Page 37 of Finding Michael

“My stalker doesn’t scare you?” Tristan threaded his fingers together with Michael’s.

“It does. I’m already worried about you and what this person may do,” Michael said. “I’m scared of how I feel about you, too.”

“Why?”

“You’re famous. Well, compared to me and my experiences, you are. It stands to reason someone or someones—plural—would seek you out. It also makes sense you’d decide I’m boring after a while.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve been left a lot. Al, Kevin, Barry…none of them wanted to stick around. I didn’t understand Al’s reasons, but Kevin and Barry wanted someone flashier. Hotter. Not me.” He stared at their interlocked hands. “Just be patient with me. I tend to look for the reasons someone won’t be a good fit and try to jump ship before I can get hurt. I’m horrible at it because I have faith in people far beyond when they deserve to be set adrift.”

“You’re human,” Tristan said. “We’re both a little damaged, but we’ll find a way. Something tells me it’s going to be together.”

“Okay.” He hoped Tristan was right. But the doubt didn’t go away.

Tristan winked. “So…who can I talk to about looking at a house?”

Michael sighed then kissed Tristan. Things weren’t perfect or even sorted out, but they had a start. He had to stop thinking the worst and aim for the best.

* * * *

Tristan drove back to his uncle’s house with his heart light and his outlook positive. He had a good thing going with Michael, even if it was still new and fragile. One way or another, he’d get Michael to see they were best together.

Still, Michael’s doubts weren’t lost on him. Michael was right—Tristan had a life before Sullavan. He had friends and things he liked to do in New York. But slowing down and enjoying the moment was nice, too. More than nice…the change in pace suited him. Sure, he wasn’t writing, but he wasn’t fogged by partying and drinking. He had a clear head and an open heart. Not bad for a guy who had been voted most likely to burn out by age thirty-five. He’d made it to thirty-seven, thank you very much. Life was better, now that he had Michael.

He pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the garage. The rental car was gone and an envelope had been stuffed into the space between the screen door and the main one. He scanned the front of the envelope before opening it. Just as he’d expected, the people from the car rental place had left the receipt behind. He tucked the envelope into his bag, then unlocked the house and headed inside.

The musty smell wasn’t as pervasive. Another scent, like warm bread, settled around him. He groaned.Fuck.He hadn’t cleaned out the kitchen yet. He’d never get any writing done at this rate. He put his bag on the chair next to the door, then nodded once. The answer was so plain…he had the voice tech on his laptop. If he hooked it up and turned on the mic, he could relay the story into the program and edit once he’d tackled the kitchen.

Tristan changed his clothes, then checked his phone. No new messages or emails.Perfect.He gazed around the guest room. The house was his and paid for. It had once been a mecca for his uncle and could be a fabulous home again. He refused to create a shrine to his uncle. No, this was a place to start over. Hope spread through him as he changed into a sloppy shirt and rumpled board shorts. He could make the house shine. Living in Sullavan wasn’t beyond his capacity. He’d always said he wanted a real home and roots. Sullavan was the right place and this was the right time.

With a little help from Michael, he might even be able to create the center like his uncle had wanted, as well as an escape for him and Michael. Anything was possible.

Tristan carried his laptop down to the kitchen, then turned on the machine. He opened the file for his notes. Cleaning wasn’t his forte, but he had no choice. If he didn’t toss the junk and old food, no one else would. One chunk at a time, one page at a time, he’d tackle the kitchen and his story.

* * * *

Four hours later, Tristan finished scouring the countertops. He’d filled three garbage bags full of recyclable materials, trash and spoiled food. He wished he had a composter. At least then he could’ve put the food to some use. Once the bags were hauled to the respective garbage and recycling cans, he headed back inside. His back ached, but not only was the room now spotless, he had his first three chapters composed. He hit save on the file, then closed the lid of the laptop. If Michael had been there, they could’ve celebrated the minor victories by making out in the kitchen.

No Michael. No making out.

Tristan picked his phone up. Not checking it religiously felt odd. Back in New York, he’d used the device to while away too many hours. As he swiped through the screens, a call came through. The photo of his ex-boyfriend smiled back at him.

Tristan cracked his neck, then answered the call. “Hi, Cody.”

“Hey, you. Don’t you return calls?” Cody asked.

Shit.What’d he do this time and what did he have to sort out? “I do, but I haven’t heard from you in six months.” He sank onto the closest chair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing really. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Ah.” Tristan shifted in his seat and stared at the living room setup. When Michael arrived, he’d have him help move the sofa against the far wall. There they’d be able to watch thunderstorms through the picture window. He missed watching storms. Would Michael enjoy listening to the thunder and lightning with him? The cuddling under a blanket while snuggling closer each time a loud boom sounded?

“Are you listening?” Cody asked. “Tristan.”

“I heard you.” Not really. He’d been thinking about anything but the conversation. “Sorry. I don’t have much to say.”

“Asshole.”

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