The real estate guy picks him up at quarter to eight, which means Brian is already pissed off. He thought they’d agreed on seven-thirty. He hopes this isn’t indicative of Gregory “Greg” Gosselin’s professionalism because Brian doesn’t have time for bullshit. There are five properties he wants to look at, one of which he’s going to buy before his bank opens in the morning. The longer he gives Justin to think, the less likely Justin will want to marry him.



The first house is too close to the city, but he takes the tour anyway.



“Seven beds, five baths, 7,280 square feet,” Greg says as he unlocks the door. “Country cottage style. Newly renovated gourmet kitchen. The whole nine yards.”



“Not far out enough,” Brian says. “And where are the stables?”



Greg sighs. Brian can tell that Greg is already annoyed with him. The lecture about being fifteen minutes late probably hadn’t set the friendliest of tones.



“There’s a pool and tennis court,” he says. “Two outta three ain’t bad.”



Brian walks in and looks around the . . . the what? The foyer? The parlor? The entryway?



“You had one Meatloaf quote,” he says. “And that was it.”



Greg laughs. He thinks Brian is joking.



As they wander around the first floor, Brian tries to picture himself living there. What do people living in turn-of-the-century mansions wear? The floors are cherry. They’ll have to make people take their shoes off, which means . . . oh God, will he have to wear slippers? He supposes he could walk around barefoot, but he’d probably freeze. There’s no way a house this old can be draft-proof. Slippers. The only men Brian has ever seen wearing slippers are his grandfather and Emmett. The former’s were a dirty, beige color and Emmett’s had been blue rabbits. Brian can’t decide which is more emasculating.



“The house was built by Oliver Kaufman,” Greg says as though Brian knows who the hell he’s talking about. Should he know? Should he ask? Does he care? He just wants to buy a fucking house not, as Greg had put it, a “piece of history.” Although, maybe Justin will care. Maybe Brian should brush up on his Oliver Kaufman.



“Who’s that?” he asks, trying to sound bored and not ignorant.



“Who’s Oliver Kaufman? The owner of the first major department store in the city. He started out selling lady’s stockings and became the . . .”



Blah blah blah. Brian tunes Greg out only seconds into his history lesson. He already knows he doesn’t want to buy the house, but learning it belonged to a guy who started out life as a nylon salesman cinched the decision.



“Nope,” he says.



Greg stops mid-sentence.



“But we haven’t even gone upstairs . . .”



“Don’t need to go upstairs,” Brian says. “Too close to town, no stables, too many of those . . . those pointy things on the roof.”



Greg looks confused for a moment.



“Do you mean the eaves?”



“Whatever,” Brian drawls. “I don’t like them. They’re too Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”



Greg looks even more confused.



Poor Greg. He’s going to have a long day.



The second place is just plain, old hideous. Brian hates it on sight.



“But there are stables,” Greg says, sounding forlorn. He’d obviously worked very hard to find properties that come close to meeting Brian’s exacting requirements. Considering Brian hired him late Friday, he’d probably been up to all hours for the past two nights.



Brian doesn’t even get out of the car. He doesn’t need to. The house is built from what looks like poured cement and stands alone in the middle of a frazzled, sunburnt yard the size of a football field.



“I know it’s a bit of a fixer-upper,” Greg says. “But there’s tons of space for an art studio.”



“I don’t want a fixer-upper,” Brian says. “I want a house that’s move-in ready.”



“But the stables,” Greg says. “Don’t you at least want to look at them?”



“Nope,” Brian says. “Next.”



The next place is so far away from the city that Brian starts getting heart palpitations as they drive closer and closer to the Alleghany Mountains. Please, he thinks. Don’t let this be the one.



The road is narrow and winding. By the time they arrive, Brian is feeling car sick. They pause at a large, iron gate, which Greg has to get out and unlock before they can proceed to the grounds. The gate clangs shut behind them, and Brian’s heart palpitations quicken erratically.



When they reach the house, Greg stops the car and turns to Brian, rubbing his hands together as though he’s about to dig into a feast. It’s obvious that he thinks this house will be The One.



“Alrighty,” he says. “Now this baby is 12,000 square feet and was built by Robert Brooke for his beautiful new bride, Alice in 1888.”



