Page 21 of After the Rain

The results were overwhelming. Dozens of forums, support groups, personal stories from men who'd lived similar experiences. I read with the hunger of someone finally finding words for feelings I couldn't previously name.

One blog post hit particularly close to home:

"I spent years trying to be the husband I thought I should be. Lisa was beautiful, kind, everything I'd been taught to want. But making love to her felt like following a script, performing a role rather than expressing genuine desire. Iconvinced myself this was normal, that real passion was something from movies, not real life.

When I met Damon, everything changed. Suddenly I understood what people meant when they talked about being attracted to someone. The way my pulse quickened when he smiled, how I found excuses to be near him, the electricity I felt when we touched—it was everything I'd thought was fiction.

Coming out at thirty-five was terrifying. But living authentically, even when it's scary, is better than living a lie, even when it's comfortable."

The words could have been written about my marriage to Sarah, about my growing feelings for Ezra. This sense of waking up to possibilities I'd never allowed myself to consider.

After Cooper's bedtime, I sat in my living room with a beer, staring at my phone. Ezra's number was right there in my contacts, saved when we'd exchanged information about Cooper's homework help.

I wanted to hear his voice. Wanted to maintain the connection we'd built yesterday. Wanted to test whether the chemistry I'd felt was reciprocated.

My finger hovered over his number for a full minute before I finally pressed call.

"Hi Wade." His warm greeting suggested he was pleased to hear from me.

"I wanted to thank you again for yesterday. Cooper's been talking about his family tree all day."

"It was my pleasure. Really. Cooper's got such a creative spirit."

Our conversation started with gratitude but quickly moved to more personal territory. Weekend activities, Cooper'sexcitement about the completed project, shared observations about small-town life.

The ease of our phone interaction mirrored yesterday's natural chemistry. We talked like old friends, like people who'd known each other for years rather than weeks.

"There's a community event at the library next Saturday," Ezra mentioned. "They're doing a building workshop for kids. Sounds like something Cooper would enjoy."

"That does sound perfect for him," I said, then heard myself adding, "Would you like to go together? I mean, if you're planning to attend anyway."

The invitation came out before I could second-guess it, and Ezra's immediate acceptance felt like a small victory.

"I'd love that. Cooper and I could work on a project while you supervise our questionable construction skills."

The easy banter felt natural, comfortable in a way that made my chest warm. We were making plans outside the school context, moving toward something that felt like friendship but carried the possibility of more.

As our conversation wound toward its end, neither of us seemed eager to hang up. We found excuses to keep talking, the reluctance to break our connection feeling significant.

"I should probably let you go," Ezra said finally, though his tone suggested he didn't want to.

"Yeah, early morning tomorrow."

"Thanks for calling, Wade. I'm really looking forward to Saturday."

"Me too."

Hanging up after nearly an hour of conversation, I felt energized and hopeful in ways I'd almost forgotten were possible. Ezra had seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me, interested in spending more time together, warm in ways that felt personal rather than merely professional.

I went to bed with anticipation for our library plans and growing certainty that whatever I was feeling, it was worth exploring.

For the first time in years, I was excited about the possibilities ahead rather than just getting through another day.

Maybe this was what it felt like to actually want something—not just accepting what seemed practical or expected, but genuinely desiring a specific future, a particular person, a life that felt authentic rather than performative.

I fell asleep thinking about Ezra's laugh and the way he'd looked at me when I'd talked about the Victorian house restoration. Like what I had to say mattered. Like I mattered.

Maybe it was time to find out what else I'd been missing.

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