Regifted

by Declan Rhodes

  Two more bidders sent the total higher, and Sal calmly topped them. A short two minutes later it was over, and for one night I knew that I would belong to the man I’d previously only dreamed of dating. I reached up and wiped a nervous tear from the corner of my eye.

  Sal stepped up to the edge of the stage and offered his hand like a perfect gentleman. I stepped down, and for the first time, I was lost in the glowing emerald green color of his eyes. They contrasted strikingly with his salt and pepper hair. My first boyfriend had green eyes, and I wanted to stare at his face for hours.

  Reaching up and squeezing the puffy white ball on the end of my Christmas cap, Sal said, “That can go back where it came from for now. It’s adorable, but…no.”

  I nervously tucked the cap back inside my jacket. As I stepped up close to his shoulder, I said, “Thank you so much for bidding on me, Mr. Whetstone.”

  “Call me Sal.”

  He sat at the nearest table, and the rest of the room treated his motions like a signal from royalty. They all quickly found their seats and prepared for dinner and the rest of the evening’s festivities.

  My gut was tied in such knots that I didn’t know if I could eat. I tried lifting my water glass and sipping to calm my nerves, but I only succeeded in accidentally dribbling water down my chin.

  Sal leaned over and smiled saying, “Here, let me help.”

  I hoped that it was the last of my embarrassing moments for the evening. I felt like a child tended by his mother as Sal’s napkin dabbed at the drops of water clinging to my beard.

  I didn’t talk much during dinner. Several of Sal’s other corporate friends sat with us at the table. None of them were close to as physically attractive as my date, but they had interesting stories to tell.

  One man shared a story about how a chance meeting at a professional baseball game led to a collaboration that established a new microbrewery in the city. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “It wasn’t only the beer. I heard they were kinky fucks that nearly set the bedroom on fire each time they met.”

  I shivered and glanced at Sal. He only smiled back at me. I felt like a man who innocently waded into the deep end of the pool, and the water was lapping at my neck. Sal pushed his torso back against his chair and turned his head toward me. He whispered, “They all talk a good game, but I know at least two of them are damned shrinking violets when the clothes come off.”

  I blinked hard three times. I didn’t know whether to feel excited or frightened. I remembered reading the rules for the dates after the auction, and they were explicitly clear about either participant having the full, unquestioned right to say no to anything. Staring back at Sal and watching the smile spread across his face, I didn’t know if I could bring myself to utter the word, “No.”

  6

  Desmond

  The auction was a thoroughly embarrassing experience. I’m a man of intellect and dignity, and I behaved like a starstruck teenage girl at a concert by her favorite boy band. In the frenzy of my excitement over a display of eligible males clad in well-tailored suits, I bid three different times.

  In all cases, I lost. At the moment that I thought I was close to winning a date with a fascinating new man, someone jumped in to skip the final price a couple of hundred dollars higher and entirely outside of my already ludicrous price range.

  I wasn’t surprised to see Vincent—the man whose brick wall of a body broke my glasses—claimed by Sal Whetstone. The millionaire could have any single man in the room, and he chose the most desirable from the auction lineup.

  The crowd bustled around looking for seats while the band played a sprightly rendition of “Sleigh Ride.” The cream of the city’s LGBTQ crop darted to and fro like they were playing a giant game of musical chairs.

  I saw Texas Hank heading in the same direction as me and promptly pivoted on my heel. I ended up standing near the one remaining chair at a table of six women and one other man who was old enough to be my grandfather. I asked, “Is this seat taken?”

  The older man spoke up and said, “Only by you, handsome.”

  I smiled weakly at him and turned to face the women. As I saw them distinctly paired off by the closeness of their seats, I said, “Let me guess. It’s three couples.”

  The woman directly to my right said, “Three married couples. We met each other at the courthouse to get our marriage licenses a few short hours after the Supreme Court decision came down. We’ve been close friends ever since, but we can add a single man for the night.”

