“I want to work at NASA, I don’t want to be an astronaut.”
“NASA, astronaut? Potato, potahto.”
“I can’t do this with you.” He reaches for his computer screen and pushes a few buttons, swipes the screen once, pushes another button, then turns up the volume.
The unmistakable “dun da dun da dundun” right before Leslie Odom Jr. sings the opening lines to “Alexander Hamilton.”
“Oh my god!” I slap Maxwell’s thigh with more enthusiasm than I had meant to. “You got the Hamilton soundtrack? Don’t you love it? Isn’t it the best?!”
All rhetorical questions since I turn up the volume even louder and sing along with the cast, only slightly butchering the lyrics.
After the awkward ending at the art museum, I avoided any meaningful conversation by rambling about my current obsession with the musical Hamilton. It’s not something most people know about me, but I am a huge theater freak. In high school, I always helped design sets for our musicals, and now I sneak off to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts whenever I get the opportunity. I actually love to sing, but I have a massive case of stage fright. It’s why HERS will never have karaoke. The thought of someone putting a mic in my hands and shoving me onto a stage makes me literally sick to my stomach.
I bounce and dance to the informative lyrics Lin-Manuel Miranda skillfully crafted to the catchy hip-hop beats, song to song flowing with such ease that I never want the car ride to end.
However, when we turn into a neighborhood with a guarded gate that—unlike most gated neighborhoods these days—is manned with an actual, living guard, my interest in the music fades a bit.
The houses are enormous.
And I don’t mean like the mini mansions that are sprinkled all over the city now.
No, I mean actual mansions with lots to match. Each house is located on what has to easily be at least an acre. Not one house is like another, and even the driveways are different. Some are short, some are long and paved with cobblestones, others loop into a circle complete with fountains. It’s an extravagance I only thought possible in HGTV specials.
“Home sweet home.” Maxwell repeats the words I said to him when he came to my house as he turns into the drive of one of the more modest homes in the neighborhood. It’s a ranch-style home, with different textures of wood, stucco, and stone framing the huge windows covered in fabric that conceals the inside of the house. The deceptively long driveway, shaped like a reverse C, curves uphill to a two-car garage with the nicest doors I’ve ever seen. Dark wood with frosted glass windows, they look more like an artistic feature than a functional one.
“Wow.” I climb out of the car. Even the garage is impressive. Built-in cabinets and cubbies line the walls, a hanging storage rack lingers over our heads, and the floor isn’t oil-stained concrete like most garages, no, his floors are granite. I could barely afford it on my tiny kitchen counters and he used it as his floor. I’ve never felt more out of place, and we haven’t even entered his living space. “Your car’s room is nicer than my bedroom.”
Maxwell chuckles. “It came like this. Trust me, I had nothing to do with the design.”
That makes me feel marginally better . . . by like half a centimeter.
I follow him to the door leading into his house, fighting the urge to ask him to take me home.
Then all thoughts are forgotten as I stand, staring in wonder at the nicest house I have ever stepped foot in.
Sure, Vonnie’s house is freaking gorgeous, but she also has three small children who have taken crayons to the walls and have suctioned Nerf gun bullets to unreachable parts of the ceiling where they are waiting for their inevitable fall back to the ground.
Maxwell’s house is all the lavishness without any of the mess.
“Holy shit.” I freeze, taking in the beauty around me as Maxwell moves deeper into the house. “I might never leave.”
Though I am an admitted fan of things that shine and are pretty girly—hence my bar—that doesn’t mean I can’t admire the more masculine design of Maxwell’s house.
Gray paint covers all the walls that aren’t already decorated in shiplap or intricate stonework. The nearly black wide-plank floors sparkle so much they have to be waxed on a regular basis. But it’s the back wall that truly takes my breath away. A wall of glass with a door seamlessly worked in leads to a deck that mimics the nature around it. There are no houses to be seen, only an iron fence about a hundred yards back and a perfect view of Pikes Peak.
“That’s why I bought this house.” He hands me a cold glass, following my gaze out of his back window. I take it from him, grateful to have something to keep my hands occupied.
“I can’t say I blame you, I’ve lived here my entire life and sometimes the sight of the mountains still takes my breath away.” I take a sip of whatever he gave me, not bothering to ask what it is. My attention flies to him as the sweet and bitter notes of the blackberry saison from Barley Remix register.
He shrugs, a shy smile on his face. “I asked them to send some to me. This house came with a beer tap in the kitchen and I never used it.” He nudges me with his hip. “You inspired me to fill it, I guess.”
Warmth flows through me knowing Maxwell made any decisions in his home while thinking of me. “So.” I turn to his U-shaped couch, hoping he doesn’t see my flushed face. “You ready for some Leslie?”
“And Tom. That guy is a trip.” He follows me to his couch, unlatching the top of his coffee table, revealing a surprisingly messy interior of loose papers, Sports Illustrated magazines, and about five remotes. “I’m still waiting for this Ginuwine thing you were talking about.”
“Oh, just you wait, Mr. Lewis, the oh no-no list is worth the wait.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it, but since you were right about the beer, the Hamilton soundtrack, and Leslie, I believe you.” He turns on his TV, switching screens and devices until he’s made it to the right episode.
Holding my glass tight in my hand, not wanting to ruin his couch like I did his car, I struggle to get comfortable, which is impressive since his couch is the most comfortable thing that has ever graced my backside. My stiffness doesn’t go unnoticed by Maxwell. Before I can register what’s happening, he tugs the glass out of my hand and puts it on his coffee table without a coaster—which gives me minor anxiety.
But the soon-to-be-water-stained table flees from my brain the second he reaches for my ankles, flicking off my sneakers, tossing them behind the couch, and draping my legs over the tops of his thighs.
His eyes are focused on the massive flat-screen mounted above his mantel, and a laugh rips from his throat when Leslie says something to someone that I don’t see or hear because all of my attention is focused on his hands massaging my feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.