The merriest misters, p.1
The Merriest Misters, page 1
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For my fellow queer folk who love Christmas.
May we continue to make the Yuletide as gay as possible …
1
YOU BETTER NOT POUT
QUINN
7 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
There’s nothing sadder than watching a festive Christmas movie alone.
Scratch that, there’s nothing sadder than watching a festive Christmas movie alone when your husband is upstairs doing work. Especially when you went through the trouble of picking out his favorite—Elf—in the hopes it would lure him from his office for the evening.
No luck.
I sit with my lukewarm hot chocolate, melty marshmallows sloshing around in my mug like reminders of my waterlogged dreams of domestic bliss for a special holiday season in our very first house.
When I was younger, before my parents divorced, my mom used to cover our entire fridge with Christmas cards from friends and family members from all over the world. They were the fancy, customizable ones you got printed at the pharmacy photo kiosk that showcase images of the whole family at Disney World in front of Cinderella Castle or posed in matching pajama sets before a fireplace—the family dog only half looking, angry to be tucked into people clothes for the laborious shoot. Every morning before breakfast, I would look at the husbands and wives in those cards and think, That’s what my marriage is going to be like. Picture-perfect.
Then, I turned fifteen, realized I was gay, and suddenly those cards didn’t represent the ideal future anymore. Maybe still for some, but not for me. Not, at least, until marriage equality and not until Patrick.
Patrick, who is upstairs drawing various types of toilets for a presentation at his architecture firm instead of watching Elf with his husband, his husband who made sure to steal extra packets of Swiss Miss from the teachers’ lounge on his way out of work today.
I sit here joylessly watching as Will Ferrell tries to understand the complex crosswalks and door systems of New York City. There’s a week until Christmas. I should not be stewing all by myself in our garland-festooned living room. Today, I caught up on lesson planning during my prep period and put on an educational film at the end of the day, just to get a head start on grading. We promised tonight was movie night, so why has the kettle-corn bowl only had one hand in it all evening?
Okay, two. Two hands. Both of which were mine when I was shoveling away my sadness earlier since I’d been canceled on, but I can’t be blamed for that. It’s good kettle corn, straight from one of those decorative tins people love to gift around this time of year. Fresh and sticky and just the right amount of maybe-my-teeth-will-fall-out-this-time per chew.
For a whole of maybe twenty minutes, I’m angry. Then, Will Ferrell and Zooey Deschanel sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” in the women’s locker room at a department store that begs the question: Should this really be allowed in a family film?
Ick factor aside, I thaw, remembering when Patrick and I watched this movie together back when we were still dating. He started singing Buddy the Elf’s parts. I started singing the Jovie parts. We weren’t good singers. What we lacked in pitch, we made up for in volume, much to the dismay of our next-door neighbor, who banged a heavy fist on the wall and shouted, “This isn’t The Voice and, if it were, this isn’t me hitting my button! Keep it down in there.” We couldn’t stop laughing.
Floating on the memories of a better, less stressful time, I go over to the teakettle, pour some hot water, and dump out the powdery chocolate. In my backpack, which I tucked in the hall closet, I find a candy cane one of my students gave me and stick it inside the red mug to stir. Patrick loves that extra hint of flavor.
With a small bowl of kettle corn and the cocoa, I go upstairs, treading lightly on the stubborn, rickety boards. This place was sold to us as a fixer-upper. I didn’t realize that meant that with full-time jobs we’d need to be taking uppers just to get any of the fixing done in a timely manner. It’s a mess, but according to the mortgage, it’s our mess.
I’m trying to love it.
Just like I’m trying to love Patrick.
This Patrick, I should say. A Patrick that convinces me to forgo a honeymoon for a property investment and cancels movie plans last minute because he has to bring home the projects he didn’t finish during the workday. I know he isn’t getting paid extra for this overtime, even though we could use the money.
When I get to Patrick’s office, I hear voices. He usually works in silence, so I know it’s not a TV show or a podcast. He must be on the phone.
“It’ll be great. Don’t worry about it, Mom.” The creaking means Patrick is pacing behind his desk. Damn, do any of these floorboards not have something to say? “I love you, too. I’ll call again tomorrow once I tell Quinn. Sounds good. Good night.”
I take that as my cue to enter with treats. “Tell me what?”
Patrick stands behind his desk, appearing haggard. His shaggy sandy-blond hair hangs lifeless, the ends of his bangs brushing the top rim of his wiry glasses. He’s wearing one of his favorite sweater vests, unironically.
I think sometimes he wishes he were a dad in a nineties sitcom. It’s a dated aesthetic that works for him and gives him gravitas as an architect. Though, he thinks he’d look better with a mustache and curses his genes since he can’t grow facial hair to save his life. “Are those for me?” he asks, nodding down at my offerings.
