Page 72 of Teach Me To Sin
Two hours later, when everyone has filtered out except for Maya and the swim center crew, Tate cracks open the safe deposit box they’ve been emptying the donations into. Most of the hundreds of crumpled bills are ones and fives, hardly enough to repair one wall, let alone a whole building. But what they represent means everything. “We should save this,” I suggest, resting my hand on the pile of cash, “and buy something special to display in the lobby of our new place. So we never forget today.”
“That’s very sweet,” Victor announces tactlessly, marching back into the room with a bundle of paperwork in his arms and pushing the money out of the way. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Oh god.” I narrow my eyes at him, then jump when he slaps a sheaf of paper almost an inch thick on the table.
“Theseare receipts of donations from pretty much everyone at the fundraiser banquet, even the assholes who usually stiff us. You’re looking at well over seven figures.”
Before I can even react, he slaps down another printout even more aggressively. “Andthisis a completely bonkers crowdfunding campaign someone put up for us that went viral. Andthis,” he taps the last papers against my chest, “is a rec center that has offered to rent their entire pool facility to us for dirt cheap until we’re up and running again. They can’t shut us down, baby.”
I don’t know what to say. There’s too much here on the table in front of me–hundreds of people whose lives we touched, hundreds more who think we matter enough to keep fighting for, and years of dreaming that we could make the world a better place than our fathers did. “Hey, Benji?”
He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Yeah?”
“Which way is your dad’s house?”
“Ummmm.” Fucking Davy Crockett’s sense of direction comes in handy again as he considers, then points toward the kitchens where the catering staff are cleaning up. “That way.”
I wasn’t sure if Victor would remember, but his eyes light up. He jumps onto my back, wrapping his legs around my hips, and offers both middle fingers in the direction of Gareth Atwood’s house. “Fuck you.”
Grinning, I extend my one-finger salute next to his. “We don’t need you.”
His voice gets louder. “You’re nothing.”
“We have our own fucking pool.” We high five each other, then break down laughing.
Because today, we’re gods.
Colson
After searching for over a month,I found a rambling craftsman house on seven rural acres northeast of Seattle. The home itself is “the actual worst thing ever” according to Benji, with yellow carpet, appliances from the ‘60s, and walls painted neon green and navy blue for the Seahawks. It could be a barn for all I care. I’ve talked to a great architect and we’re going to strip it back to the studs and build a cozy, modern home full of light and simplicity, with back doors that accordion open to reveal a massive back deck overlooking the garden.
In the past, I preferred my houses to be just a few rooms, so compact that I could never feel how empty they were. Now I keep adding fragments of dreams onto my sketches–a bigger master suite, a den for movies and games, an office for Alek to store his disorganized paperwork, an enclosed pool off the side. When I show Alek and Benji the plans, it feels like ripping open my chest to let them see how deeply and irrevocably they’ve become intertwined with every part of me, each breath and beat of my heart. I know my soul is safe with them, and only them.
Once the yard is mowed and cut back, I’ll have space for plant beds, a pond, and even areas of natural meadow grass to attract bees and other wildlife. But the true selling point of the property is how it slopes down to a stretch of sparkling blue lake at the very back. My purchase wasn’t entirely based on how sexy Benji looked sunning himself on the little boat dock, but it might have helped.
I spent all of today with the builders and decorator, grappling with budgets and finish choices and the realization of just how fucking long it takes to build a house. As a reward, I stop by the local garden center I’ve become obsessed with on the way home. I don’t find any of the shrubs I’ve been looking for, but a lawn ornament catches my eye–a rampaging concrete T-rex grabbing and eating tiny, gaudily-painted gnomes. It’s so tacky, the complete opposite of my garden aesthetic, but I know someone who will adore it with his whole heart. I want the place to look like it belongs to all of us, not just me.
Scooping it up under my arm, I sheepishly pay and buckle the dinosaur into the passenger seat of my Land Rover while Hamlet and Triss wag their tails in the back. The lawn ornament stares at me with judgmental eyes all the way out to my new place, as if questioning why I’ve designed a forever home for the three of us when we’ve barely been together for two months. “Shut up,” I mumble, tossing my coat over its head.
I didn’t want to displace the renters who moved into my old home, so I’ve been living in a short term apartment until my house is ready. The current structure is offensive to the eyes but perfectly livable, so I stay out here on the occasional night that I want to work on the yard or let inspectors in. I’m on my own this evening, so I figured I’d come out and poke around in the garden with the dogs. I texted my boys to ask if they wanted to catch dinner and a movie, but neither of them answered. It left me feeling deflated all afternoon, but I understand. Alek has been working his ass off getting the temporary swimming facility up and running, while Benji splits his time between helping out, consulting with lawyers about his father, and building the worst possible zoos on our new Xbox.
The Land Rover crunches down a long gravel driveway, revealing the house nestled in a grassy acreage surrounded by mature trees. Last weekend, Alek and I sat in the yard with binoculars for hours, watching the herons and bald eagles from the lake perch in the branches, while Benji slept in the grass with his fingers wrapped around Alek’s ankle.
When I notice something’s different, I’m so distracted that I almost drive straight through the garage door. Two scrawny, half-grown olive trees flank the front steps in plastic pots, surrounded by a scattering of smaller herbs and flowers I recognize from reading about Italian gardens. Behind them, there’s a printout of an Italian flag haphazardly taped to the front door.
As I get out, the sound of running water in the backyard draws me to look around the side of the house. An elegant, European-style stone fountain at least as tall as I am sits in the middle of the yard, gurgling serenely. Fresh tire tracks in the grass betray whatever truck delivered it here. When I turn around, I spot Alek’s car badly hidden off to the side, under some low-hanging tree branches. The squeezing pressure in my chest relaxes into something so purely happy I can’t catch my breath. They have become so perfectly mine that I don’t always know what I have to offer them in return. The version of me they brought to life hasn’t been around very long, so even though I try my best, I sometimes feel like I’m fumbling in the dark.
I let the dogs out, grab my coat-wrapped T-rex, and go to inspect the mysterious pots. The olive trees are beautiful, and I’m already considering where to fit them into my plans. Maybe I’ll make an Italian nook where we can sit and plan an actual trip around the world together. Prying myself away from the plants, I examine the crooked, scotch-taped flag that looks like it came from a printer that was running out of ink. On a whim, I knock on my own front door. It swings open after a brief pause to reveal Alek dressed in a full suit.
We stare at each other a moment, then he steps back and pulls the door open. “Welcome,signore, to the best Italian pizzeria,” he recites woodenly, avoiding my eyes. His cheeks are bright pink.
“I’m very unclear on what’s supposed to be happening right now.” When I step into the doorway, he keeps staring at the ground.
“If you’d care to be seated in the back, we’ll have your fresh, authentic Italian pizza out to you shortly.” To my surprise, the place does smell like some kind of pizza. I didn’t even know the oven in this place worked. Smiling at his halfhearted monotone, I tip his chin up with my finger until his eyes meet mine. He wrinkles his nose awkwardly, his face turning even redder.
“Baby, you’re not doing the accent,” Benji whines, appearing around the corner in a suit of his own with an apron over it. “Wetalkedabout this.” All three of us look down at the bright red frozen pizza box dangling from his hand. “Oops.” He throws it out of sight with a clatter. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”
“Please save me from him,” Alek whispers.