📘 Read Thanks for the House, Stupid on Amazon
🕋️ Visit my full author page for more messy, haunting, halfway-healed queer stories.
“I wrote this book because grief doesn’t follow story structure.”
That’s the first line of the author’s note in Thanks for the House, Stupid, and it might be the truest thing I’ve ever said. Because it doesn’t. Grief arrives off-script, unrehearsed, always too early or too loud. It doesn’t build neatly toward revelation—it lingers, loops, infects the ordinary. And sometimes, it drops a house key in your hand like a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at.
Thanks for the House, Stupid is that key. It opens a door into a queer romantic comedy that refuses to follow the rules. It’s awkward, slow-burning, often hilarious, and somehow still manages to rip your chest open with grief. It’s a book about what happens when you lose someone who was never just one thing. A best friend. A boyfriend. A buffer between two men who now have no choice but to share a roof, a bathroom, and the silence he left behind.
“He died on a Wednesday. Which felt wrong. Big deaths should pick Saturdays, or full moons.”
This novel lives comfortably inside the broader metaphor that defines my work: Writing is my house. The foundation is trauma. The walls are painted with queerness—not always spoken, but visible in every room. Found family is the framing that keeps the structure upright. And every book I write is a different room. Thanks for the House, Stupid is the living room no one cleans. The one with mismatched cups, expired condiments, and the ghost of an argument still thick in the air.
It’s not pretty. But it’s real. And it’s where things begin again.
What Thanks for the House, Stupid Is Really About
The premise is simple: a dead man leaves behind one house, two men, and way too many unresolved feelings. Jesse, the sharp-tongued grieving boyfriend. Beckett, the emotionally constipated best friend. Neither of them expected to inherit the lakehouse. Neither of them wants to share it. And neither is remotely prepared for the intimacy that starts to build as they navigate the uncomfortable overlap of mourning, memory, and microwave dinners.
What follows is a slow, painful, funny-as-hell unraveling of blame, guilt, attraction, and reluctant tenderness. This isn’t a rom-com where grief is an obstacle to overcome. It’s the third main character.
“You don’t get to mourn someone and hate them at the same time,” Jesse says. Then, under his breath: “Except I do. It’s my f**king right.”
These characters don’t speak in life lessons. They speak in broken plates, missed apologies, and cigarette smoke. And when they finally touch? It’s not a sweeping score moment. It’s awkward, unpracticed, and completely electric. Every kiss feels like a dare. Every silence like an emotional landmine.
“We touched like we were daring each other to mean it.”
A Love Story That Isn’t About Love
Thanks for the House, Stupid isn’t about getting over someone. It’s about what happens when you’re forced to keep living alongside their ghost. It’s about the intimacy of grief, the absurdity of forced domesticity, and the strange, sad hilarity of trying to survive with someone who grieves all wrong.
In many ways, this book is an exploration of inheritance. Not the legal kind—the emotional kind. What do we inherit from the people who leave us behind? Their mess? Their silence? The version of ourselves we were when they loved us?
“He left us this house like it was a gift. But grief isn’t a housewarming present. It’s a squatter.”
And yet, through it all, there’s humor. Sharp, awkward, lopsided humor that reminds you that love doesn’t erase pain. It lives beside it. Sometimes on the same couch. Eating leftovers off the same fork.
How You Can Support
Thanks for the House, Stupid is available now on Amazon. You can read it free with Kindle Unlimited, and if you don’t have KU yet, Amazon offers three months free to new users. I also make every new release free for the first five days, even without KU—so there’s always a window to read without cost.
Through Kindle Unlimited, I’m paid by the page. So when you read, review, or share these books, you’re not just supporting me—you’re keeping this house from falling down. You’re choosing longform storytelling in a world designed to forget things in ten seconds. And for that, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Final Thought:
If you’ve ever mourned someone messy, fallen in love by accident, or hated someone for knowing a version of your person you never got to meet, Thanks for the House, Stupid might just break you open in the best way.