He makes space on his desk for me to set them down. “I thought I’d bring some of the fun up to you since you’re so busy.”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “These toilet partitions are a doozy.”
I smile despite myself because Patrick Hargrave is not a man of many words and yet he still finds a way to slip doozy into casual conversation.
I approach his desk. From his printouts, notes, and sketches for the project, he’s toying with everything from solid plastic to plastic laminate to stainless steel for the toilet cubicles. The sheer number of latch locks there are in the world makes my head spin.
“Looks like you’ve still got a lot to sort through,” I say, rubbing a hand along his back as I always do. The wool of his sweater vest causes a slight, unpleasant static shock. “When’s this presentation again?”
“Tomorrow.” His shoulders slouch forward even more as he exhales.
It’s selfish of me to wish that when he leaves the office he leaves behind his work, too, so we can be a couple again, like we were before we became a walking joint bank account, a talking marriage license.
Because this is his dream job. Just like teaching is—was?—my dream job.
That dream has started to feel more like a burden as of late, with budget cuts and class sizes doubling and my bulletin boards getting vandalized every other week. At times, I’m tempted to walk out the front door and never look back, like Nora in A Doll’s House.
Dream jobs come with sacrifices. I have to support Patrick in his, despite his sacrifice being our time together.
He seems uninterested in discussing work any more, so I ask, “What were you talking to your mom about?”
“Uh, do you remember when their downstairs bathroom flooded a few months back?”
This is probably the longest conversation we’ve had this week, and even though we changed topics, it’s still somehow about bathrooms. “Yeah,” I say.
“Well, as a Christmas gift, my dad is going to get it redone.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too. They didn’t ask me to do the redesign, but—” He slants his body away from mine, clearly not wanting my sympathy, even if I can see the color drain from his features. He shakes his head as if he can erase the emotion like a drawing on his iPad. “Their contractor wants to start right away—barring work on Christmas Day—which means the bathroom is going to be off-limits and the house will be a mess, so they can’t host.” Patrick’s voice keeps going up at the ends of his sentences, which gives me pause.
“Okay, so what? Should we see what restaurants are open and reserve a table so we can plan to meet there?” I ask.
“It’s so late. Everything is all booked up.” Patrick smiles weakly. “I told her we’d host it here.”
I gape at him. “You told her what? Without asking me? This place isn’t any better than theirs, even with the renovation happening. They could be jackhammering there while we eat, and it would still be better.”
“Come on,” Patrick protests. “You know that’s not true.”
Patrick would’ve told you as much five months ago before we settled on this place and signed our lives away. It was Patrick’s dream to design us an English-inspired farmhouse from scratch—someplace secluded, close to nature. Somewhere we
“Are your parents still going to cook dinner at least?” I ask.
Patrick worries his bottom lip. “I sort of said we could handle that, too.”
That anger from earlier? Oh, it’s back. “And when exactly was the last time you touched an appliance in our kitchen that wasn’t the microwave, the fridge, or the toaster oven?”
“Does the air fryer count?” he asks, obviously trying to defuse the tension with a joke.
“Jesus, Pat. Would it have killed you to run it by me first?”
“It’s Christmas. You know how much Christmas means to my mom. I couldn’t be the reason it was canceled,” he says.
“Canceled? Your brother makes six figures and has a massive New York City apartment. Why couldn’t he host?” I ask, arms folded, foot tapping. The anger comes out in all the clichéd ways with Patrick because I love the guy, but otherwise, he’s largely oblivious.
“You know my parents would never drive into the city on Christmas. Besides, they’d never ask Bradley,” he says.
“Because?”
“You know because. Because he’s single. That’s because.” He huffs at me. “We’re married now. We have a house now. This is what people who are married and have a house do. They host holidays. Why is this so surprising to you?”
I shake my head, thinking back on all the conversations we had about never being a typical married couple. About doing things our way. Only being in this for the tax breaks and the joint health insurance and the yes-you-have-legal-claim-over-this-human-being in life-or-death scenarios. What happened to that? “Hosting a holiday is not surprising to me. What’s surprising to me is that my husband agreed to clean our house and cook an entire Christmas meal when he can’t even pull himself away from his work for two hours to watch a Christmas movie with me.” I wish I didn’t sound so pathetic right now, but it’s too late to gobble the words back up. Frankly, it was easier said than “I miss you” because it’s impossible to miss someone sitting under the same roof as you every night, isn’t it?
“Quinn, I didn’t know it meant that much to you,” he says, voice softening. “Just give me ten minutes, I’ll bring all of this downstairs. I’ll work in front of the TV.”
I shake my head again, stopping him and feeling stupid this time. Work is more important. I could stand to have a little perspective. “No, that’s silly. I’m being dramatic. Please forget I said anything. We’ll make it work.”
