Death of a Bachelor

by M. A. Hinkle

George and Heather got back to practicing the sculpture. Damon started making villagers for a gingerbread village. Not having to talk was nice; getting to laugh was even better. But he couldn’t help but think Cathal would have pressed him to try something new, to get out there.

  Well. One more reason to not do it, then.

  GOING TO GEORGE’S became a routine in Cathal’s absence. Damon tried not to go at the same time every day, so he could pretend he wasn’t using it in place of a job, but he didn’t bother hiding how much he liked the work. That he needed some way to bury himself. Or that he didn’t know if he’d ever be ready to dig his way out again.

  It wasn’t as much fun, though, because George was busy. Like today. He’d made a full replica of the cake for the competition, so he was standing on a ladder, inspecting it from every angle.

  “It’s like you’re trying to kill yourself,” said Heather, “and that makes me an accessory to murder, and I’m not okay with that. If I ever kill anyone, it’ll be on purpose.”

  “I’m not trying to kill myself.” George wasn’t looking at her; all his concentration was on the model.

  Heather turned to Damon, who’d been making himself smaller to avoid her gaze. “Damon?”

  He lifted his head and smiled, even though he wanted to disappear. This argument had taken place every day for the last three. In different forms, maybe, but the same basic idea. “Yes, Heather? You look lovely today, by the way.”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere. You know she’s as gay as I am,” said George, still not taking his attention away from his work.

  “Every lady appreciates a compliment,” Heather said, her gaze focused on Damon. “That was sweet. But in the future, I wanna know I look butch.”

  She looked like a pixie, but Damon knew better than to say that. “You always look butch. Even I feel girly beside you.”

  “Much better. But not the point.” She pointed at George. “What is he doing?”

  Not answering would only get Damon yelled at as well as George. “He’s on a ladder, practicing sculpting the cake.”

  “Does he need to be on a ladder?” Heather would have made an excellent lawyer if baking hadn’t been her passion.

  “Yes, because the cake is really tall, and George is really short.” Damon gave up pretending and stretched his arms over his head. The nice thing about pastry was that you actually had time to sit and stretch, especially compared to the restaurant, where maybe you got to sit down for family meal. Maybe.

  Heather growled. “Does it need to be that tall?”

  Damon tried to keep his face blank. “I don’t know what the regulations are.”

  Heather shot him a look that said she knew he was lying and she would not forget. “The answer is no, for the record. The height requirement is six feet. Not eight.”

  “It’s in proportion, Heather.” George finally turned his attention away from the cake. “And you’ve tried to talk me out of this about fifty different ways, and it’s not going to work. I know we’ve only got to make six feet, but the average height of a T-rex is forty feet. It scales way easier to eight, and one-fifth scale sounds super impressive. I think so, anyway.”

  Damon thought about saying he had a point, but that was just leftover from spending too much time with Cathal. Better to keep his head down and let the fight blow over.

  “It is impressive,” Heather admitted, narrowing her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not risky, too. The more time you spend on that ladder, the more nervous I get.”

  “I know. But it’ll be fine. And think how good it’ll look. Once we figure out the most efficient ways of doing everything, we’ll be golden.”

  They then proceeded to get in an argument about why the T-rex could not be holding a medical reacher, no matter how funny it would have been. Even though Heather and George were enjoying themselves, Damon shrank further and further into himself. He might as well have stayed at home in bed watching Chopped reruns or something.

  It didn’t help that they kept asking him his opinion. Like he knew anything that mattered.

  Thirteen: Star Wars Is the Closest Thing to a Religion in the Eglamore Household.

  WHEN DAMON GOT home, Felix was still at band practice, and Damon had a sudden urge to do something, though he didn’t know what. The house was too quiet. He tried making cookies, then watching TV, and even noodling around on his netbook, watching cat videos on YouTube. Damon ended up flipping through his Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, even though the text was more or less impossible to read.

  The front door opened and shut. Felix was talking, so Damon assumed he’d brought a friend home, but when he peeked out of the kitchen, Felix was on his phone. He wasn’t whispering, but he wasn’t talking as loudly as usual—although Felix’s usual tone of voice was “carry to the cheap seats.”