Brian’s upper lip starts to sweat. He feels the sudden need to pinch himself. Where is he again? Why isn’t he at Kinnetik? No, wait, it’s Sunday. Why isn’t he at the diner? Greg doesn’t notice his distress and prattles on.



“Ten beds, eight baths, 3 acres, vaulted ceilings, greenhouse, RV parking, pool, gazebo, tennis court, both English and French-style gardens, and, of course, stables large enough for four horses.”



RV parking?



Suddenly, Brian can see himself driving a Winnebago with Justin in the passenger seat pouring over a map of Yellowstone and Gus and a pile of multi-aged kids in the back fighting over the remote for a mammoth-sized T.V.



“Mr. Kinney?”



He snaps back to the present when Greg says his name . . . wait, that is his name, right? Kinney? Yeah, he’s pretty sure it is. Maybe he should check his driver’s license.



“Uh, yeah, sorry. You were saying?”



“I was saying that this property has everything you’re looking for and more. Yes, I know it’s more than the budget you quoted me, but this isn’t simply a house – it’s a lifestyle. C’mon, let’s go in.”



They get out of the car. Brian pulls off his glove so he can wipe the sweat from his upper lip before Greg can see it and misinterpret it as anxiety over money when, in fact, money is the last thing on his mind at the moment.



“My God, look at this beauty!” Greg exclaims. “Ready for the full spiel?” He opens the door and steps aside so that Brian can enter before him. “The finest oak, rosewood, cedar and other exotic woods are used throughout the 12,000 square-foot living area, and there’s a 1,600 square foot wraparound covered porch, ten unique fireplaces, stained-glass windows, intricately carved staircases, elaborate metalwork. You name it, this place has it.”



Brian clasps his hands behind him as though he’s just stepped into a museum. Would Justin like this place? It’s certainly grand, but . . . would he like it? Hell, for that matter, did Brian, himself, like it? He can’t say for sure. How can you like something you don’t want? Or want something you don’t like. Or . . . . Christ, the last time he’d been in a place like this was when his high school American history class toured one of the Carnegie estates. Not that he remembered much of it – he’d stayed behind in the greenhouse and blown the gardener while the rest of the class toured the buildings. The only thing he recalled with any clarity was that the gardener had red hair and that was the first time Brian had ever seen red pubes.



“So,” Greg says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “Wanna hear the price? You’re not going to believe it.”



Brian nods. Sure why not? It’ll be out of his budget, so what the hell?



“One and a half million.”



One and a half million??



“What the hell’s wrong with it?” Brian asks, because, Whoa! He’d been expecting to hear it was at least three million if not more.



“Nothing,” Greg beams. “Priced to sell. The owner needs the cash. Didn’t say why. My guess is gambling debts. What do you think? It’s only $300,000 more than you’d planned on spending. Brian . . . I mean, Mr. Kinney . . . this is the chance of a lifetime.”



Brian swallows. Fuck. This . . . God, if he bought this house, he would blow Justin’s mind. He’d also blow his budget, but, then again, if Justin loved it, a blown budget would be more than worth it, right?



Greg takes his silence as a good sign. At the very least, he probably thinks Brian is considering buying the place, and he is. It’s just that . . . God, he simply cannot picture himself rattling around in this enormous house in the middle of fucking nowhere. The commute would be over an hour one way and that was when the weather was good. When it’s bad, he probably wouldn’t even be going to work at all. But Justin . . . Justin would love it, wouldn’t he?



Wouldn’t he??



They walk the length of the porch, which, in and of itself, is nearly as large as the loft. Just the fucking porch! The views are stunning. The house is perched on a steep hillside overlooking Dans Mountain and Spruce Knob (or at least that’s what Greg had told him). Even in mid-February, the sweeping lawn is green and sparkling with frost. Brian closes his eyes and tries as hard as he can to imagine sitting on a swinging chair, side-by-side with Justin, gin and tonics in their hands watching the sunset.



And equally hard, he tries not to think about standing in his VIP lounge at Babylon with a glass of whiskey, surveying the dancefloor teaming with half-naked bodies. Or leaning against the bar at Woody’s with a beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other. Or, hardest of all, lying on his back while Justin rides him, his skin pale and sweat-shiny in the neon light.