  I thanked the spirits above for small favors and seated myself at the table. I tried to hide my frown when the other man at the table said, “It’s always a pleasure to make new friends.”

  Dinner was less than stellar. The lettuce in the first-course salad was limp, and the grilled chicken breasts in the entree were cold. I leaned over to my right and said, “You would think at the rate we’re paying them, the caterers could get some of the food properly cooked.”

  She responded, “I know, right? We’re all going out for Turkish food afterward. Renate over there on the opposite of the table has a chef friend. He’s closing the restaurant early tonight and cooking us a private meal.”

  Renate smiled and said, “He’s happy to do it, Christine. He loves the opportunity to dig into his family’s old recipes. We’ll have a fantastic time.”

  I sighed and dipped my spoon into the custard that dissolved into a puddle. I reflected on the fact that I spent too many evenings drinking wine and stabbing little cubes of cheese while fellow academics drooled over the latest obtuse, impenetrable author or turgid and morose moviemaker. The idea of indulging in simple, delicious food and playful conversation piqued my interest. Unfortunately, I’d rarely experienced that kind of situation, and I didn’t quite know how to get started.

  I said, “That sounds like a fantastic night. So I guess none of you particularly mind that the Brussels sprouts are gray, and the custard for dessert is melting into soup.”

  “No, not really.”

  Although it is usually the last thing I ever want to do on an evening off, I valiantly attempted to engage in small talk. I settled on three topics that were usually somewhat successful at dull faculty Christmas open houses. First, I observed, “The weather’s not been bad so far this December.” I didn’t really know much of anything about recent weather. I usually tuned it out unless I’d made a particularly egregious error in clothing selection.

  Renate giggled. “I’m happy we live in a high-rise apartment downtown, but why don’t you ask Tina here next to me. I’m sure they loved shoveling out in the ‘burbs with that six-inch snowfall three days ago.”

  I looked down and slurped another spoonful of sweet custard. After Tina merely nodded in agreement, I made my second attempt. “Are you all finished with your Christmas shopping? It always sneaks up on me. I’ve got to get to the mall this weekend.”

  “You still go to the mall?” asked Renate. “Amazon got it all buttoned up for me about three weeks ago. You should try it out. Online’s the twenty-first century way to go. It saves money, time, and a whole lot of energy, too.”

  They all nodded in unison, and the man to my left added, “Listen to the ladies. They’re right about it. I never thought I’d buy shoes on a computer, but look at my feet. Those are damn fine dress shoes—$39.99 on Amazon.”

  I didn’t want to look at his feet, and I had one more topic in my arsenal. With a slight strangling note in my voice, I asked, “What do you all think about football this year?”

  I cringed at the last minute realizing I couldn’t remember the name of the professional team everyone followed. I knew that the entire state was football crazy, but I had no idea whether they were doing well or not. So, I thought it was safe to ask my question with a more generic term in place of the team name.

  Tina immediately jumped on my question. “Are you still watching football, Desmond. The team’s performance has been so pathetic that we’ve moved on. We’re streaming the Olympic Channe
l since we cut the cable. It’s all skiing and speed skating and all the other winter sports. It’s breathtaking. It’s the kind of sports we all should be watching.”

  Christine nodded in agreement and jumped in, too. Apparently, I was the only person at the table who didn’t watch the Olympic Channel. They knew specific athletes, dropped the names of resorts and competition venues like Beaver Creek and Lake Louise. I leaned back in my chair and stared at my half-eaten dinner only partly listening to the animated dinner conversation I’d begun.

  A few minutes later, I breathed a sigh of relief when a server finally removed the half-eaten food from my sight. The women at my table were still talking a mile a minute, but they’d moved on to pets. The last pet I had was a sad little goldfish named Spot when I was in high school. He survived benign neglect for two months before giving up the ghost.

  In a voice a little louder than I planned, I said, “Excuse me for a moment. I need to use the restroom.”

  After pushing my chair away from the table, I exited the ballroom double doors and tried to remember which direction to turn in the corridor outside. Fortunately, I was correct in my random selection and found the men’s room three doors down.

