felt natural as it slid out, but now seemed like an abomination had been let loose in the room. If Sam was embarrassed, he showed no sign. He cast his eyes sympathetically to the floor. 

“I’m sorry. That’s difficult.”  Then switching into a more upbeat gear as he had outside, he added “I’ll be happy to take a look at what you’ve got if a lease would interest you.” He glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to rush you—especially after keeping you waiting like I did. I’ve just got my daughter’s soccer match to get to. Can I show you the rest?  I think you’re going really like some of the detailing in the office space in the back.”

Brandon, relieved that the tenor of their meeting had remained unaltered, nodded emphatically. “Please, lead on.”