I sat up in bed, suddenly waking from a dead sleep.  Covered in sweat, I gazed at the clock on my end table.  It flashed midnight repeatedly.  It took me a few seconds in my sleep induced haze to register what was happening.  The overhead fan was off and combined with the flashing clock, it occurred to me that we'd had a blackout.  Searching for and soon finding my phone, I checked the time: 2:49 AM.

Putting my phone back, I looked over at Lucy.  She was fast asleep with a thin layer of sweat building upon her skin that glistened subtly in the moonlight that spilled in through our wall width bedroom bay windows.  I loved her, there was no doubt about that.  If she was sweating, if I was sweating and warm enough to be jolted out of my sleep, I'd have to find a sensible solution to ensure her comfort.

It was April in New York which meant temperatures fluctuated between what during the day seemed like sweltering heat after a long cold winter, and frigid overnight lows.  Tonight, it was the high 50’s overnight meaning without the ceiling fan running, it was stuffy at the very least.

Softly rolling out of bed, I sauntered across the room to the windows and opened one of them.  I didn't return to bed right away.  Instead, I pulled a chair close to the window and sat dressed only in my boxer briefs looking out over Long Island Sound toward Connecticut, thinking hard about the dream I had as the breeze began washing over me.

Before Lucy, before Lauren.  Before Atty and Adi Gold.  Before Elizabeth and Garrett and before all of my disgusting whoring.  Before ascending the throne in the greatest, most powerful and resilient wrestling company in the world.  Before starting my own businesses and the buying of others.  Before acting, before marriage and divorce, before fatherhood, before adoption, before the twins… hell… even before adulthood… before… there was Matteo.

I was 15 years old before I'd ever gone to a brick and mortar school and even today I'm convinced that I was only allowed to attend a conventional school because my grandfather was dead and my father neither had the time nor the desire and patience required.  It was a private school, naturally, but while I was choosing classes, I knew I wanted to learn and experience a million things.  I was not privy to a lot of experiences in my previously sheltered existence and while I wasn't and I'm still not particularly intelligent, I was gifted with an incredible ability to learn new things regardless of how good or bad I eventually was at them.

One of the classes I chose was a simple wood shop class taught by the curt, but mild mannered Mr. Harley.  He didn't have a ton of patience and he'd already been teaching my new fellow students for two years prior to my first day.  To say I was behind would be an understatement.

“Welcome,” Mr. Harley had said as the Headmaster led me into the shop.  “You have much experience in woodworking?” he asked, though I’m sure he already knew my answer.

I hadn't the first clue.  I gazed around the shop at all the different equipment and other students working diligently on their projects.  At that moment, I couldn't have told you the difference between a scroll saw and a band saw.

“No sir, I'm sorry,” I said.  “I haven't had much experience outside my dad's orbit.”

Mr. Harley began showing me around the shop.  He'd explained different equipment and their purposes, and he'd stopped a number of times to check on my new classmates while he introduced me to them and took a look at their projects progress.  I was completely enthralled and enamored with their moderate skill level.  They were small projects: bird houses, napkin holders, those sorts of things.  To me, it was like I was getting a behind the scenes look into how everyday objects that you never even thought about were made.

“This is Matteo,” Mr. Harley said to me, arriving at my final introduction.  “He's my best craftsman,” he said with a beaming smile of pride and a pat on the boy's shoulder.

“Hi,” I said as Matteo's eyes lifted to meet mine very briefly.  “I'm Thaddeus,” I extended my hand.  His hands were covered in a fine dust as he had been about a half hour into sanding a block of wood.  As he accepted my hand, I had felt something stir within me but I didn't know what it was yet.  His hands were soft, but strong with thick veins protruding from his skin.

Neither then nor now have I ever been a shy person.  While I had certainly lived a sheltered life until that point, I was no stranger to people.  The Compound in Connecticut where I grew up, in its prime housed hundreds.

“Hi Thaddeus,” he said with a weak smile and went back to work on his project.

“He's slow and meticulous,” Mr. Harley said of Matteo.  “He does fine work.  I'll pair you with him until you get up to speed.”

“Matteo,” he said, turning to the boy.  “Take Mr. Duke under your wing and show him how to do it right.  You're the only man I trust.”

“Yes sir,” Matteo smiled at his praise.

Mr. Harley walked away, leaving me at Matteo's workstation.

“What are you building?” I asked as I stared intently at his sanded block of wood.

“It's a cutting board,” he replied.  “It sounds simple, I know.  I'm probably thirty hours into this one,” he smiled bright.

