Death of a Bachelor

by M. A. Hinkle

  The first text was from before even Damon was awake—a picture of a black-and-white fondant feather. The accompanying note read, Sorry not sorry if I woke you up. Got invited to a contest for the reopening of the Natural History Museum. Guess what the theme is.

  The rest were further pictures of feathers in different color schemes and patterns.

  Damon didn’t like texting, so he called George instead.

  “You know, with most people, it’s annoying if they respond to a text with a call,” said George.

  “And most people say hello when they answer the phone,” Damon replied, sitting down.

  “That’s the beauty of cell phones. I always know who’s calling, so there’s no need to be polite.” George hummed. “So did you guess what I’m making?”

  “It’s a bird.”

  “Half right.”

  “What else has feathers?” Damon was smiling, a little. He liked George, more so now that there was no awkward flirting.

  “Dinosaurs!” said George, clearly expecting a big reaction.

  “Dinosaurs don’t have feathers.” Hadn’t he just had this argument with Cathal? The smile slid off his face.

  “According to the most recent scientific evidence, they do, and the most recent scientific evidence is what the museum cares about. So. We’re going to make a dinosaur cake. I’m not sure what kind yet, but it’ll be covered in feathers. Right now, I’m deciding on the best technique. You want to come practice, or do you have plans?”

  Damon’s first instinct was to say no, because he always said no to plans.

  But…

  “Yeah, sure,” Damon said, pushing his hand through his hair. “Not like I’ve got anything to do here.”

  AT THE BAKERY, George had a line of feathers spread out on a table. He was turning one between his fingers, studying it, and didn’t look up when Damon approached. “You know, the real question you should have asked me was ‘why are you working on a Saturday, George?’”

  Damon leaned against the table. “Why are you working on a Saturday, George?”

  “Because Evie is with her other dad, and it was making me an anxious wreck, so I decided I needed something to distract me. So. Dinosaur feathers.” George set the feather down.

  “Why was it making you anxious?” Damon asked, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “Was Cleon being a dick or something?” Out of loyalty, he had not interacted with Cleon much during the school play.

  “No, the problem is he is very much not being a dick, and I do not like it. He’s supposed to be an ass, but now he’s sober and talking about making amends and looking at me the way he used to, and I hate it.” George nudged up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Only I don’t really hate it. But I do not want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough.” Damon was glad to leave matters of the heart out of the conversation. “So what’s all this?”

  “I’ve made some molds, and I think the best way to do it is to airbrush the cake after everything’s been applied. Thoughts?”

  “I don’t know why you ask me.” Damon crossed his arms. “You’re the expert.”

  “Wisdom of babes and all that jazz.” George took a step back and put his hands on his hips. “Also, I like to think out loud, and it’s nice to pretend I’m talking to you instead of admitting I’ve been talking to myself since five this morning. Also, you cut straight to the point, like Jenny did. You know if she says she’ll come back and work for me, I’m never talking to you again, right?”

  Damon ignored the compliment, like always. “I can’t blame you. Jenny is prettier than me. And I think she might have bigger biceps too, from the pictures you’ve shown me.”

  “She has way bigger biceps than you. She’s like a female Gaston.”

  “Now I understand why you kept trying to stage a musical in here.”

  “No, that’s because I’m gay. I’m obligated to do that at least once in my life, but it got pushed off the agenda when I got dumped.” George folded his arms, not letting Damon wiggle away from meeting his eyes. “You know why I really asked you here, right?”

  Damon’d been hoping George wouldn’t bring that up. “And you already know the answer, so I don’t know why you bothered. I like coming here and talking about the stuff that you do, but I’m not joining your team. I’ll just fuck it up.”

  George narrowed his eyes. “You know, I don’t get you sometimes. You’ve thrown yourself into pastry work, and you’ve done better than most kids I know straight out of school. You’re good at what you do, or you wouldn’t have been sous chef at Stephen’s. So what’s your deal? Why are you resisting the next step?”

  Damon bit back a groan, trying not to remember last night’s conversation. It was like George and Cathal had read the same playbook. “Who said there was a next step? This is a hobby. I don’t want to work for anyone, much less you.” He wanted to be pissed, to storm out and leave like he had with a few jobs in the past. People said it was a bad idea, but goddamn was it satisfying, and in the restaurant business, warm bodies to wash dishes mattered more than references.

  But…fuck. He was tired, and raw, and George was the first friend he’d made by himself in…pretty much ever.

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. “Look, George, you don’t want me working for you. I don’t know why you think I’m any good, but I’m not. I’m just fucking around to try and keep myself busy, okay?”

  George held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll quit with the pitch.” His phone went off. George turned away to answer it, though he didn’t walk off. “Evie, dear, since you’re calling me, I have to assume that someone is dead.”

  Damon did his best to tune out the conversation, looking instead at the different molds.

  He’d helped George on bigger projects before. He liked it. Pastry was so, so different from working in a kitchen, from being on your feet from dawn ’til dusk, in the weeds from the second you stepped in the door. You had to step back and think about things; you had time to work and get things right. He wanted to feel some of that peace, but now that George had brought up the contest, he felt restless again. And he didn’t know how to get rid of it.

