Anthony crossed his arms and looked at him pensively.  “What about my content does it for you, you think?”

Brandon couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “How can anyone answer that? I mean, what about women does it for you?”

Anthony smiled slightly and gave his head a shake. “Nope—I’m not letting you get away with that. We aren’t talking about orientation. We’re talking about a fetish. Something which I don’t have. A lot of people don’t. If you truly want to be rid of yours, maybe you should try digging a little.” 

Brandon exhaled through his nose. Anthony was attractive and insightful, making things harder. Potentially literally. “Damn. Good point. Okay, um…I’m not sure. There’s been something about mud that’s fascinated me since I was a kid.”  Despite having gotten this far, the conversation was far from coming easily. 

“Did something specific happen to cause that?”

“You mean did I get molested in a mud puddle when I was little? No.  Nothing like that.” 

Anthony choked on a fry, but moved on. “Right. So, to be clear—your hang up is…the mud?”

Brandon shook his head. “No. Boots, too. Most notably rubber boots.”

Anthony nodded knowingly. “That seems to be pretty common, actually.  I think even straight people are fascinated by boots.”

Brandon absentmindedly squished the remnants of a fry between thumb and forefinger. “Your videos are all anonymous.”

“Well, they kind of have to be, you know? They are labeled explicit.  I can’t just go revealing to people—”

Brandon cut him off. “No, I get it. I’m mean, I’m a subscriber and even my own handle is anonymous. My point is…I guess I was thinking that if I could meet you and take the mystique away. You know—look at the man behind the curtain—it might make it…”

“Less appealing?” Anthony grinned. “I see. Because getting to actually know me would be such a turn off.”

Brandon’s eyes widened. “That’s not at all what I meant.” He turned to the window. “Oh god, this was such a bad idea.”

“Relax. I’m kidding. You’re fine. I think I get what you’re saying.”

Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. “You do?” he asked wearily. “Because I’m not even sure what I’m getting at.”  He watched between the slatted blinds as a gaggle of raucous teenagers exited a low riding Jetta and started across the lot. 

“It’s like when you overanalyze a romance—it takes the magic out of it. Right?”  

“Something like that, I suppose.”

The door opened and the dismal cafe immediately filled with laughter and a gust of chilly spring air. Anthony watched in slight amusement over Brandon’s shoulder at the pained look on the server’s face as she grabbed a pile of menus from the counter.  “What is it with kids these days?” he murmured. “Documenting everything as though the entire world is held in rapt attention. 

Brandon turned around and followed his gaze to the crowded booth on the other side of the cafe, where four teenagers were cramming themselves into the bench to take a selfie. When he turned back, he found Anthony looking at him with the same crooked grin he had worn at their introduction. 

“What?” Brandon asked nervously. 

Anthony shifted in his seat, head cocked. “I have an idea. You have anything else going on this afternoon?”

---

“Oh. My. God.” 

Brandon popped his head out of the office to see Emily Koser turning a slow circle in the middle of the showroom floor.  He chuckled and strolled toward her.  The smell of glass cleaner was still heavy in the air, but it was worth the dazzling effect from the now spotless windows.  The afternoon light slanted golden through the leaded transoms, spraying rainbows across the room.  Emily turned to him, wide-eyed, and giggled. 

“This looks amazing, Brandon!” She clutched his elbow when he drew next to her, as if they were the dearest of friends, rather than what he actually was to her—a business investment.  He thrust his hands in his pockets and attempted modesty. 

“I really lucked out with this place. It coming on the market…your pushing me.” He turned and smiled appreciatively.  “Nothing short of those two things would have brought us to standing here.”  A little flattery couldn’t hurt. 

Emily gave a pshaw as she playfully pushed him away. “Get out of town—you’re a talented guy. It might not have happened at this moment, but it would have happened. I’m just so glad I get to play a part.”

“High praise, considering this is a design studio without a stick of furniture in it.”

She blinked and glanced about.  “Oh! You mean this isn’t your showcased aesthetic?”  

He smiled. “Hardly. Come to the back and I’ll show you what I’ve got planned.”  He directed her to the office door, but she stopped short and squealed in delight as she caught her first glimpse of the back wall, where the company name was now emblazoned in elegant black metalwork letters.  

“‘Haven’! Is that the name?” 

“Crafting spaces uniquely you,” he added, reciting the tagline. 

“I love it!” She beamed at him. “Simplicity and class all the way.”

“Thanks.  And it only took me a couple sleepless nights to come up with it.”  

He led her into the office where she gasped again.  Unlike the barren front room, Brandon had set to work transforming his own work area the moment he had handed over his deposit to Sam.  Emily surveyed the space, a cozy mix of urban modern and old world.  Chrome and lucite chairs gathered around an oversized, rough-hewn farm table across which Brandon had carefully organized piles of catalogs and samples. In one corner, aged leather armchairs with fuzzy wool throws flanked a stone coffee table.  Instead of a desk, Brandon had utilized a large industrial stainless island, over which were suspended enameled work lights.  And underfoot, a colorful assortment of Persian rugs and Turkish kilims were arranged across the worn wooden floor. 

Emily turned to him, clearly impressed. “You certainly made fast work of this!”

Brandon perched on a stool at the island and smiled. “It was pretty easy, actually. I just emptied my personal storage unit.”  He glanced around thoughtfully. “Feels like home.”

Emily shot him a confused look as she sank into one of the leather chairs and tucked her purse beside her. “You had all of this in storage?  What, do you just collect furniture? Trade it out seasonally?” she teased. 

He smiled weakly. “Not exactly. This all came from my loft, which I let go.”

Emily didn’t miss the note of melancholy.  She frowned. “So where are you now?”

He sighed. “That’s a bit of a long story.”

It only took a small amount of needling on Emily’s part for Brandon to spill. In about ten minutes, he had related a PG version of the past year to a captivated audience of one—down to the last awkward phone call with Anthony, now nearly a month ago. When he finished, Emily’s forehead was crinkled in thought. 

“So…he had just left right around the time you started working with us? On our house project, I mean?”  Brandon nodded slowly. “Oh my god.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I had no idea. You’ve been through so much.”

“It’s…been quite a whirlwind.” He could feel heat in his cheeks.  He dashed off a silent prayer that he could keep his eyes from misting in front of his new investor.

She shot him a look of pity, which didn’t help. “It’s quite the saga.”

He let a small, bitter laugh escape. “That’s exactly what it’s been. The Branthony Saga.”

Emily stood, breaking the tension.  Brandon watched as she slowly rounded the table, fingering a ring of fabric swatches. “But you’re handling it perfectly. They way you’ve embraced starting a business—I’m sure it’s been a lot, but the timing couldn’t be more perfect.”

Brandon stared at her for a moment. “Perfect for what?”

Emily looked up at him with the same intense look in those ice-disc eyes that she had used when she had talked him into accepting her as an investor. “To let go,” she said simply.