Brandon stared through the windshield. For the second time in so many days he had put his faith in the RAV’s GPS to lead him to Sam.  This time it had brought him to a secluded hilltop  on which sat a large beige pole barn and, in its shadow, a tiny house. Like, literally a tiny house. The kind with wheels, split-mini ductless HVAC, and trendy charm. Well, maybe not exactly charm. This one had a more contemporary vibe, with black ribbed metal cladding that echoed the industrial vibe of its significantly larger neighbor and stained wooden accents. Regardless of its aesthetic, Brandon would have undoubtedly backed down the long driveway, convinced he was in the wrong place, had it not been for the familiar dark green pick up in front of the tall garage doors and Sam’s ancient Toyota 4Runner—the boxy kind from the 80s—parked in the graveled area in front of the “house.”  

He parked and wandered tentatively over to the house’s front door.  The expanse of gravel was large, acting not only as a parking space off of the main driveway but also as a patio of sorts. Long, narrow raised beds of corrugated metal were spaced evenly along the length of the house, burgeoning with beans, squash, the last of the summer’s tomatoes and peppers, and even stalks of corn. A low wooden deck stretched from the front door at the end of which four Adirondack chairs gathered around a small stainless fire pit. Brandon recognized it as one of those bougie smokeless numbers. Ceramic pots near the door were layered with basil, rosemary, thyme, and sage. Had it not been for the immense garage a stone’s throw away, it certainly would have been a setting worthy of a decent AirBnB.  But a home for a family?

He was just approaching the door and wondering if there was a doorbell or he would have to knock when Sam emerged from a side door in the pole barn and called to him.  

“You made it,” he observed with a smile.  As he crossed the driveway, Brandon took stock of his attire. He was neither in his customary jeans and button down, nor did his outfit resemble the work gear he had worn so well the day before. He was in a simple gray t-shirt and black gym shorts. His legs, which Brandon had never seen before, were muscular and defined like his arms and terminating in tall, black NoBull trainers. Sam Vogel was clearly a fitness fiend. As he stepped out from the shadow of the barn into the late afternoon sun, his arms and legs shone with perspiration, and Brandon immediately began to wonder what it was like inside those sneakers. He resisted his inclination to stare at their dotted fabric uppers rippling with his footsteps as he approached. 

“I did—though I honestly wasn’t sure I had the right place. You live here?”  He couldn’t help but sound incredulous. 

He laughed. “Is that so surprising?”

“No.  Well—okay, yeah. Two reasons: first, I expected a Victorian farmhouse or a craftsman bungalow. Something a little more in keeping with your line of work.”

Sam put a foot up on the lip of one of the corrugated raised beds with an amused expression on his face. Brandon could only risk the fastest flick of his eyes in order to see the rim of his high top pucker under the strain. No sock was visible, but the sneakers were tall. Ankle socks, probably. And given the dewy state calves, they were probably pretty wet. “And the second?” Sam pressed. 

“I know you have at least one daughter.  You’ve mentioned soccer and you had Back to School Night yesterday. I assume your family is even bigger than that. But I can’t imagine any more than maybe a couple sharing a space like this. Not full-time, anyway. 

Faintly grinning, Sam cocked his head and gave it a slight shake as if in amazement. “So perceptive. Okay. Well, you’re right, actually. On both counts.  I’m divorced. My ex has the ‘real’ house,” he said, using air quotes. “And it is a craftsman,” he added. “But not a bungalow—a foursquare.”  He moved over to one of the Adirondacks and sank in, crossing his ankle over the other leg. Brandon followed his lead and sat opposite him. “And yes, actually I have two daughters. They stay with me every other weekend. The tiny house is surprisingly spacious inside, but as you surmise not very conducive to family living, which is why I don’t have them here very often.”

“I see. Sorry to hear about the divorce.”

“Thanks. But really, we’re on very good terms and the girls have been fine. It was difficult for a little while as far as the living arrangements. I actually camped out in the shop there for a few months until I had gotten the house ordered, built, and situated.”

Brandon twisted around in his seat to look at the pole barn, then pointed to it with his thumb over his shoulder. “This shop?” he said with disbelief.

“Yep. It has a bathroom.  Even a shower. I had put it in when I built it because occasionally we need to rinse off after a job before tracking stuff like lead paint dust into our homes. That, a folding cot, and a hot plate…it’s least as good as a college dorm.” He smiled. 

“And how about the tiny house? I’m guessing from how things look on the outside that it may be a step or two up from college dorm.”

“I think you might be surprised. Would you like to come in and see for yourself?”

---

Sam wasn’t kidding—for a bonafide tiny house, it had a huge impact the second one stepped through the door. Like most tiny houses Brandon had seen on design shows, the kitchen dominated the center. A living space sat at one end, and an enclosed area—presumably the bathroom—on the other. He could see at a glance that each end had lofts above them.  On had a tidy set of stairs leading up to it with built in storage beneath, the other a more ladder-like access. But the space between—the kitchen and dining space—soared with light-filled height. 