  Felix put his phone down, and Damon ducked back in the kitchen before Felix noticed he’d been looking. Had he been talking to Gareth?

  Felix came in the kitchen and perched on the edge of the table. “So Daaaaad.”

  “So Feeeelix. What is it this time?”

  Felix shuffled his feet. “So, um. Gareth couldn’t come to band practice because he and his brother are both grounded forever, right. But apparently Gareth’s dad saw me a couple of times while we were rehearsing the play, and Morgan has spun it so I’m a good influence.”

  Damon raised his eyebrows.

  “Okay, okay. So Gareth wanted to know if his dad could come over for dinner and meet you and stuff and then maybe that might get him to relax the grounding. Or at least let them come over to visit me so they can leave the house. Or vice versa, I guess.”

  “Door stays open if he comes here,” said Damon automatically.

  Felix turned scarlet. “Dad! Oh my God, we are not having a sex talk, okay? I still don’t think I know what sexy feelings are.” He scrubbed at his face, and his tone dropped to a mumble. “But I do. Like. Like him. I guess. So I’d like to be able to see him, like, outside of school. And when his dad isn’t there, because his dad is scary.”

  Damon crossed his arms. “Well, I don’t see any problem with that. Let me know, and I’ll make up something nice.”

  Felix did not relax.

  “What else?” Damon asked, leaning forward.

  Felix suddenly became very interested in the striped wallpaper. “Well, uh, I kind of asked Cathal if he would come too. ’Cause Gareth’s dad is a professor and so is Cathal and stuff.”

  Damon was glad Felix had his face covered, because Damon was not sure what his face looked like. How much did Felix know? He considered coming clean about the reason Cathal left—lying by omission had “lying” right in the title, no matter what Cathal insisted. But…

  “Why would that bother me, Felix?” He meant it to be light, but he just sounded tired.

  Felix peeked out between his fingers. “Well, I mean. I thought you guys were mad at each other, and that’s why he left.”

  Damon pushed away from the table. “You heard him, kiddo. He had to go to teach a class, that’s all. You always read too much into things.”

  Felix swung his legs. “So…it’s okay?”

  Damon nodded.

  Felix let out a deep sigh. “Okay, good. I said Friday. Is that okay?”

  Even though there were only a handful of dishes left over from breakfast, Damon ran water in the sink. “Friday is perfect. I’ll make something good and fancy, okay?”

  Felix clapped his hands. “Yay! This is gonna be really good.”

  At least one of them thought so.

  WHEN FRIDAY ROLLED around, Damon put on something nice—well, as nice as he owned. He wasn’t going to wear anything fancier than jeans, but he did put on a button down, and he trimmed his hair and beard since he was getting mountain man-ish in both places. He told himself he didn’t care what he looked like; he wanted to make a good impression.

  Another thing he missed about Era. Next to her, no one ever noticed him. He might as well have been
a potted plant she liked to take places. Now, people would actually look at Damon, and he didn’t know what they’d see. Nothing good, certainly.

  Right when Damon was taking everything out of the oven, the twins’ father arrived. “Trevor Lewis,” he said, holding out his hand as soon as he saw Damon.

  Damon had to juggle his oven mitts so he could shake. It was like pumping a lever. Still, Damon stuck a smile on his face. He thought he’d gotten pretty good at faking smiles in all his years with Era—or, at least, Cathal said he no longer looked like he was about to be sick at every nice dinner. “Mr. Lewis. I’m Damon. Just Damon.”

  “Trevor, please.” But it was stiff, not friendly. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  Though he should have been expecting it, Damon froze. He still got it if he ran out to the grocery store and saw someone from work—Era had known everyone, and thus Damon had known everyone. His smile faltered, but he forced it back on. “Thank you. Please, uh, have a seat. The food’s nearly ready.”

  Trevor glanced at the table before choosing a seat, and Damon gritted his teeth. Since they almost never had anyone over for dinner, the set only had four chairs, so the extras did not match. He’d put out the nice cloth and mats, though, and had considered candles, but Cathal would make fun of him.