  George made a frustrated noise, and Damon looked up. “Sorry, sorry, I try not to bring my personal shit to work.”

  Damon’s mouth twisted to the side. He didn’t want George to think he couldn’t talk about what was going on in his life. Squashing the part of him that said George’s problems would make a good distraction, he said, “Well, it’s Saturday, so we’re not at work. What’s going on?”

  George pretended to check his phone. Damon raised his eyebrows, and George sighed. “Okay, I’ll talk, but only if you promise not to judge me for hooking up with my ex.” Damon’s eyebrows went higher, and George sighed more deeply. “Yeah, so I made out with Cleon the other night. That happened.”

  Damon put his hands in his pockets, putting away thoughts of the last time he’d kissed anyone. “And that’s…bad?”

  “That’s ‘I have no idea how to feel about it.’” George sat on one of the tables, rubbing his forehead. “He’s so smooth, and I’m so—me—that he had me in the palm of his hand the entire time we were together. And Evie loves him, obviously. We were together since before she started high school.”

  Damon nodded, trying to look as though he knew anything about kissing and exes. But he couldn’t deny he’d been curious. “Why did you guys break up, anyway?”

  George shook his head. “He cheated. It’s a gross story, and I do not want to go over it ever, but suffice to say, I am not the monogam-ish type. And now he’s saying all this shit about how he made a mistake and he’s been through a twelve-step program and he’s trying to make amends.”

  “Which totally does not involve sticking his dick in you,” said Heather.

  Damon jumped. This was about the thirtieth time Heather had appeared behind him without warning. At least she wasn’t keeping score, though every time it happened, she sent him a kn
owing smirk. “When did you get here?”

  “I was in front, going through our photos for the competition press release. Gotta make sure we have the tastiest ones.” She held up a spiral-bound magazine, then walked over to the counter and sat next to George. “And I swear to God, if you are whining about Cleon again, I will give you a bruise you will never forget.”

  George hissed at her. “Damon asked, I’ll have you know.”

  “Still. Bad enough you always end up talking about him when we do competitions.”

  George didn’t argue with that, like she hadn’t said anything strange.

  Damon looked between the two of them and asked, “What does Cleon have to do with competitions?”

  George sighed, though he was not surprised by the question. “I am not proud of this, but the entire reason I started doing these damn competitions was to get my mind off of Cleon.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. “Be glad you missed the part where he couldn’t stop sobbing into his Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “You know, Heather, I’m starting to question this whole ‘best friends’ thing,” said George, glaring at her.

  “Please. You love it.” Heather made as though to toss her hair, but she didn’t have much, so it was more symbolic than anything. “Yeah, this whole competition thing is a really roundabout lonely hearts ad.”

  George stared off into the middle distance. “I mean, I like doing them now. I’ve become a bit of an addict. Even when I lose, it’s still a good way to spend my time. Always something to work toward, you know? But that’s why I started. I felt like such a fool when Cleon left. Didn’t think I had anything left to work toward.”

  Damon told himself this did not sound familiar. George was successful and driven and had goals for his life. Damon was still dicking around. “You already had the bakery, didn’t you?”

  “He did, and the only reason he managed to keep it is because I was here,” said Heather.

  George gave her a put-upon look. “Yes, you saved my ass, but again, not the point. Please, may I continue my tale of valor and woe?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was the Ring Saga,” Heather muttered.

  “I want to hear the story.” And Damon did, never mind it was making him ill. He wanted George to be a real friend, and real friends talked about everything together.

  “Okay. All right. So.” George spread his hands. He seemed to be getting into the story. “There I was. Heartbroken, shattered, parenting a young girl with no idea how. The majority of my business was based on a concept I no longer believed in, namely eternal love and all that other stuff couples want to hear from their cake maker.”

  Damon wrinkled his nose. “I thought they wanted to know you could make them a nice-looking cake.”

  Heather rolled her eyes. Like Cathal, she could make it audible. “Well, we’re never letting you in the front of the store. We’d never make any sales. And this is why George doesn’t work with the customers as much anymore. I do it because they see a cute little blonde girl, and therefore they assume I must be a cisgender heterosexual lady who reads romance novels. I keep one by the cash register, but still. Anyway. The part of the story he’s leaving out is where I kept the customers happy so we could keep the lights on.”

  “And I’ve told you time and again that you own my soul for eternity, so that when I die you may claim it for your own and…” George tapped his chin. “I want to know what you’d do with it, but I’m afraid to ask.”

  Heather shrugged. “I’ve told you time and again that it’s not acceptable payment, and that I’m still working out what is. Anyway, I was busy schmoozing, and George was doing the work. In between lots of moping and sighing.”

  George nodded ruefully. “Not one of my finest hours. Anyway, I got really intense insomnia during that time, and Heather refused to let me work after eight at night.”

  “Because the first time I let you stay here all night, you made a Cthulhu cake. Complete with way, way too many tentacles. And Latin.”