“I don't think I ever considered the amount of work that goes into a cutting board,” I stated as I counted the different sections.  The block was thick, but it wasn't one slab of wood.  Instead, it was about twenty smaller pieces put together with careful skill and dedication.

“It's Birch wood,” he smiled proudly.  “My father is a chef.  He owns a local chain of Italian restaurants so I make him a new one every semester.”

“I don't really have anything to compare it to, but it looks incredibly good,” I said, my eyes lifting from the board to meet his.

At 15, I was around 5’10”.  Matteo was shorter, around 5’7”.  He was lean, but fit with a tanned complexion.  He wore his hair a bit shaggy and curly, not so different from how I wear mine more often than not even now.

“Thanks,” he smiled genuinely.

It was that moment where he smiled as I was looking at him that I decided that I liked when he smiled.  Though I didn't yet know what that meant to me.

“Did you take wood shop at your old school?” he asked.

“Nah,” I replied, returning my gaze and my curious fingers back to his cutting board.  “I was homeschooled,” I said.

“Ohhh,” he said almost with a hint of trepidation.  As if it was only dawning on him just now that he was tasked with bringing me up to speed and I had no experience whatsoever.

”Yeah,” I chuckled.  ”I guess you got your work cut out for you.”

“What made you start coming to brick and mortar?” he asked as he sat down on a stool.

“My grandfather was my teacher,” I said. “He passed away suddenly about two months ago and my dad…”

“The pro wrestler?” he asked with a curious but knowing half grin.

“That's the one,” I said with a chuckle.  “He obviously doesn't have much time with his job and everything.”

We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few long moments.

“How did you know?” I asked Matteo.  “About my dad being…”

“Kind of an educated guess,” he cut me off.  “I've been a closet fan of wrestling since I was 7.  I knew Sebastian Duke lived near here somewhere.  Along the coast, I heard.  Mr. Harley said your last name was Duke.  I just did the math,” he smiled.  “You don't look anything like him though.”

“Thank god,” I smiled and Matteo laughed.  “He gave me his ears and a red tint in my hair.  Everything else is from my mom,” I held my hands up in a mock prayer, causing Matteo to laugh lightly.

“Oh yeah,” his gaze traveled to my ears and then my hair.  “I like the hair,” he stated confidently.

“I'd hope so because yours is pretty much the same,” I chuckled.  “Is your dad Giuseppe?” I redirected with an inquisitive look on my face.

“Yeah,” he smiled again.  “How did you know?”

“Math,” I teased him with a smile.  “I was trying to think of the local chain Italian places and that was the only one I could think of that wasn't crappy Olive Garden.”

“Oh man,” he smiled.  “If he ever heard you talkin’ crap on Olive Garden, he'd love you instantly,” Matteo chuckled.

Funny thing, Giuseppe’s was a local chain with five locations in Connecticut and Rhode Island when I was 15.  About four years ago, one opened on Long Island and ever since I moved out of Manhattan, Giuseppe’s has been a prime dining option.  I've taken Lucy and the kids there routinely about once a week.

“So what's it like being the son of a famous wrestler?” he asked with seemingly genuine interest.

“I don't care for it, to be honest,” I replied.  “From the outside looking in, I think it would probably seem pretty grand,” I paused.  “But it's not, really.  He's never really home that much and when he is, he's so beat up and tired that he kinda just keeps to himself.”

“My dad comes home every night,” he said.  It almost looked as if he regretted saying it immediately.  “But he leaves at seven in the morning and doesn't come home until eleven at night.  I really only see him a few hours on Monday's when he takes off, but he's never really off.”

“Different, but equals,” I smiled, trying to ease his trepidation.  “So get me started,” I said, trying to return our attention to the wood working.  “Help me build a crappy version of what you’ve got goin’ on here.”

“Tomorrow,” he smiled and pointed to the clock on the wall.  “Class is just about over.”

“Awww,” I replied without reluctance.  My sound of dejection no doubt registered with Matteo because he blushed ever so briefly.  Matteo was easy to like.  However brief our initial introduction was, I longed for more.

The following day, Matteo taught me a lot about the different machinery, including a massive one that's designed to smooth out wood planks.  At ten feet wide, more than six feet high and fifteen feet long, and about as loud as it was big, I was both awed and intimidated.  He helped me turn one piece of solid Birch wood into several smaller ones.  As the days and weeks rolled on and the twenty single planks were meticulously molded and glued into one solid piece, I had started to get a real feel for woodworking and my confidence began to shine through.

