Death of a Bachelor

by M. A. Hinkle

  Felix turned bright red. “That’s it, I’m done! No more! You guys are just the worst.”

  “By which you mean we are the best, and you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with your boyfriend without our help,” said Cathal, still smirking.

  Felix threw up his hands and marched out of the room.

  Damon shifted his weight and glanced at Cathal. “You don’t think I’m laying it on too thick, do you? I want to make sure he’s not holding back. Era could be pretty intimidating when she got on a roll. It was hard to ask her questions.”

  Cathal snorted, flopping back on the couch. “As the situation with the twins illustrated, no, he’s not. But look at me, talking like I know anything about kids. I know him, though, and you need to stop getting flustered about it. If he needs to talk, he’ll come to you. He only came to me because you were…otherwise occupied.” Cathal made a face. “That came out wrong. Don’t take it personally.”

  Damon let out a breath and closed his eyes.

  Cathal poked him in the side. “What did I say? It’s not like you hurt anyone. I was here to take care of what needed doing so you could take care of yourself.”

  Damon glanced at him. “So who took care of you?” It was supposed to be a joke, but apparently he was too drunk for that still.

  Thankfully, Cathal waved it away. “Clearly, I take care of myself, because I am awesome and need no one.”

  CATHAL SAT UP with an exaggerated groan, putting that question as far from his mind as possible. “We’re getting morose again, and that means it is definitely time to call it a night.”

  “Drink some water before you turn in. You’re a prick when you have a hangover.”

  Cathal put his hands on his hips. “Why, Damon, that almost sounds like you cared.”

  Damon was supposed to laugh it off, but he kept staring at Cathal in that even, steady way. Hopefully because he was drunk. Cathal couldn’t handle it any other way. “I do care. About you not bitching at me in the morning when you have a headache.”

  Cathal picked up one of the decorative pillows that lined the back of the couch. It was shaped like a duckling holding an Easter egg—Cathal had never questioned Era’s taste in decorations, since he liked his genitals the way they were. He hefted the duckling, testing the weight. Then he slapped Damon in the face with it.

  Thus ensued an epic pillow fight involving another duckling, three rabbits, and an Easter egg, as well as one of the couch cushions when Damon decided to cheat. Both of them ended up on the floor.

  “You know, usually when I’m drunk and on the floor and breathing hard,” said Cathal, “it is not because I got the shit beat out of me with a pink rabbit.”

  “I’d be worried if it was.” Damon frowned up at the ceiling. “But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Cathal kicked him, but feebly. Damon just flopped his arm over his face.

  “We should go to bed,” Cathal said.

  “We have to get up first.”

  “You make an excellent point.”

  BY THE TIME they did get to bed, Cathal was too tired to interrogate himself about what had happened. Maybe he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning.

  HE DID REMEMBER, mostly because he woke up with a throbbing headache that refused to let him forget. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to the door. When he opened it, he found a glass of water on the floor. One of his Post-it notes was attached; the note—“obliterate”—had been scratched out and replaced with a large, obnoxious smiley face.

  Cathal crumpled up the smiley face and threw it away, but he drank the water.

  Nine: Damon Is Physically Incapable of Avoiding the Elephant in the Room, and He’s got the Tusk Marks to Prove It.

  AFTER THE NEXT rehearsal, while they were waiting for Felix, Damon was restless and fidgety. Cathal was not in a chatty mood, but he couldn’t keep himself from asking, either. With his usual grace and tact, of course. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  Damon shot him a nasty look, which Cathal just smiled at. “It’s good to see you’re back to your usual tasteless self.”

  That almost made Cathal feel guilty, though he would never admit it. “And it’s good to see you are back to your usual Grumpy Gus self.” He hopped on the hood of the car. “What’s the story, morning glory?”

  “Where do you pick up that crap?”

  Cathal ignored this.