  “I never said you didn’t have a good reason, but you refused to let me stay here and work, so I had to find something else to do with myself. And Evie would only tolerate so much fatherly presence in her life.” George’s eyes darkened. “She was pretty devastated by the breakup, too. I don’t think she ever really accepted it. But that’s not the point. Evie was busy with school and her friends, and I had to admit that I didn’t have much in my life besides work.”

  Damon avoided his eyes. He wished he could stop the story, but that would be weird.

  Heather poked George in the shoulder. “I tried to convert you to the gospel of Bioware, but you didn’t listen to me.”

  “Some of us want to work in the real world, not in the depths of outer space, Heather.” George tried to look dignified, but he had icing on his nose. “Anyway. So. I started watching late-night Food Network reruns, as one does.” He glanced at Heather, as though waiting for her comment. When Heather ignored him, he looked at Damon.

  “I like Food Network, too?” Damon said, shrugging. “I don’t make smart remarks. That’s—” He almost said Cathal’s job, then caught himself. “That’s somebody else’s job.”

  “I’m just saying, there’s an open position in the cheap seats, as long as you push this one over the balcony.” George pointed at Heather, who smacked him with her book of photographs.

  “Get on with it, would you? You’re not even to the good part,” said Heather.

  George rubbed his arm. “Food Network’s a good way to kill time. And that was all I had, because all the things I’d usually do to get myself out of a funk I shared with Cleon. So. Food Network shows. And then when it got late and they started showing infomercials, I switched to local access channels, and lo and behold, they also had food competitions, since they have cooking shows and stuff. Which are hilarious, by the way.”

  “Hilarious as in…?” Damon asked. “I don’t like things that are so bad they’re good. I get embarrassed.”

  Heather bumped him with her foot. “Well aren’t you the sweetest thing.”

  George tapped his lips. “They’re hilarious because they’re low budget, and since they air at weird hours, they get to say whatever they want. So it turns out they were looking for guest people. I guess I called them really late at night, because the next day, I got a callback from the studio, asking when I could appear. And then it turned out they’d been wanting to start a cake competition show of their own, and they were trying to find competitors.”

  “It was hard?” Damon asked.

  George rocked his hand back and forth. “Sort of. I mean, Cherrywood isn’t a small town, but they couldn’t afford to pay anyone except in free lunch and the materials and publicity. Not a lot of food people are willing to take the day away from their own work for that. But, you know, I was bored, and apparently I left them a long voice mail about how cool I thought it would be.”

  “He maintains he was not drinking, just sleep deprived, but I have my doubts,” said Heather.

  “They come to the same thing. My judgment was impaired. But, you know, I needed something to get me past it. So I agreed to do it, and it was a total disaster, but…it was the first time I’d had fun since Cleon left, since I wasn’t thinking about him at all.”

  “How was it a total disaster?” Damon tried to picture one of George’s cakes tipping over, but he was so careful with his work.

  But George shook his head. “You can find it on the channel’s website, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter.” Heather opened her mouth. “We agreed that we would never speak of it again, remember? Neither of us came off looking good that day.”

  Heather tipped her head. Then she shrugged. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. The record will remain sealed for another ten years, at least.”

  George nodded. “After that, we got invited to some other small competitions. Other cities do it, and universities like sponsoring stuff like that. Gets the academics out of their hidey-holes.”

&nbs
p; “It is good for them to see the light of day once in a while,” said Damon absently.

  George waited as though to give him a chance to speak, even though he’d met Cathal, then shrugged. “Anyway, one thing led to another, and now I’m doing them every couple of months. I’ve had a pretty good track record, too, but even when it’s a total clusterfuck, it’s a good distraction. And at some point, I realized…” He sighed. “Well, it’d be a lie if I said I never missed Cleon anymore, but at least it doesn’t keep me up at night. I have too much to do. And I was totally fine and happy with my life until he decided to start shoving his nose in my business again.”

  “To be fair, it was mostly Evie’s fault,” said Heather, slipping down from the table. “I love that girl, but she does not understand the idea of ‘other people’s business.’”

  “She wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t giving her some kind of signal that it was okay. Anyway. There’s the whole sordid tale. We’ve still got work to do. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” He snapped his fingers in front of Heather’s face.

  She lowered the magazine slowly, her eyes narrowed. “One of these days, I’ll kill you. And I’ve seen enough crime shows. I know how to get rid of the body so even that scary chick from Bones couldn’t find you.”

  “All due respect to Emily Deschanel, I’d rather have that guy from NCIS on the case. You know I’ve got a thing for older men.” He sighed, putting a hand over his heart and glanced at Damon. “You were in the military. You could get the NCIS for me, right?”

  “Maybe if it was a double homicide, but I’m not going to say anything dumb enough to get Heather to kill me,” Damon said, sliding off the table. He put a smile on his face. The banter was nice, it really was. “And I don’t know if I really count for military jurisdiction anymore.”

  “Let me have my fantasies about a silver fox coming to weep over my desiccated corpse, okay?” George paused. “Actually, no, don’t let me. I don’t want to puke in the cake.”