Page 44 of After the Rain

"Sexual orientation isn't determined by your past relationships or your family structure," Dr. Marlow said gently. "It's about who you're attracted to, who you could see yourself building a life with. Some people call themselves straight, some gay, some bisexual. Some don't use labels at all. What matters is understanding what feels authentic to you."

"But what about Cooper? What kind of message does it send if his dad suddenly decides he's... what, gay? Bisexual? What does that do to a six-year-old's sense of stability?"

Dr. Marlow smiled. "What message do you think it sends when a parent lives authentically? When they show their child that it's possible to grow and change and still be a good person?"

I hadn't thought about it that way.

"Wade, children are remarkably resilient when it comes to their parents' happiness. What's usually harder for them is living with parents who are unhappy or dishonest about who they are."

We talked for the full hour, touching on everything from my fears about small-town judgment to practical concerns about dating as a newly single father to the difference between sexual attraction and romantic connection.

"I want to see him again," I said as our session was winding down. "Ezra. But I'm terrified of making things worse for him professionally, and I'm terrified of what it means about me."

"What would it mean about you?"

"That I'm not who I thought I was. That I've been lying to myself for thirty-eight years."

"Or," Dr. Marlow said gently, "that you're exactly who you've always been, and you're just now giving yourself permission to see it clearly."

She gave me some resources to read and suggested we meet again the following week. As I drove home, her words echoed in my mind.

Give yourself permission to see clearly.

TWELVE

TESTING WATERS

EZRA

Iwoke to the soft ping of my phone, and for a moment, lying in the gray morning light filtering through my bedroom curtains, I almost ignored it. Saturday mornings were sacred—coffee in bed, grading papers in my pajamas, the luxury of moving slowly through my day without the weight of professional scrutiny bearing down on me.

But something made me reach for the phone anyway.

Wade's name on the screen stopped my heart.

Wade

Thank you for caring about Cooper. I'm working on some personal things, but I don't want that to affect his happiness. Can we talk soon?

I read the message three times, my pulse quickening with each pass. After weeks of careful distance, of professional formality that felt like swallowing glass, Wade was finally reaching out. The words suggested something I'd almost given up hoping for—that he was ready to stop running from whatever was happening between us.

But underneath the relief was a deeper wariness, the kind that comes from being hurt by someone you'd started to trust. Wade's mention of "working on personal things" felt significant, like maybe he was finally addressing his identity crisis instead of just drowning in it. But I'd been here before. I'd seen the panic in his eyes after our kiss, watched him retreat so completely that I'd started to wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing.

I sat up in bed, my back against the headboard, and stared at the message until the words blurred. How many times had I composed similar texts over the past two weeks, only to delete them before hitting send? How many nights had I fallen asleep wondering if Wade was okay, if he was figuring himself out, if he was thinking about me at all?

The careful phrasing of his message suggested growth, maybe even therapy. "Working on personal things" was therapist language, the kind of careful self-awareness that came from professional help. The thought gave me hope and broke my heart simultaneously—hope that Wade was getting the support he needed, heartbreak that he'd been struggling alone when I would have gladly helped carry the weight.

My response took twenty minutes to craft.

Ezra

I'd be willing to talk, but I need you to understand that Cooper's wellbeing has to come first for both of us. Whatever confusion you're working through, he shouldn't suffer for it.

I stared at the words before sending them, knowing they sounded colder than I felt but needing to establish boundaries that would protect all of us. Cooper was the constant in this equation, the bright six-year-old whose happiness mattered more than any adult romantic complication.

Wade's response came within minutes:

Wade

---