“We will,” he agrees, offering me a conciliatory smile. “But right now, let’s not worry about how and let’s go watch Elf.”
“I already watched half of it,” I say, gently waving his idea off. Not feeling so argumentative. It’s the holidays. Tensions are high. I don’t want to be like my parents. I won’t end up like my parents, that much is certain. Which means putting on a good face and being agreeable. Good spouses don’t make unnecessary drama. “You keep working. Enjoy your snacks. I’m going to get into bed and google how to cook a ham.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asks.
“I’m sure.” Though, as I trot off down the hallway, I’m secretly hoping step one for cooking a ham is: stick your head in the oven.
2
YOU BETTER NOT CRY
PATRICK
Disappointing my husband feels like grounds for inking my name on the Naughty List.
Quinn leaves my office with reassuring words. But I’ve made a mess of our night. I know that.
Probably could’ve gotten this bathroom nonsense done at the office today. But lately, I’ve been blocked. Creatively. Emotionally. Motivationally. So, all-nighter it is.
I pick up my pencil again. But I keep making mistakes. Erasing wrong lines and incorrect notes. The smudge marks grow larger and larger as my nimble fingers become tired. But I push through.
I sip the hot chocolate Quinn brought me. The tickling notes of peppermint from the added candy cane are perfection. Quinn is the most thoughtful man in the world.
Sometimes, I wish he could see that my care comes out differently.
Ever since I was young, I sought approval everywhere I went.
When I was in elementary school, I won a grade-wide contest to draw our dream house.
We had recently read a picture book about a kid who moves towns. He thinks up this fantastical house he could be moving to. Of course, when he gets there, it’s just a regular old house. He’s disappointed. His parents have to remind him that the memories they make in the house matter more than the house itself.
A sweet sentiment, sure. But my mind couldn’t shake the way he imagined a ski slope on the roof and an aquarium in the basement. Plus, it didn’t help that my parents showed me the movie Richie Rich starring Macaulay Culkin—you know, the Home Alone kid—immediately after. It sent my imagination into a tizzy.
I ended up designing this futuristic smart house. All the teachers agreed it deserved the prize. My parents were vocally proud for once. And all the kids in school wanted me to design one specifically to their tastes. I was happy to do it, so I spent recesses drawing for the pleasure of my peers.
Words, I’ve never been great at. But drawing came naturally.
It wasn’t until Spencer Haven—the class bully—asked me to make a house for him that I realized how much approval equated to success in my mind. When he asked for a drawing, he gave me little guidance. So I designed what I thought he’d like and when I gave it to him, he told me it was “trash.”
I tried again.
“Garbage.”
And again.
“Not even close.”
To the point that I finally drew him a hundred different sketches over a weekend, brought them to school on Monday, and dropped them all on his desk.
“Here!” I shouted. “There has to be one in the bunch that suits you.”
I got detention for making a mess. But Spencer never bothered me again.
In a way, it prepared me for the brutal feedback I got in architecture school and the disapproval from my parents over my career choices. So maybe I should send Spencer my thanks on Facebook one day. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?
Through the wall, I hear Quinn struggling to start the shower.
Gurgle. Gurgle. Creak. Bang.
I really need to get someone over here to check on these pipes. Add it to my barely touched to-do list.
Quinn’s muffled plea makes it through the paper-thin wall. “Come on, please work!”
I go to stand then—
Slosh. Running water, finally. I let out a relieved sigh.
I’m hit with a fleeting thought. I should join Quinn in the shower as a sexy surprise. Watch as rivulets of water and soap slide down his freckly arms. Help him shampoo his curly, dark brown hair, which is long on the top and short on the sides. Kiss my way across his stubbly, deeply dimpled chin.
Whoa there. This is no time for distractions.
That’s not what Quinn wants right now anyway. Even if we haven’t had sex in a good … Jeez, it’s bad when you can’t even remember.
Our intimacy must still be stuffed in one of those brown boxes out in our mess of a garage.
Sex drought notwithstanding, I need him to see that I’m trying my hardest to be the provider I’m supposed to be for him. That’s what husbands do. Specifically, that’s what Hargrave men do.
Which is why I’ve taken on a moonlighting gig outside the architecture firm. I haven’t told Quinn. Yet. He’d scold me. He’d worry. I don’t need that. I need the money it’s going to bring in, so we can turn this place into a proper home.
When our college friend Kacey Ortega came to me saying she wanted to use some of her backyard as a hub for her nonprofit—the one where she, as an out-and-proud trans woman, mentors queer and trans youth—I couldn’t pass it up. One, because it’s a good cause. Two, because it’s Kacey. And three, selfishly, because I need my own designs out in the world if I plan to open my own architecture firm at some point in the future.