  Fuck. Cathal. As if this wasn’t bad enough.

  Damon turned back to the food and realized it was all done. Before he could ask where Felix and the twins were, they came into the kitchen. Felix was hanging on to Cathal’s arm, explaining something musical while Cathal nodded. Morgan and Gareth were a few steps behind, their expressions unreadable.

  And Cathal, the bastard, had dressed up. He made a point of looking good all the time—his suits were tailored and what the fuck ever—but he did have even nicer special-occasion clothes. He was wearing a shiny black jacket and a waistcoat, with a silver scarf and actual pants instead of jeans for once.

  Goddammit.

  Damon met his eyes for half a second but dropped his gaze. He couldn’t look at Cathal.

  “You made a rack of lamb?” Cathal asked.

  Damon stirred the glazed carrots even though they’d been done for ten minutes. “I did. I’m surprised you know what it is.”

  “Yeah, well, you made me watch all those damn food shows. It’d better be good, Eglamore. My friends are having a Star Wars marathon tonight.” His voice was teasing, like nothing had ever happened.

  Thankfully, Felix answered instead, his face grave. “Cathal, I would not have asked you if I’d known you were making such a sacrifice.”

  “Star Wars is way more important than family stuff,” said Gareth. He and Felix exchanged a grin that probably meant something more than a shared joke. But Damon was still adjusting to the idea of his son wanting to kiss someone. He couldn’t guess what was going on there.

  Trevor cleared his throat, and both twins stiffened, their posture suddenly picture-perfect.

  “I’m sorry.” Cathal turned to face Trevor with that perfect professor smile. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Cathal Kinnery.”

  Trevor was standing. Damon wasn’t sure how that had happened. “Trevor Lewis.”

  Cathal shook his hand, his eyes considering. Then they lit up, and Damon had to look away, though he couldn’t miss the surprised delight in Cathal’s voice. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard of you. You work with the Mabinogion, don’t you?”

  God damn him. How was he so charming?

  “Yes.” Trevor sounded like he hadn’t relaxed at all. “Though I’d hardly expect a professor of astronomy to know that.”

  “My best friend is—” Cathal stopped, and Damon set down the carving knife so he wouldn’t cut himself. “My best friend was an English professor. And a fan of your work.” Cathal sat down, and Trevor followed suit.

  The twins also sat, but Damon seized Felix by the back of the shirt. “Not so fast. Help me get the food out.”

  He must have sounded rough around the edges, because Felix looked at him with confusion. But then his son shrugged and grabbed the bowl of carrots. Damon took the lamb roast and set that down in the center of the table, then the potatoes.

  “Ooh, it’s fancy, Dad!” Felix leaned over the table to get a closer look.

  “You are disgusting,” said Cathal, but his voice was fond.

  Felix sniffed and sat down—beside Gareth, Damon noticed. Morgan was between his father and his brother.

  “I’ve read your book, Cathal,” said Trevor, out of nowhere.

  Cathal looked surprised. “Have you?”

  Damon carved the lamb, maybe with more aggression than it deserved, since it was tender and Damon kept his knives sharp.

  Trevor also knew quite a bit about astronomy, so now they were talking about brown dwarfs. Damon didn’t mean to interrupt, but when he sat down, his chair made a horrible grating noise, since it was missing footpads. Both Trevor and Cathal broke off to look at him in surprise.

  Damon pasted a smile on his face again. This time, he was sure it looked like a creepy doll smile. “Food’s ready. You first, Mr. Lewis, please.”

  Trevor took his time selecting his lamb and kept the carrots and potatoes separate on his plate. “So what do you do, Damon?” He said Damon’s name like it was in a foreign language. Given, Damon was not a common name, but neither was Trevor. Or Cathal, for that matter.

  Why was this always the first question people asked? “I don’t do much of anything right now,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I left my job after Era got sick, and I haven’t decided if I’m going back or not.”

  “You do that thing with George, though.” Felix’s voice was innocent, but unlike Cathal, he wasn’t faking it. At least Felix didn’t blow things up on purpose.

