Oh, but it didn’t stop there. When I moved to the kitchen, which was off to the side of the living room in the large open plan space, there was a manila envelope on the bar. Heart thumping, I opened it.
Inside were a number of papers, but one glimpse of the blue jacket on Dad’s passport told me I didn’t need to sort through this. Not right now. There were probably medical documents too. And worse.
I stuck it all back in the envelope. If I ever decided to actually go through and read any of it, or if I ever did anything with Dad’s climbing gear, it wouldn’t be today. Maybe, like the coward I was, I’d leave that for Daniel to deal with when he came to help out.
I left the kitchen and living room and everything that had come back from Dad’s final trip, and I went upstairs.
The master bedroom was an emotional minefield. This was one of the rooms that felt like Dad, not Dr. John M. Griffith, III. The tattered gray bathrobe he’d had since I was a kid hung on one of the four tall posts of the bed. There were old framed photos of long-dead family members on the walls, and he still had an ancient afghan made by my grandmother folded on the foot of the bed. I ran my fingertips over the yarn, and somehow I was surprised it was still soft after all these years. I didn’t really know why.
There was a paperback on the nightstand, a bookmark tucked in about two-thirds of the way through. Fuck. Why was I suddenly emotional about the idea of Dad never finishing this book? Was this what grief was going to be? Random pangs of “oh God, Dad’s gone” brought on by the most unexpected things, and all the while, my conscience berating me for not doing more to fix our estrangement? Ping-ponging between bitterness, guilt, relief, and devastation?
Yeah, it probably would be. With one phone call, the world had been yanked out from under me. The man who’d taught me to ride a bike and clean a fish was gone. So was my biggest critic. The source of the voice in my head that fueled most of my self-loathing. The guy who’d thought I was such a colossal failure, I needed a house on top of my chunk of his estate. The one who’d patiently guided me through some tough pre-Algebra homework with the same voice he’d later use to explain to me that art was a waste of time and maybe it was too much to expect all of his kids to excel.
Sniffing sharply, I turned away from the abandoned paperback and the old afghan. I did not know how to grieve this man. I just didn’t. And now I had to live in what felt like a carnival funhouse jam-packed with all the reasons why I was never good enough and my dad was too good for a failure like me.
Fuck.
Shaking myself, I got the hell out of the master bedroom and emphatically shut the door behind me.
There were three bedrooms besides Dad’s. Whenever I’d come to visit, I’d always stayed in the one at the end of the hall, but it had a southeast-facing window, and sunrise was brutal. The room got beautiful light throughout the day, though, so it would be a shame to cover it up with blackout curtains.
In fact, maybe this would be a good place to paint. After my siblings had come and gone, and there was no risk of anyone wandering in here and seeing that hobby I still secretly pursued, I could actually have a studio. Put some plastic down to protect the carpet. Set up an easel and some lights. Have a table and shelves with all my supplies. Actually have some decent supplies instead of using the same worn-out brushes, cheap canvases, and bottom-of-the-barrel paints I’d barely been able to afford with my employee discount at the art shop.
For the first time, I got a little rush of excitement. Even with all the ugly furniture and pastel bedding, I could envision it—my own studio. One that was almost as big as the apartment I’d shoehorned myself into with three roommates for the last few years.
I exhaled, and for once, it was a sigh of relief. Maybe coming here wouldn’t be all bad. I still had a lot to unpack—literally and figuratively—but maybe this wouldn’t be as miserable as I’d convinced myself it would be on the way here.
Especially if I wasn’t always here alone.
That thought gave my pulse a little surge. If there was anything that would help me live in this place, it would be bringing other people in to break the silence (and maybe some bedsprings). Or leaving with other people to make noise somewhere else.
I lay back on the guest bed I’d slept in years ago and took out my phone.
Before I’d come here, I’d snooped around Laurelsburg online, trying to get a feel for what the town was like these days. My only real impressions of it were from when I was a kid, and a little as a teenager. Otherwise, this place was as alien to me as any of the millions of tiny towns and no-name cities I’d passed through on the way here from Los Angeles. So, in between packing my belongings and lying awake in the hotels I’d stayed in along the way, I’d tried to figure out what Laurelsburg was like for an adult.
I’d been surprised to find a vibrant queer community. Oh, if sixteen year-old me had only known just how queer this little town was, I’d have spent way more time here. Well, thirty-two year-old me knew, and I had every intention of exploring those communities.
I opened the Kinkbook app, which I’d made a half-assed effort to use in LA. There’d been plenty of people there, but I’d been too stressed and depressed over trying to make ends meet to really want anything beyond chatting. Now that I wasn’t stressed about money and I was hungry for human contact, I was in a small town. Go figure.
When I looked up Laurelsburg, though, I was pleasantly surprised to find that in addition to a flourishing queer community, the town had a thriving kink community. I put in a few basic parameters—no one under twenty-five, not into cuckolding or bodily fluids, not bisexual but willing to play with the male half of a male/female couple—and hit Search.
I got quite a few hits, and I started scrolling through. A few posts sounded interesting, and I made a mental note to give them a look later. Right now, I was casting a wide net to see what was out there. I just scrolled, basking in the hope of being in a place with queer, kinky people who might help me rattle the chandeliers in Chez Failure.
I was scrolling so fast that when a particular tagline caught my eye, it quickly disappeared up the screen.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute…” I scrolled back up. “Did that say what I think it said?”
I found it, and yes, I had read it right:
If you’re a submissive sadist, we’re looking for you.
I blinked. I read it again. Then again.
I had to be imagining it. This was going to be a Rick-roll. It had to be. I was going to tap the post and be treated to Rick Astley in his trench coat and a huge helping of disappointment because, hello, nobody ever wanted someone who was both a sadist and a sub.
But curiosity was strong, so I tapped the screen, bracing for Rick Astley telling me he wasn’t going to give—
No video. Just text and two photos.
The photos were certainly nice. Neither showed faces, which wasn’t surprising, though one showed a hint of a sharp, stubble-dusted jaw, visible in profile since his head was turned slightly. The rest of the image was him from the waist up, naked except for the leather collar around his neck and some tattoos on his upper arms. My cock stirred at the thought of all the welts and scratches I could leave on the blank canvas that was this broad-shouldered man with a sexy tapering waist.
The other showed a different man, a little narrower in the shoulders, lounging in leather pants with his hand resting on his stomach. He was slimmer than the other guy, but fit, and there was a sprinkle of gray in the dark hair on his chest. Across his lap was a mean-looking flogger, and he had his fingers wrapped comfortably around the handle.