  I always used the bathroom stall in a public place both for the sake of privacy and eavesdropping. The out-of-sight anonymity sometimes left me witness to juicy, fascinating conversations.

  When I entered, the sprawling facility was empty. I appreciated the starkly lit quiet after feeling shut out of the conversations about skiers named Berndt and pet German Shepherds named Max. I’d only begun to take care of my business when I heard the door open, and two pairs of expensive shoes marched click-clack across the tile floor.

  A thick, rugged voice exclaimed, “I don’t make mistakes like this. This one has the potential to be tremendously embarrassing. How are you going to fix this?”

  The other voice sounded younger and slightly amused. He said, “I don’t know, Sal. Perhaps you should apologize. I suggest that you deliver the check anyway and count it as a happy tax deduction. It was the frenzy of the moment. That muscle guy is a stud. I’m confident that everyone else will understand.”

  “But he expects a date with me. How the fuck was I to know that Gabriel would return to town wanting me back. And on this exact night, no less?”

  I held my breath. The conversation was juicier than I could have imagined. I silently pulled my feet up off the floor to remove the evidence of my presence and teetered while dangerously squatting on the lip of the toilet seat. As I pushed my hands out to the walls of the bathroom stall, I stabilized my perch.

  My brain quickly processed the comments I heard. It was Sal Whetstone, and he couldn’t fulfill his obligations after purchasing the grand finale date at the auction. I listened closely like a soap opera fan glued to the TV screen with a bag of Cheetos in hand.

  The younger voice replied, “Wouldn’t Gabriel understand? He wasn’t even on your radar anymore. Surely, he can let you wine and dine a prominent businessman in the spirit of charitable goodwill.”

  I heard a loud thud like a hand or even a fist slamming itself against the wall. “You know how jealous he can be. I can’t take that risk. I have to tell Vincent that I can’t go through it. I’ll be the laughingstock of the city.”

  Clamping a hand across my mouth, I fought hard to suppress a chuckle of my own. My eyes opened wide at the younger man’s next comment. “Or, you could offer the date with Vincent to one of the other bidders. If anyone needed to know, you could humbly admit your mistake, deliver your financial contribution, and wish all involved the merriest of holidays.”

  Sal was silent. Anyone could have heard a pin drop and reverberate on the hard tile floor. Sal whispered, “Like regifting?”

  I heard a smile in the younger man’s voice as he said, “Exactly.”

  I knew that it was my time to act. I didn’t know what I would say, but I had to make my presence known. Unfortunately, my entry from stage right was less than graceful. My feet clomped to the floor, and I struggled with the sliding lock on the stall door. When I finally succeed in pushing the door open, I tripped over my own feet and nearly stumbled headlong into the center of the public restroom.

  Sal hissed below his breath and turned toward his blonde companion. “Hell, did you know someone else was here?”

  The blonde man tried to appear calm and relaxed as he shook his head no. I attempted to be friendly and said, “Hi. The dinner didn’t agree with me.” I held onto my belly and placed a finger from the opposite hand against my lips. “The merry merry of my wine didn’t play well with the Brussels sprouts. I hate when that happens at an event like this.”

  I watched Sal’s eyes suddenly open wide. He said, “Wait, didn’t you bid against me when Vincent was up for sale?”

  Moving the hand from my belly to my chest and mouthing the word, “Me?”, I poorly executed an attempt to look surprised. In a soft voice, two registers higher than I intended, I added, “Well, yes, I did offer a bid.”

  A smile slowly spread across Sal’s handsome silver-fox face. He glanced at his companion and said, “Duke, we have ourselves a gift recipient.”

  7

  Vincent

  I barked at Maeve as she jogged in place kicking her knees up toward her chest. One of my primary professional rules was that I would never schedule an intense training session for a client when I was angry. But, in an effort to avoid interruptions to Maeve’s program, I convinced myself that I wasn’t in that kind of mood. I was only mildly irate.