  Damon leaned against the car. As usual after long interaction with people he didn’t know well, he was scowling like a stock photograph of an action hero. “George was flirting with me, wasn’t he?”

  “I’ve only been telling you that since you met the guy, so yeah, welcome to reality.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me. But now I’m feeling weird. I don’t want to lead him on—I mean it when I say I’m not interested.” His expression turned inward. “I could date again. If I wanted to. But it has to be the right person, and he’s not it.”

  “He’s offering, so you should take him up on it.” Cathal almost sounded like he didn’t care. Almost. “But you don’t have to take all that he’s offering. Even though you should, because damn. Man’s got a thirst that you can satisfy.”

  Damon turned red and didn’t say anything.

  Cathal rubbed his arms. “So are you? Taking him up on it?”

  Damon sighed. “Well, I said I’d meet him tomorrow at his bakery. He wants my opinion, which is ridiculous, since I’m not an expert, but—I guess that goes along with what you said. God, I’m so bad at this.”

  “Yes, you really are,” said Cathal, because it was true. He clapped Damon on the shoulder. “But the only way it gets better is practice.”

  Damon said nothing to that, tapping his heel against the front tire. “There’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

  “No, I will not play the Cyrano de Bergerac to your Christian, thank you very much.”

  Damon wrinkled his nose. “I should know that reference, shouldn’t I?”

  “That would have required you to pick something up about literature during your marriage to a literature professor. So no.”

  Damon rolled his eyes. “They do life-drawing classes here on Wednesday nights. You have to pay for them, but it all goes to the school’s art program.”

  Cathal yawned and fell back on the hood of the car, staring at the cloudy night sky. “You want to go, so go. You don’t need to justify that to anyone.”

  “That’s not what it is. I was—” Damon broke off. “I was wondering if you’d go with me.”

  Cathal pushed himself up on his elbows. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not much of a beard, Damon. And you did fine making friends, didn’t you? I mean, yes, George is only interested because he wants to do the forbidden dance, but you get on well enough. Even though you look at him like you think he’s a Wakandan spy.”

  “He confuses me almost as much as you do,” Damon muttered, as though that were an explanation. “It’s not that I don’t want to go by myself. You don’t have to talk to anyone at a life drawing class. I…I wanted to know if you wanted to go. With me.”

  Now Cathal was really confused. He stared at the back of Damon’s head, but the other man was inscrutable, though he was still standing stiffly. “You say that like I’m any good at drawing.”

  Damon covered his face with his hand. “It’s not that. You’ll…you’ll be going back to your place, won’t you? And then you won’t be hanging around. I just thought—”

  But before Damon could explain what he thought, Felix came running over.

  “You are covered in glitter,” said Cathal.

  “Makeup test. Morgan asked me if I would come over to his place and listen to one of his new pieces tomorrow after school can I go?” As usual, it came out in one breath.

  “I feel like those might have been words, but I’m not sure,” said Cathal.

  Felix made a frustrated noise.

  Damon shook his head, smiling. “Of course you can. Let me know his addres
s so I can find you if something happens, all right?”

  “Dad, nothing is going to happen,” said Felix, opening the back door.

  “Now that is a defeatist attitude.” Cathal slid off the hood of the car. Damon opened the passenger door for him, probably since he’d been leaning on it.

  “Cathallll,” Felix whined, pressing his hands against his face. “God, you guys are awful. I’m never going to live any of this stuff down, am I?”

  “Oh, absolutely not. Where would the fun in that be?”

  Felix whimpered and fell back against his seat.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Damon walked past the guest room door four or five times. He’d hoped Cathal would hear him and demand to know why he was out there in some weird Cathal way, since that would make sense. Damon did things, Cathal said they were weird, and they went on with their lives.