“Well?” Greg says, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.



Brian doesn’t answer right away, but he knows he needs to say something. Time’s ticking and he’s hell bent on making his purchase today. He wants the financing settled and the title transferred before he asks Justin to marry him on Thursday.



“I . . . I like it,” he says. “But I want to see the other two places before I make up my mind.”



Greg nods solemnly. “Of course,” he says. He doesn’t sound as disappointed as Brian thought he might, but then again, Brian hadn’t said “no.”



The next house is a Victorian Era mansion with the horrific name of the “Pink Lady.” Not even the objectively stunning inlaid parquet floors and gingerbread-style buildings that housed the stables and pool house could overcome that insurmountable obstacle. But Greg didn’t seem to care. In fact, he merely stretched and yawned when Brian got out of the car, said “no,” and then got right back in again.



“Didn’t think that one would be for you,” he says, starting the engine. “I don’t know your partner, but you don’t strike me as the B&B type.”



Brian glares at him. “Just because a guy’s a fag doesn’t mean he likes to garden and make French toast.”



Greg blinks at him, and for a moment seems about to say something meaningful, but then appears to think better of it and launches into a speech about the last property they’re going to see.



Like the road to the Brooke Estate, the road to the property in Weirton, West Virginia is narrow and windy. Brian doesn’t know if it’s a meaningful coincidence that the first thing he does when he enters the house is run to the kitchen and be sick in the sink.



Greg is concerned and suggests Brian sit down on the stairs. The sun has almost set; its last rays pouring through a stained glass window, splashing reds and blues and greens on the mahogany floor. Brian stares at the mess of color. He’s exhausted . . . and terribly lonely. Why is he doing this alone? If he’s buying the house they’ll spend the rest of their lives in, why isn’t Justin here with him?



Because Justin won’t marry you, says the voice that’s been nagging him for days, unless you can prove you’re worthy of being married.



“I’ll take it,” he says.



Greg had been busy checking his cell phone messages, so when Brian speaks, he doesn’t comprehend the meaning of Brian’s words for several seconds.



“You’ll what?” he says.



“I said I’ll take it.”



“Take what?”



“The house. I’ll take it.”



“The Brooke house?”



“No, this house. I want this house.”



Greg opens his mouth, blinks, and then closes it again.



“We haven’t even looked at it yet,” he says. “Don’t you want to . . . ?”



“Okay, yes, give me the sales pitch.”



Greg opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out.



“Yes?” Brian says impatiently.



“Uhm, okay. Right. This is an 11,000 square feet, turn-of-the-century, Tudor-style estate with six acres, nine bedrooms, 7 baths, pool, tennis court, stables . . .”



“How much?”



“How much? Uhm, hold on, let me look at my notes . . . okay, $1.1 million.”



“Eight-hundred thousand.”



“I’ll have to ask the owners . . .”



“Take it or leave it.”



“I said I’ll need to . . .”



“Bullshit. They gave you a range.”



“One Million.”



“Eight hundred and seventy-five.”



“Nine-fifty.”



“Okay, now you’re just being silly. Do you want to sell me this house or not?”



“Nine-hundred.”



“Sold.”



Greg opens his mouth again.



“Why the guppy impression?”



“You’re not going to believe this – as in literally not going to believe this, but I don’t feel I can sell you this house without showing it to you first.”



“I don’t need to see it,” Brian says. “What I need is to get back home, so I can talk to my accountant.”



“The stables need some work.”



“We won’t be living in the stables.”



“The attic will need to be extensively renovated before it can be used as a studio.”



“There’s time. I need to sell my current place before I can afford major renovations. I just need to know if we can move in tomorrow if we want.”



“You can move in tomorrow.”



“Okay, then.” Brian stands and brushes the dust off his jeans. “Back to Pennsylvania and back to the Pitts. Wish me luck.”



Greg frowns at him questioningly. “Luck for what?”



“For convincing the person who would live with me here to actually want to do it.”



Greg – to his great credit – laughs.



“You,” he says. “You are hands-down the craziest client I’ve had yet.”