Matteo was a great teacher.  He was patient and didn't snap out on me when I messed up like my father and grandfather had done countless times.  He seemed as interested in me becoming a good craftsman as I was in becoming a good student.  I wanted to impress him.  I wanted his hard work and dedication to teaching me to mean as much to him as it did me.  Matteo took a certain amount of pride in molding me and likewise, I took pride in being molded.  I wanted him to be just as proud as I was.

“I don't use orbitals, but you need to know how to use them on some projects,” Matteo said as he hooked up a handheld orbital sander to an airline.  “Smooth strokes along the grain of the wood,” he demonstrated.

I couldn't help but remember the first time we'd met.  He was sanding his cutting board just as I am today with mine.

I took over the sanding after his short demonstration.  I was not a fan of the vibration that shook through my entire body.  It shook me so much that it made my teeth chatter and that was a feeling I didn't like.  Though I continued on for another few minutes, I had had enough of the power tool and set it aside.  When we met, he was sanding by hand, so that's how I wanted to do it.

“Can you show me how to do it with a sanding block instead?” I asked as he looked up from applying some sort of varnish or lacquer coating on his almost finished cutting board.

“Sure,” he smirked.  “Grab some sandpaper and I'll grab the block.  Remember, start lower and work higher,” he reminded me.

After a short demonstration, he let me do it on my own and returned to his project.  About five minutes later, he'd set his brush down and returned to me.

“No, no, no,” he smiled and shook his head.  “Long, smooth strokes, along the woodgrain,” he said as he grabbed my hand and moved the sanding block with me.  “Doing it your way, you'll end up with an uneven surface,” he said, continuing to guide my hand along the cutting boards surface.

When he was done guiding my hand, he allowed his hand to linger upon mine and our eyes met.  There was suddenly an undeniable tension that seemed to have risen out of nowhere.  A certain tension that was palpable and we both seemed to have clued into it at the same time.  Our eyes remained locked, his hand lingered upon mine, the tension filled the gap between us and the long silence that followed was drumming in my mind like it was my own heartbeat.  I had wondered briefly if he felt the drum too.

“Deliberate, smooth, light strokes,” he said quietly, cutting through the silence like a knife.  Matteo was seemingly unwilling or unable to break the gaze, to remove the tension, to lift his hand from mine until the bell rang to end class.  When he finally looked away and moved his hand, all I wanted, so much so that for a moment it seemed as if it's the only thing I had ever wanted in my entire young life.  All I wanted… was for him to put both of them back.

The tension was undeniable.  I know he felt it as much as I did, but neither of us brought it up despite the fact that we had started hanging out after school and despite the fact that he had been spending almost every weekend with me in the Residence at the Compound.  We just went about our lives as normal without acknowledging what had happened between us that day in shop class.  We had ignored it so much that I began feeling like maybe I had imagined the whole thing.

For days, weeks, and months following that incident, we were almost inseparable outside of school.  Our fathers were busy men and hardly ever home.  My mother was stone cold dead and his mother lived in California.  It was a natural friendship with undeniable chemistry.  A chemistry I never quite felt again until Lucy Wylde came into my life.

Matteo and I had spent so many weekends together that despite initially feeling uncomfortable laying in the same bed, it began to feel natural, too.  It's not as if we were spooning or anything.  My bed was gigantic and we could have each rolled toward each other more than once and still never came into contact with one another.  Yet as those weekends rolled by and all that tension had built and built, it was like it had finally reached its crescendo one night as we laid in bed.  Our backs toward each other as they usually were, but I could feel his restlessness.  I was restless that night too.

“You awake?” Matteo asked quietly.

“Yeah,” I replied, even quieter still.

“Did you ever…” his voice trailed off.  His courage betrayed him but my heart began to race, trying to beat itself from my chest.  I knew what he was about to ask before he chickened out.

“Did I ever… what?” I asked in an attempt to encourage him.

“Nothing,” he said.  “Never mind.”

His body betrayed his words, betrayed his lack of mental courage, because I felt him inch somewhat closer to me.

“You can ask me anything you want, Matteo,” I said in an effort to help him rebuild the courage that he lost so quickly, so suddenly.  “I'm not very judgmental.”

“You sure?” he asked with a chuckle.  “Did you or did you not call Sarah ‘the great pumpkin’ to her face?”

I rolled over in bed, facing his back.

“That's different!” I protested with a smile.  “The girl was dressed head to toe in orange!”

