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"You're fighting the room, kid. The sound is bouncing off that drywall like a rubber ball in a hallway."
Peter freezes, his voice still vibrating in the air, a sharp C-major scale that was meant to be a warm-up but now feels exposed. He turns, breathless, to find a man leaning against the doorframe of the beach house’s sunroom. This is Jack Merrill. He is forty-five, carved from salt-water and grit, wearing a linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a chest dusted with silver-blonde hair. He isn’t just the realtor; he’s the man who hauled the last of the mahogany dressers into the foyer and the neighbor who has spent the morning watching Peter through the glass.
The air between them is thick, smelling of coconut sunscreen and the ozone of a coming tide. Peter feels a sudden, violent heat climb his neck. He has been out to his parents for three weeks—a terrifying, liberating confession that had ended in hugs and a strange, quiet sort of relief—but he has never looked at a man like this. Jack’s eyes aren't just observing; they are weighing him.
"I'm practicing for the variety show," Peter manages, his voice sounding thin to his own ears. "Hooray to Hollywood. The acoustics in here are... challenging."
"The room is a box," Jack says, stepping closer. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble that Peter feels in his own diaphragm. "You need to push your acoustics from the gut, not the throat. Give it some blood."
Before Peter can respond, the silence is shattered. Bobby, sixteen and a whirlwind of manic energy, bursts into the room, nearly colliding with a floor lamp. "I did it! I actually asked Milton Berle to be on the show! He said he’d think about it!"
Cindy follows, fifteen and polished, her voice clear and devoid of the childhood lisp that once defined her. She glances at Jack, then back to Peter, her curiosity piqued. "Acoustics talk? Is your friend a musician, Peter? Or does he just critique?"
Jack lets out a short, husky laugh, his gaze sliding back to Peter with a proprietary glint. "Went to an arts school in the city. A long time ago."
The admission draws Greg and Marcia from the hallway. Greg, leaning into the relaxed confidence of adulthood, crosses his arms, eyeing Jack with a knowing, bisexual curiosity. Marcia, twenty, beams with the excitement of a new discovery.
"An arts school?" Greg asks, his voice intrigued. "You can actually sing?"
Peter feels a bolt of daring. He looks at Jack—the way his trousers hug muscular thighs, the calloused roughness of his hands. "Try 'Make 'Em Laugh,'" Peter suggests, a challenge dancing in his eyes. "From *Singin' in the Rain*."
Jack doesn't even take a breath. When he opens his mouth, the sound is flawless—a rich, theatrical baritone that fills the sunroom, vibrating through the floorboards and straight into Peter’s marrow. He hits the comedic beats with a precision that is almost violent in its accuracy, his body moving in a rhythmic, suggestive sway that makes the air in the room feel suddenly too small. Greg and Marcia exchange a look of pure approval.
"Mom and Dad have to hear this," Marcia chirps, grabbing Greg’s arm and pulling him away to find their parents, leaving the room in a sudden, ringing silence.
The backyard is a sanctuary of salt-spray and shifting shadows. The sun is dipping, casting a golden, bruised light across the patio. Peter is leaning against the railing, his heart hammering against his ribs, when he feels it. Jack steps into his space. He doesn't stop until the heat of his body is radiating through Peter's shirt. Slowly, with a deliberation that makes Peter’s breath hitch, Jack reaches out. His hand—rough, warm, and smelling of cedar—slides firmly against the small of Peter's back, pulling him an inch closer. It isn't a casual touch; but Peter doesn't pull away. He leans into the friction, a slow, dizzying smile spreading across his face as he looks up into the eyes of a man who knows exactly how to break a room.