Free Handyman by Claire Thompson Page A

confessed Emma was pregnant, he’d made his choice with his dick and now he’d pay the price for the rest of his life.
    Jack had been raised to believe men were strong. They handled what life hurled at them with stoicism and fortitude. Whatever came their way, they sucked it up and dealt with it. Feelings didn’t enter into it. Real men were never prey to fear or anxiety. Nor did they have desires, longings, passions or needs.
    What a crock of shit that had turned out to be. What a lie. It took raising his own boys to realize just how stultifying and stunting such a macho attitude could be. At least with his sons, he’d encouraged them to express themselves honestly. He never told them big boys don’t cry, as his parents had drilled into him when he was little, defenseless and scared.
    Jack inhaled the sweet scent of sawdust and sighed. A single tear trickled down his cheek. Yes, he’d paid the price for that one night. He’d paid it a thousand times over. Yet it hadn’t been a bad life. They’d raised two wonderful sons. Emma and he had been happy in their way. No, there had never been fireworks. His heart had never pounded as it had when Luke had kissed him. But he’d done the right thing.
    Only now things were different, weren’t they? He no longer had children to support, a wife to be faithful to. He was a free man. His own man. He could do what he wanted, as long as he was discreet.
    Was he ready at last to explore the potential Luke had tried to offer him so long ago? Could he find the courage to let himself be vulnerable with another man?
    Was Will that man?
    Slowly he sat up and wiped the tear from his cheek. He ran his fingers through his thick hair and sighed. He had no idea what to do next.
    “When you don’t know what to do,” his mother was fond of saying, “do nothing at all.” That seemed like sound advice at the moment. He’d go to sleep and when he woke maybe things would be clearer.

    ***

    Will awoke with a start, his body jerking in response to a half-remembered dream. He was sitting in his living room, an empty brandy glass still clutched in one hand. After he sent Jack away he’d proceeded to pour himself way too much brandy and drink it all, cursing himself all the while.
    I had him. He was reaching out to me. And I rebuffed him. I sent him home like we were characters in some stupid romantic comedy from the fifties. Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Now he’ll go home, sober up and thank God he got out of that one. I’ll never hear from him again. I’m such a fucking idiot.
    Will sighed and pressed his hands to his head, which was throbbing dully. Wearily he stood and made his way to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water from the new faucet Jack had helped him pick out and stood silently admiring the space.
    Jack was more than a handyman, more than a carpenter. He was an artist. The room was elegant, functional and pleasing to the eye. One would never have looked at the burly, masculine Jack and assumed he was capable of such artistry. Will realized he was holding on to a stereotype in reverse—assuming a straight man like Jack wouldn’t be capable of creating something beautiful.
    Will drank the glass of water and poured another. Yes, he’d sent Jack away but, though he’d maybe lost an opportunity, he knew he had done the right thing. Any potential erotic feelings Jack was experiencing were too tentative to be taken advantage of while he was under the influence of alcohol. He might have been able to squeeze a one-night something out of it, but that wasn’t what he wanted.
    For whatever reason, he had to admit he wanted something more with Jack. Unlike Paul and all the other sex partners he’d had over the years, he felt a connection with Jack he couldn’t explain. It made no sense when he tried to analyze it—Jack wasn’t particularly handsome, he was too old, he was straight, or even if he wasn’t, he came with a lot of baggage to shuck off before they could really