  “Be precise, dear boy,” said Cathal. Damon didn’t even have to look to know he was enjoying the way Damon squirmed.

  Felix tried to come to Damon’s rescue, at least. In his own way. “It’s Dad’s thing. He should talk about it.”

  And then everyone was looking at Damon. Especially Cathal, who was hiding a shit-eating grin behind his bland smile. Damon wanted to kick him under the table. “My friend George runs a bakery, so he lets me noodle around with cakes. It’s only a hobby.”

  “But you’re really good!” Felix protested. Somehow, between grilling Damon, he had already eaten his potatoes and carrots. “And George does competitions and stuff.” He looked over at Trevor, his voice hesitant. “It’s cool.”

  Trevor’s brow furrowed. “Competitions? What kind of competitions?”

  Damon bit back a sigh. “They make cakes for special events. Whoever makes the best one gets some prize money. Right now, he’s getting ready for one at the Natural History Museum.”

  Felix perked up. “You didn’t tell me about that, Dad.”

  “Because it’s got nothing to do with me.” Damon shoved a forkful of lamb in his mouth, hardly tasting it.

  “So you’re still resisting George’s charms, then?” Cathal asked. Damon glanced at him, but Cathal was cutting his lamb into bite-size pieces, his face unreadable.

  Damon sighed, setting down his knife and fork. The conversation was turning his stomach. “I’m not competing with him, if that’s what you mean. I’m not good enough.”

  “But you could be on TV, Dad!” said Felix. “That’d be so cool.”

  “It’s on TV?” Trevor looked between Damon and Felix like he thought they might be playing a joke on him.

  “It’s on cable, Dad,” said Morgan quietly, and that seemed to calm Trevor.

  “They don’t watch TV,” said Felix in a conspirator’s whisper. “They don’t even have Netflix.”

  “I do,” Gareth said. “I wanted to watch Jessica Jones.”

  “What on earth is Jessica Jones?” Trevor asked.

  Felix made a horrified noise, and from there, the discussion devolved into the pieces of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Cathal and Trevor got into a spirited debate about The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Damon
did not participate. For once, someone else was the clueless one, but he couldn’t even enjoy it.

  HE ALMOST DIDN’T want to bring out the cake, but Felix would find it the second he went in the fridge, and there was too much for two people. Too much for six, honestly. He’d meant to put a simple musical score on it, but then he decided to make it into a music book, complete with piped lines for pages on the sides. He even looked up the opening of “Ode to Joy,” the only classical song he knew off the top of his head despite having a son who played classical music on an endless loop, and wrote out the first few bars in black gel.

  “That’s super cool, Dad.” Felix leaned out of his chair to get a look as Damon carried it to the table.

  Trevor looked it over, surprise on his face. “So this is what you do. I see.”

  “It’s a hobby,” Damon said, pinching himself to keep from snapping.

  Felix leaned even farther out of his chair, peering at the cake. “Is that ‘Ode to Joy’?”

  “Sit like a person,” said Damon. A beat later, he realized Cathal had said it at the same time. He glanced at Cathal, who looked as surprised as he felt.

  Thankfully, Felix let out a loud, irritated sigh and fell back in his chair. “Okay, okay. But I really want caaaake.”

  “Guests first,” Cathal said before Damon could. “You were doing so well there.”

  Damon turned his gaze on Trevor. He thought he could feel Cathal’s eyes on him and told himself he was being stupid. “Guests first,” he echoed. “Do you have a preference on a piece, Mr. Lewis?”

  Trevor coughed delicately. “I don’t actually like to go first. I don’t care for the outside pieces with the extra icing.” His eyes flicked around the table, settling on Felix. “But I’m willing to bet someone else does?”

  Damon wasn’t sure if that was a joke, but Felix put on a broad smile. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  Damon shrugged. “What piece do you want, then?” Felix just looked at him. “Corner piece with the most frosting. Right.” He served Felix, who, to Damon’s surprise, did not immediately start eating. Damon waited, then shrugged and turned his attention to Gareth and Morgan.