To Build a Home

36 | One Year Later

One month after I left Windber, I hired a lawyer to help with the Baker Brothers buyout. Since Phil had used the money from the sale of our childhood home to start the business, he gave me a ten-percent stake in the company in addition to my half of the inheritance that paid for art school. It ensured that Phil and Darren were equal partners, neither with majority control. So I was the tiebreaker, much like I had been when my parents would drop the three of us off at the movie theater on Saturdays when we were kids and Phil and Darren couldn't agree on a movie. I had always sided with Darren to piss off my brother and because, well, he was dreamy, even with braces.

I instructed the lawyer to make the best and fairest deal, but to leave me out of it. "Just put the money somewhere safe," I said. "I'll deal with it when I'm ready."

Two months after I left Windber, I changed Darren's name to Noah in my phone. Ever since the night at the bar with the stranger and the fancy wine, Darren sent texts with images and videos of the baby almost daily. It was a bittersweet feeling and every time I saw his name appear on my phone, the anger I felt always ruined the joy of opening a photo of Noah at a pumpkin patch or feeding a giraffe at the zoo.

Although I never forgot that it was Darren sending the photos, by switching the contact name to Noah it felt more like opening a file on my computer where I kept all things Noah-related than a text message from the man who broke my heart. There was never anything other than a photo or video––not even a simple hello––and I was grateful for that.

Three months after I left Windber, my show opened at the gallery. There was a huge turnout and almost all of my photos were purchased. Cynthia introduced me to the buyer who had expressed interest all of those months before and it turned out that he was also from Pennsylvania. "I could sense the contradiction in your work," he said, "the nature and the industrial, the small-town feel, the trollies, and I just knew you were a PA kid. Plus, I googled you."

Victor Baldwin was forty-five and started collecting art when an early investment in a startup paid off in his thirties. He didn't have an office or a job, really, but it seemed like he was always working. Every time he visited the gallery, before and after my show, he'd have five or six quick calls that would interrupt our walkthrough. Each call I would patiently wait for it to end and try not to listen too closely, peering around at the art that I stared at for hours every day like I suddenly noticed something new. I knew that our relationship was evolving beyond artist/buyer the day he finally ignored his calls.

Victor was a man of few words. He enjoyed experiencing the moment instead of talking about it. He took me to restaurants and galleries and theaters. We often stayed at his place in Chelsea, which was bigger than any Manhattan apartment I had seen, with large windows and modern fixtures. There were some doors and drawers without handles that I could never figure out how to open. The first time I spent the night, I locked myself in his bathroom for almost an hour because I couldn't figure out how to flush the toilet.

He'd watch videos of Noah with me in his bed and I guess what I liked most about him was that he didn't ask too many questions. Noah was like our bedtime story, a fairytale about a distant prince who was growing up way too fast. From one video to the next, he'd grow an entire inch or the word that he couldn't say last week sounded crystal clear the next. But Victor never asked why the prince was so far away or who was watching over him. I wasn't sure what tale I would tell if he did.

Six months after I left Windber, after shows at multiple galleries across the city and many highly-priced sales, I was able to leave my job and pursue photography full time. A few magazines featured my work and I was always traveling around the city with my new camera, like a tourist. I used my old apartment as a dark room and shuffled between there and Victor's place. We never talked about moving in or being together, it just sort of happened. After a while we expected each other to be around for dinner or bedtime and others expected us together at parties and happy hours.

Victor was constantly traveling for work, so I often had the city to myself. I'd process film in the afternoons and see my friends for dinner or brunch. Sometimes I'd have tea with Charlie to hear about his music teacher Paul or I'd visit Cynthia at the gallery and listen to her complain about my replacement and how she swore she'd never give another good employee their own show again.

The life I had dreamed for myself as an outsider in a small town was finally becoming a reality, and all before thirty. I wished, more than anything, that my brother could have seen it. If what Theresa had said that day at their baby shower was true, that Phil was my biggest champion, then he would have loved it––probably more than I did. Maybe I was still in shock or maybe the saying is true that you want what you can't have, but for some reason, it all felt empty. I didn't try to figure out why, too scared of what I might find.

Eleven months after I left Windber, I was at my old gallery, preparing for my next show, when an unexpected guest appeared at my side. It was a warm afternoon, the July sun beaming in through the windows at the front of the gallery, filling the space with a bright white glow. I was talking to Cynthia, she was waving around a stack of blank title cards, and turned to see Charlie walking in wearing his red headphones.

"I just wanted to check in and see how the show was coming along," he said. "It looks stunning. Where's the one of me?"

I was showing him my newest photo, a construction site next to a drag bar where the queens took smoke breaks, their wigs in their laps, when something suddenly wrapped around my leg. I almost jumped out of my skin until I looked down and saw a small head of floppy blonde hair. "Noah?" I shouted. I picked him up. I couldn't believe my eyes. Noah was in New York and he smelled like home, like Pennsylvania pine. I looked around the gallery, but I could only see a silhouette at the front, the sun blocking my vision. Then Sadie walked towards us and out of the shadow. "Sadie!" I shouted. I squeezed Noah and carried him over to her. "What are you doing here?"

"We thought it was time for a visit. Right, little guy?"

"Did you come alone?" I asked. I looked around, but I didn't see anyone else.

"Just us," she said. My heart sank, but I ignored it. "Holy shit, Ryan, this is fancy." She looked at the photos as I kissed Noah's tiny head a million times, making up for lost time. I put him back down and let him run around the empty gallery.

"Charlie, this is Sadie. From Windber." They shook hands when I introduced them.

"Well, I should go," Charlie said after a while. "You have your hands full here." He tilted his head towards the energetic toddler. "Congrats on the show. Paul and I will be by next week."

We hugged and he said goodbye to Noah, who was trying to climb one of the exposed support beams. Sadie, with her usual grace, said, "So is that the rich boyfriend?"

"That's the ex-boyfriend. Victor is out of town. What are you doing here? You could have called!"

"And ruin the surprise? You should have seen your face."

"I was so confused. How long are you here?"

"Just the afternoon. I volunteered to pick up some marble for a client's luxury bathroom so I could bring the rugrat to see you. We tried your place first." She gave me a hug and smiled. "We couldn't decide what to do for lunch. Noah wants pizza and I want a bagel. Will you be the tiebreaker?" she asked.

"I know a place," I said.

We went uptown for pizza by my old apartment, overlooking the park. I sat Noah on the counter as Sadie and I stood in front of him chomping away at the cheesy, oily mess. It felt like I took a million pictures and videos that day. Every second there wasn't a slice in my mouth I had my phone out to capture the miracle of my little prince in the city. "You know," I told him, swinging his feet on the counter, his smiling mouth covered in red sauce, "This is where I found out I was going to be an uncle." I told him the story, the perfect little fairytale. 

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Only one more chapter left! Ahhhhhhhhhh!

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