The entire space was a cohesive blend of white walls, mid toned wood floors and ceilings, and black accents. But it was far from unimaginative. Brandon immediately noticed the vintage Turkish rug in the kitchen, the colorful array of woven cushions on the gray sectional nestled in the living space, and the small cubbies that displayed a few collected vintage items—a Brownie camera, a Sphinx typewriter, and a old microphone on a table stand.  But even these items didn’t represent the most frivolous use of space.

“A Viking range?” Brandon turned to Sam, his jaw comically dropped.

Sam laughed. “Just a 24-inch.”

Brandon ran his hand over its gleaming stainless front. “I didn’t even know they made such a thing.  You have natural gas here?” 

“Propane.”

Brandon continued down the short run of quartz countertops, fingering the compact wall-mounted spice canisters, small stack of cookbooks, and the strings of garlic. 

“Well, what do you think? College dorm?”

Brandon smiled. “I think you know it’s just a tad more impressive than that.”

“I guess I do. But you’re a designer. So I’d like a professional opinion.”

Brandon turned to face him, leaning against the cabinets—sleek black affairs with long stainless tube pulls. “You know, you can tell a lot about a person by their home. Both in the type of home they choose to live in and what they fill it with. But I think all of that is amplified when someone lives in a tiny home. Space is at a premium. So…this is really a distilled down picture of who you are.”

Sam propped up against the fridge opposite him. “Uh-huh, I see. And what do you notice?”

Brandon glanced around again. “Let’s see. A man who loves to grow and cook his own food. Someone who values history enough to devote the space to displaying it,” he nodded toward the cubbies. “And a guy who likes beauty without excess.”  He drew a finger along the countertop. “And he’s clean,” he concluded with a grin. 

“Not bad. Anything else?”

Brandon looked at the ceiling. He supposed it was a fair grilling. After all, Sam was putting some faith in him as a designer, and that meant being in the business of reading people. “Ah, well…you had a Craftsman home with your wife, so you appreciate well-built, well thought out design that isn’t frilly.  You chose this house style to be as attractive as possible while not being at odds with your very utilitarian shop next door. And you prioritized your daughters by ensuring they had a loft of their own and not just some pull-out sofa. Oh, and your favorite color is green.” Sam raised his eyebrows at that. “That was a guess. Your work truck. It looks custom, so I figured.”  Sam stood silent for a moment, and Brandon began to feel the weight of the silence. “I guess I draw a lot of conclusions about people. Occupational hazard,” he shrugged. 

“I’d hire you.”

Brandon smiled. “You don’t need me, Sam. Looks like you’ve got things well in hand here.” He straightened. “Is this the bathroom through here? Can I see it? I’ve always wondered what a tiny—” 

That was the moment that Sam pushed himself against him.  And kissed him. 

---

Brandon glanced in his rear view until the taillights of Anthony’s Jeep were out of view. They had talked in the parking lot of the hiking area until it had become too dark and too cold to continue. Anthony had raved about how the outing had been an astounding success.  As he spoke about other recording sites and plans to purchase more sophisticated equipment, Brandon had been distracted by the mud-caked Hunter, which he had worn on the walk back from the bog. Anthony hadn’t seemed to notice him stare as he scraped the clods of earth from the shaft with the treads on his other boot, leaving claw-like trails down the black rubber sheath.  But when it came time for Brandon to agree to a second meeting, he found himself unsure. He asked for some time to think about it, to which Anthony unhesitatingly obliged. 

In the warm solitude of the Escape, Brandon found his mind veering to the moment the boot had disappeared into the ground.  He turned on the stereo and cranked up Aretha Franklin.  Anthony had looked surprised. So caught off guard. He could probably feel the weight of all that clay pressing against his foot through the boot.  Brandon punched the button on the door and lowered his window. Bitter March air jetted turbulently across his cheek. He could see the look of intensity on Anthony’s face as he tugged violently with his leg. He could imagine his black sock straining against the top of the boot. He could still feel the rim in his own hands—dusty and supple—as he yanked on it with him to free his foot. 

Brandon braked and guided the Escape onto the shoulder.  The howl of the wind faded and with the flick of his wrist, Aretha was silenced.  He released his seat belt and jammed his fist repeatedly against his tweed pants. In less than a minute he was grunting, eyes rolling back as warm semen filled his underwear.  

He put his head back against the headrest. He pulled the shame around him like a worn, familiar blanket. Not just the shame that he still had ten miles to drive in sticky pants.  Nor was it just the shame that the afternoon’s venture had apparently not worked—that he had given in yet again in spite of all his efforts.  No. Most of all, it was the shame that he knew he was going to call Anthony to meet him again anyway.