Matteo laughed.

“Even her socks and shoes were orange, Matteo,” I laughed.  “But you, I'd never judge no matter what it was.”

Matteo rolled onto his back in order to see me.  Like that day in class, his eyes lingered upon mine and the long silence returned.

“Fine,” he sighed and looked straight up at the ceiling.

In the dim light, to this day I'd swear his face turned beet red as he rebuilt his nerve.

“Thaddeus I swear,” Matteo began.  “If you laugh, if you mock me.  If you so much as…”

“Matteo, I won't do any of those things,” I cut him off.  “I joke around and I like to have fun but I know when to reel it in.  You have something that's been on your mind and obviously it's important to you,” I tried to reassure him, to help him keep his nerve.  Hell, I thought about asking the question myself and even though I was about 95% sure I knew how he'd answer, it was that 5% that I wasn't sure that seemed to have killed my own courage.

“If it's important to you, then it's important to me,” I finally said, then rolled to my back and stared at the ceiling like he was.  We were still about a foot apart but I felt like if I wasn't staring at him he'd be less susceptible to losing his nerve again.

“I was just thinking,” he began quietly.  The trepidation and nervousness in his voice was palpable.

“Well, wondering I guess,” he said, then cleared his throat.  “If you've ever thought about…” he paused, licked his lips, then sighed.  “What it might be like to, um…” and then he lost his nerve with a deafening silence falling upon the room.

“What it might be like to… what?” I asked, trying to inch him closer to completing the question I knew he was asking but still unable to bring myself to say it out loud.

“Just to like,” Matteo cleared his throat again.

As his nervousness increased, as he inched closer and closer to saying those words, my nervousness, my anxiety increased too.  I rolled back to my original position with my back facing him.

“Be…” he paused for a long time this time.  “With like…. another guy?”

This happened eleven years ago, but I still remember it all as if it were just a few minutes ago.  My heart raced as I laid there unable to answer his question.  I had remained silent for so long that I began worrying that he'd worry I had fallen asleep before he finished what might be the single most important question of his entire life.

“Thaddeus?” he called out and rolled onto his side, facing my back.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“Did you hear me?” he asked, and I could almost feel his heartbeat pounding through the mattress surface.

I rolled again to face him.

“Yeah, I heard you,” I said as our eyes locked.  “I never did,” I began my answer.  “At least not until I met you.”

Neither of us moved for what seemed like an eternity.  We laid there with our eyes locked.  Two fifteen year old kids baring their vulnerabilities with one another and neither of us could muster the courage to acknowledge what we both felt.

Finally, he reached for me.  Or at least, I thought he was reaching for me.  Instead, he slid his hand palm down along the blankets and stopped somewhere between us.  Matching his gesture, I met him half way as I slid my hand, palm up, toward his, then beneath it.  Matteo and I seemed to both look at our touching hands for a long while.  Then seemingly simultaneously and unprompted, we curled our fingers around each other's hand.

“The sanding block,” I managed to say finally.

“I remember,” he replied with a slight smile.

“When the bell rang, I was kinda mad,” I chuckled.  “I felt it and I know you did too.  I didn't want it to end.”

“Me neither,” he smiled.

That night would end in an extremely passionate kiss but it took us months before we ever went any further.  As I remembered Matteo, the power returned and I found myself downstairs in the kitchen sitting on a stool next to the kitchen island.  Resting on the counter: the thick, professional grade cutting board I made in high school under Matteo's guidance.

Things didn't end well for Matteo and I.  Not because we didn't click or anything but because when his father found out the true nature of our relationship, or at least, what it had eventually turned into, Matteo was sent off to California to live with his mother.

We stayed in touch for quite awhile after, but as life sometimes does, it got in the way.  Matteo went to college and I went to war.  Our nightly video chats slowly decreased in frequency from nightly when he first left, to every few days, once a week, and eventually as our regular lives picked up intensity, our chats discontinued altogether.

I'd be lying if I said I never shed a tear for him.  I had shed lots for him.  When he left, everytime we ended a chat those first few weeks… and again now.  I hadn't thought about him in at least five years.  In some ways, he was the most significantly important friend I had ever had.  Matteo was responsible for my awakening and I loved our time together.

“Hey,” Lucy called out as she came in behind me, pulled up a stool and sat beside me.

“What are you doin’ up?” I asked.

“I should ask you the same thing,” she said as I pulled the now well used cutting board toward me.

I ran my fingers along its smoothest surface along its edge.  “Did I ever tell you about Matteo?”