Page 30 of After the Rain

Ezra's lips were soft, warm, and when he kissed me back with careful tenderness, my world tilted on its axis. This wasn't curiosity or confusion. This was want, pure and simple and earth-shattering.

The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth, the way he breathed in sharply when I deepened the kiss—every sensation was new and overwhelming and more right than anything I'd ever felt.

When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I stared at him with wide eyes.

"Daddy! The baby ducks are swimming!"

Cooper's voice calling us broke the spell, and I stepped back quickly, my mind reeling. Ezra's face was flushed, hisglasses slightly askew, his eyes dark with something I was only beginning to recognize.

What just happened? What does this mean? Am I gay? Have I been lying to myself my entire adult life?

The questions crashed over me as we walked toward Cooper, and I realized I may have just changed everything without understanding what I'd changed it into.

But underneath the panic and confusion, one truth settled in my chest like a warm stone: kissing Ezra had felt more right than anything I'd done in years.

Maybe that was terrifying. Maybe that was impossible. But it was real.

And I had no idea what to do with that truth.

EIGHT

RETREAT

EZRA

Iwoke to the memory of Wade's kiss and the look of complete shock on his face afterward.

Six AM, and I was staring at my ceiling like it might provide answers to questions I was afraid to ask. The kiss had been sweet and genuine—tender in a way that made my chest ache even remembering it. But Wade's obvious panic about what it meant had me worried in ways that went bone-deep.

I'd been through this before with questioning men. The pattern was always the same: confusion, experimentation, panic, retreat. Sometimes they'd disappear entirely. Sometimes they'd stick around long enough to break my heart properly before deciding they were definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent straight.

Rolling out of bed, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Same face, same tired eyes, same cautious hope that I should have learned to suppress by now. But Wade felt different. His confusion seemed genuine, not calculated. The way he'd looked at me before the kiss—desperate, searching, like I heldanswers to questions he'd never thought to ask—that wasn't performance. That was discovery.

My phone sat silent on the nightstand. No text from Wade, which could mean anything. Maybe he was processing. Maybe he was panicking. Maybe he was pretending it never happened.

Getting ready for work, I tried to prepare myself for every possible scenario. Wade might avoid eye contact, act overly casual, treat me with careful professional distance. Or maybe—and this was the hope I was trying not to nurture—maybe he'd want to talk about what happened between us.

The coffee tasted bitter, which probably had more to do with my mood than the beans. I found myself standing at my kitchen window, looking out at the quiet street and wondering why I kept hoping that this time would be different.

Maybe because Wade had seemed so lost yesterday, so genuinely confused about his own reactions. Maybe because the way he'd kissed me back had felt like recognition, like coming home.

Wade appeared at school drop-off looking like he hadn't slept, his usual easy confidence replaced by nervous energy that made my stomach clench with recognition. The signs were all there—the careful way he scanned the area before approaching, the way he avoided direct eye contact while still trying to appear normal for Cooper's sake.

But instead of immediate panic, I felt something sharper. Annoyance. Why did it always have to be this way? Why did I always have to be the one managing everyone else's emotional comfort?

"Good morning, Cooper," I said, forcing warmth into my voice as the boy bounded toward me. "Ready for another exciting day of learning?"

"Mr. Mitchell! Guess what? The baby ducks at the park can swim now! Well, they could swim yesterday too, but today theycan probably swim better because that's how growing up works. And Daddy says we might go back this weekend to see if they've gotten bigger."

Cooper bounced between his father and me with typical enthusiasm, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between the adults. His innocent chatter about their evening at the park made both Wade and me stiffen, worried about what details a six-year-old might innocently share.

But Cooper focused on ducks and playground equipment, not adult complications. Thank God for the selective attention span of children.

Wade's attempts at normal conversation felt forced and overly casual. "Good morning, Mr. Mitchell. How are you today? Beautiful weather we're having."

The stilted politeness stung. It suggested Wade was trying to pretend our kiss never happened, that the moment of connection I'd felt so deeply was just an inconvenient blip in his consciousness.

"I'm well, thank you," I replied with equal formality, though inside I was fighting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand we talk about what happened. "Yes, it's a lovely morning."

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