  The intense jog ended, and Maeve lowered her hands to her knees and fought to catch her breath. I said, “And he’s a fucking viola player for the symphony orchestra. What in the hell will we have to talk about? My sister Ciel quit playing the viola after two years. The last time I listened to classical music was almost three years ago. A date took me to the opera. I remember it well. It was two full hours of screeching torture.”

  I watched a half-grin play at one corner of Maeve’s mouth while she continued to fight for breath. “Maybe you’ll talk about how you broke his glasses. That still cracks me up.” Vincent glared at me. I slowly shook my head. “No, no, you didn’t hear that.”

  I growled. “That’s not funny. Bent is more accurate. Any quality technician could knock them back into shape.”

  “It’s the holiday season. Drink some eggnog and cheer up. What’s the worst that could happen? At the bottom end, You’ll stare at each other, engage in some mindless small talk, and then you’ll call it a night. Personally, I think he’s kind of cute.”

  “He’s a scrawny little nerd.” I thought he was right on the borderline of adorable, but I couldn’t let Maeve know that. My pride was twisted up in the principle of the thing. Since when do you regift a guy bought at a charity auction?

  Maeve looked up and rolled her eyes at me. “Now, who’s acting like a petulant little boy. Didn’t you ever have a Christmas morning when you had your eyes set on a brand new digital game system and instead your wise parents bought you a train set?”

  “Too many of those Christmases to count.”

  Both of Maeve’s eyebrows rose. “So what did you do? I hope you didn’t whine to your parents about the injustice they’d done to their treasured little boy.”

  I found my way to a bench and sat. “Come on over. I think I need to talk for a moment.”

  “You’re giving me a break? I thought you would make me plank after that hellish jog. You’re frustration is making you soft.”

  I grumbled, “Sit, or I’ll sentence you to an extra round on the stepper.”

  Maeve laughed softly. She sat beside me and reached up to rub my shoulder. “You know, you’re one of my favorites. I hate to see you like this during the holidays. Sal could have just cast you aside. At least he gave you an opportunity to keep the date.”

  “But it’s embarrassing. Can you imagine me out in one of the best restaurants with a guy like Desmond? I can hear the snickers now.”

  “Oh, now y
ou’re being petty. You’re better than this, Vincent.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m not.”

  Maeve squeezed my shoulder. “Damn, you are worried about this. Your shoulder is all twisted into knots. I should call Dominic for you. He’s a master with massage. He can have those knots smoothed out in twenty minutes or less.”

  I raised my head up. “Do you go to him for massages? Surely not for the ultra-private ones. He gives guys happy ending massages on the side. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Oh, hell, that’s kind of sexy. Now I know what I’ll be thinking about the next time I’m there.”

  Maeve was successful again. She always figured out a way to make me laugh. “Don’t ask how I know that. I think a friend told me about it sometime. Yeah, that’s it. A friend.”

  “I hope your friend had a good time. Dominic’s a hunk, and then there’s the Italian accent. Did I ever tell you about my blind date with Mac?”

  My brow furrowed. “You dated guys? No, you never told me that.”

  “Oh, Mac wasn’t a guy. The name was short for MacKenzie. She preferred to be called Mac. Anyway, one of my attorney friends set us up on a blind date. I think that was shortly after I moved here. The lawyer worked with Mac, and she felt sorry for both of us.”

  I sighed. “Sometimes well-meaning friends should keep their brilliant ideas to themselves, like participating in auctions for charity, but yeah, go on.”

  “It was a disaster from the moment we first saw each other. She was tough and rough around the edges, and I was such a girly girl. Some think it’s a match made in heaven for a pair of lesbians, but, and I’ll be frank about it, girls like Mac scare me. I want the sweet, gentle touches and light kisses on my lips and, well, down there.”

  “Let’s keep this PG, okay?”

  Maeve rolled her head back and laughed. “You aren’t scared of a little girl-on-girl frank talk are you, Vincent?”