  Of course, Cathal didn’t wake up. That would make things too easy. So Damon knocked. He heard shuffling and swearing within, which meant Cathal was awake. Good. Damon hooked his thumbs in his pockets and tried to look like he wasn’t full of nervous energy. But something was different now, and it had to do with George, and Damon did not like it. Mostly because he did like George. Not the way George liked him—not by a long shot. But he wanted to be friends with George, and that should have been awesome, because usually when he wanted to be friends with someone, he didn’t say anything and missed his chance.

  After a few minutes, Cathal opened the door, looking—as always when you caught him sleeping—like he was coming out of a coma in the horrible soap operas Damon used to make fun of with his coworkers between rushes at work.

  Damon rocked back on his heels. “I’m going to George’s bakery now.” At least he didn’t sound nervous. He sounded gruff when he was tense, which worked in his favor since people thought he was tough instead of realizing he was one inch from breaking and running.

  “And?” Cathal’s eyes couldn’t quite focus on Damon’s face. It might have been cute if Damon wasn’t so antsy.

  “Did you get any sleep?” That wasn’t what Damon meant to say. But things popped out of his mouth around Cathal. Lately they hadn’t even been insults. Like that invitation to the drawing class last night. Cathal smacked his lips. “I did, actually. Why are you here?”

  “Do you want to come with me? To George’s, I mean.” Damon bit down on the inside of his cheek before he could say anything else stupid.

  Cathal stared blankly at him. Damon thought he was trying to come up with a good insult, but he was still half asleep. “Why would I want to do that?”

  Damon made himself stand straight, but he avoided Cathal’s eyes. “There’ll be sweets. I thought you might want some.”

  Cathal blinked slowly, now staring at Damon the way he stared at a whiteboard covered in equations. Not like it was incomprehensible—like he knew he’d forgotten something. Then he shook his head, pressing his forehead against the doorframe. “I think I’ll be all right.”

  Damon sighed, despite himself.

  Cathal wrinkled his nose. “I volunteered to help you make friends, not cockblock you. Just…try to stop looking at George like you’re waiting for the cockroaches to come bursting out of his skin.”

  Damon laughed, again despite himself. “Okay, fine, but only since that actually sounded like you.” He bit his lip, but he couldn’t stop himself. His eyes flicked to Cathal’s face. “I’ll bring you something back.”

  “I will never turn down free food. I am a starving academic, after all.”

  Damon rubbed his mouth and realized he was smiling. “I know. I’ll be back before Felix gets home from school.”

  “Like I care,” said Cathal, but he wasn’t scowling either.

  ON THE DRIVE over to George’s, Damon almost chickened out at least three times. But if he went home early, Cathal would want to know why, and he’d make fun of Damon. And, really, Damon knew he’d have a good time, once he got all his jitters out.

  He parked in back of the Jasmine Unicorn, next to a car he recognized as George’s, and gave himself a full minute to sit in the car and take deep breaths.

  He went in the back door, which opened right onto the work area. Damon had hoped George would be in the front with a customer so he’d have a moment to acclimate, but George was sitting on one of the work counters next to a small woman with freckles and a pixie cut. Damon pushed a smile onto his face and walked over, hoping he looked friendly and not like he was going to throw up.

  George turned to Damon. “Oh, good, you’re here already.”

  Damon stopped a few feet away from the table. “I said I’d be here at nine.”

  George shrugged, but the woman made a face. “The people George invites over usually have a flexible idea of time.”

  “I was a line cook. If you’re late, that means you don’t want your job.” He stuck out his right hand to the woman. “I’m Damon Eglamore.”

  She had a grip like dynamite. “I’m Heather. I need to ask you a series of questions, and I expect you to answer honestly.” She looked like she was thinking about using him to demonstrate a perfect judo body throw. And she had the height and leverage for it.

  “Please don’t, Heather,” said George, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  Heather pointed at him. “No. I’m sick and tired of you bringing weirdos over here. We had a deal.”

  George didn’t uncover his face, as though this were the most humiliating thing that had happened to him in days. “Damon, do you mind? I promise I never actually agreed to this, but she threatened to make me play the attacker for her self-defense trainees if I didn’t let her.”

