Chapter 1

1

It’s raining when I park my truck. Only a drizzle, but on top of the bite in the wind, it’s chilly enough I should start the engine and go straight home instead of entertaining the idea of getting out of the car for a walk in the park. But after the day I’ve had, I need a little happiness in my life. The rain might even help wash away all the crap.

I grab the umbrella always lying on the floor in the back seat and get out. My legs are stiff and creaky, making me stagger a bit. I grab the truck door as I stretch some life and movement back into them, groaning at the feeling of my muscles lengthening and softening.

It’s been one hell of a day.

Forcing my tired-but-less-stiff legs to move, I trudge from the parking lot onto the path leading to the bench I’ve claimed as mine these last few weeks. I hope I’m not too late; I was detained at the job site by the too-cocky foreman and his ever-present bullshit—he’s notleadership material and would never be in this position if it weren’t for Daddy Dearest—and when I couldn’t stand listening to his jabbering anymore, I said I had an important thing to do and needed to leave.

No one—especially not Mr. I’m-your-boss-and-know-better-than-you—needs to know that my “thing” is to sit on a bench next to a huge oak tree, sneaking discreet glances of an adorable man walking his extremely spoiled dog in the park. That would sound creepy and stalkerish.

And maybe it is, but I have no plans to approach him or do anything other than catching a glimpse of him. I figure just sitting here, minding my business, notbothering him, isn’t a bad thing.

The rain and the chill energize me, and I speed up. When “my” bench appears around the bend, I can’t help smiling. Maybe the cute guy isn’t the only reason I’m here.

I stretch my muscles some more before sitting, extending my legs and rolling my ankles. A deep sigh escapes me as I turn my face to the sky—umbrella still unopened, lying across my legs—and let the light autumn precipitation fall on my skin. It’s revitalizing, and I’m like a flower that’s been sitting in dry soil for too long but is now finally being watered.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I can almost feel it wash away the bullshit. Every tiny drop on my face makes me feel a bit lighter. The chill wind helps to cool my heated temper, the brisk air in my lungs rejuvenates my cells and chases away the weariness. The rustle of mostly bare branches provides a white noise that helps quiet my brain. With every passing second, my heartbeat slows to a more relaxed pace, until it’s back to being a steady thump in my chest.

I adore this spot in the park. In just a few short weeks, it’s become my safe haven. Here, I’m far from Know-It-Alls and intrigues worse than any politician could ever think up that’s transformed a simple build into a nightmare. So even if I’m thirty minutes later than usual, I don’t care. I can live without seeing the cute guy and his dog today.

“My” bench is tucked away next to the ancient oak at a safe distance from the busiest part of the park. For weeks, the oak has deposited yellowed leaves and acorns on the bench, which seems to have kept most people away, but I don’t mind brushing them off. It’s become part of my ritual. This late in the season, with winter around the corner, only a few straggling leaves are refusing to let go of the long branches reaching toward the sky.

I mimic its posture, reaching up my arms, stretching out my fingers until they remind me of the smaller twigs on the tree. As though we’re both drinking in the rain, pulling it into our core and roots. With a contented sigh, I relax and let my hands fall to my lap.

This place is just what I need. This spot, but the park in general. Other people seem to agree and haven’t been deterred by a little rain. I can hear them in the distance—kids laughing and shrieking, a roaring bark of a dog that must be huge judging by the sound—but they’re not too close. I don’t have to deal with them.

Come to think of it, me sitting here in the secluded spot is a perfect representation of my entire life. Someone who doesn’t like to be alone, but also doesn’t want too many people around. Someone keeping to the outskirts of life. Present, but not taking part in what’s going on.

It was necessary when I was a kid; growing up in a small backwater town in an unusually religious part of Sweden, it was imperative that I kept my biggest secret, that I like boys instead of girls, to myself. Being gay wasn’t tolerated by the church, the community, nor my family. Especiallynot my family. So I kept my distance, didn’t let anyone in. That way I didn’t risk being tempted to spill my secret, didn’t risk being betrayed. And despite getting the hell out of Dodge as soon as I graduated high school and left the town, the Bible belt, and my family behind, I haven’t been able to shake the habit more than twenty years later.