  Damon was uncomfortable, but it had nothing to do with Heather, so he didn’t mind. “It’s all good. Ma’am?”

  “Don’t try flattering me. I’m a hard-ass who doesn’t fall for that shit.” She put her hands on her hips. “First of all, are you planning on having sex anywhere in this kitchen?”

  Damon’s jaw dropped.

  George turned scarlet. “I would like to point out that I am not the reason she’s asking this question. This is a kitchen, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Yeah, but the last kid you hired thought my workspace was a perfect height for table sex, and I never want to see someone’s bare, pimply ass in my place of work ever again.” Her eyes had not moved from Damon’s face. “So?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” His words came out in a croak. Even Cathal wouldn’t ask something like that right off the bat.

  Well, maybe Damon wouldn’t put it past him. Not only did Cathal not have a filter—he objected to the idea of filters and would yell at you on the subject for at least ten minutes if you so much as mentioned it.

  Heather nodded. “Okay, good. There’s one. Question two. Are you planning to take what you learn here and open a rival bakery to poach our client base?”

  Damon blinked. “I don’t want a job. You couldn’t pay me to go back to work.”

  Heather nodded again. Damon didn’t think she’d blinked once the entire conversation. “Good. Last question. Your opinion on cheating, as brief or as long as you want.”

  “No.” George stepped between them. “Bad Heather. I appreciate that you are trying to maintain moral standards in this day and age, but no. Damon, I’m sorry about that. Can I buy you lunch to make up for it?” He glared at Heather. “And if you don’t stop pushing it, I’ll fire you.”

  “A) you threaten to fire me every day, and B) you can’t do it. I own half the business, remember? Anyway, he passed the test.” She glanced over at Damon and winked. “Good job, handsome.”

  “Not you too,” said Damon, trying to make a joke.

  “Honey, please. I could have sex, or I could play Mass Effect for the five billionth time. I know which one is the better choice, and so does my wife. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a strapping chef. I’m satisfied, and I need to make some calls. It was nice to meet you, Damon. Hopefully you will make it through the gauntlet.”

  George tried to p
oke her, but Heather slapped his hand away. “You realize you’re the gauntlet, right?”

  “Duh.” Heather went through the door that separated the work area from the front showroom.

  “Sorry.” George rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s… Well, she’s a bit much, but she’s also been my best friend since high school. And she’s the best damn baker I’ve ever met.”

  Damon meant to look at George, but somehow the kitchen felt smaller with only the two of them in it. “It’s okay. I like people that speak their minds.”

  “There’s speaking your mind, and then there’s Heather. But if you talk shit about her, I’m legally required to kill you. It’s in the contract we signed when we set up the business.”

  Damon wanted to take the joke and run with it, or at least give George something to riff on, the way he did with Cathal or Felix. But his throat locked up. “Fuck.”

  He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until George glanced over at him, his eyes widening. “Something wrong?” George said in a tone of voice that even Damon recognized as forced.

  Damon was not supposed to say anything. If somebody liked you and you knew about it but didn’t like them back, the ball was in their court. And Cathal was right—Damon ought to give George a shot, especially because Damon didn’t know why he wasn’t interested in George. It wasn’t Era holding him back. He was exactly Damon’s speed: shy, awkward, and overly invested in all things food. So what was Damon’s problem?

  He didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to figure it out by pretending he would ever fall for George. “George, this is weird, and I can’t act like it isn’t.”

  George froze. Then, slowly, he relaxed, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Yeah, it’s weird. You’re like Heather, aren’t you?” But his tone was wrong for joking, and he put his hands in his pockets.

  Damon blew out a breath. “Look. I don’t…you’re really nice, George. I want to be friends with you. And not trophy-for-participation friends. Actual friends. I mean, for fuck’s sake, my wife just died.”