The Valentine's Day Resolution

by Ava Hayden

  Huxley flushed and made a noncommittal “hmmm.”

  Carson leaned forward. “If you hurt him, I will cut you.”

  Huxley’s jaw dropped. “I—I—”

  Carson sat back and fluttered fingers. “Don’t get your banana hammock in a twist. I’m just saying.”

  Paul appeared at his elbow and handed him a glass of wine before slipping into his seat.

  Carson smiled and sipped his drink, pinkie splayed. “My goodness, the sweater fags are out in force tonight.”

  Huxley glanced at his cashmere sweater before he could stop himself.

  “Oh, honey, I didn’t mean you. You’re too young to be a sweater fag.” Carson drained his drink, flagged a passing server, and took two glasses from his tray. “Sugar, I’ll save you some steps.” The server, a brunet twink, giggled, swiveled, and departed doing a runway walk straight out of London Fashion Week.

  “My,” said Carson, fanning himself. “That puts me in mind of Valentine’s Day with Topher.”

  Seeing Huxley’s puzzled look, he added, “It’s my favorite Andrew Christian video.”

  Ah. Underwear model videos. Hoo boy, someone needed to cut Carson off, but Huxley doubted there was anyone in the room with stones that big.

  “Oh, and have you seen the new one?” He batted lashes at Paul. “You’d love it. Almost-Naked Construction Workers.” Carson made a moue. “Construction workers my ass. It was perfectly obvious that the only tools any of them have ever touched are the ones in their anatomically correct pouches. Still, they were pretty.”

  “Huxley?”

  He turned toward the voice and froze. Roger Tunney slouched with a hand in one pocket and a heavy bar glass of what looked and smelled like straight scotch in the other. Huxley had never imagined a version of Roger that didn’t match his father—potbelly, jowls, bushy brows, comb-over, Cotton Mather expression. But this Roger didn’t. This Roger wore an Italian-cut suit as if he’d been born to it. Huxley hated him.

  No. He didn’t really hate him, but Huxley hadn’t realized how much he’d counted on Roger turning into a sad-sack middle-aged man, lined and paunchy before his time from subsisting on a high-school diet continued long after the teenaged metabolism was gone. Standing before him was more proof the universe was fickle and malicious. A homophobic high-school bully looked fucking hot. Not fair.

  Everyone stared at Huxley. “Er—Roger. Long time no see.”

  Roger looked Huxley up and down, and if he hadn’t known Roger was straight, he’d have assumed he was being checked out. Awkward.

  “Um—well, Roger, these are my friends.” He introduced Paul and Carson. “Roger is the son of Bob Tunney, my COO.”

  Paul leaned in and rested a hand on Huxley’s thigh, giving it gentle rubs. Huxley relaxed in his chair and placed his hand on Paul’s. No matter what happened next, Paul was in his corner.

  Roger squinted at the table sign: Oilton LGBT Alliance. He weaved and his face was bright red. Not due to anger, Huxley realized. Roger was very, very drunk.

  Roger stared at Carson, took in his earrings, his outflung pinky, his brawny build filling out the tuxedo. “So you’re…?” He gestured at the sign.

  Carson smiled at him over his champagne glass. Huxley would have run screaming if that look were directed his way. “Sit down, sugar, and we’ll have a little talk.”

  Roger pulled out the empty chair beside Huxley and lowered himself into it with a level of care usually reserved for docking at the International Space Station. Once safely seated he swigged scotch.

  Roger scanned the room and then looked at Huxley, dropped his gaze to Huxley’s hand on Paul’s hand on Huxley’s thigh. Bleary eyes found Huxley’s. Roger took a breath, and Huxley feared whatever was about to come out would set events in motion that would get them lots of news coverage all right—just not the kind they wanted. Then Carson spoke.

  “Now what were you saying, sugar?” Carson fluttered his lashes.

  “Why do you talk like that?” Roger slouched, elbows on the table, scotch glass gripped in both hands.

  “Like…?” Carson teased the word out, making it into a question.

  “Like that. Like RuPaul’s Drag Race or something.”

  Huxley and Paul exchanged a horrified glance. Blood would flow. To Huxley’s surprise Carson didn’t go into a rage. He shifted in his seat and leaned forward, and then the burly construction worker was there, right in front of Huxley, just like the day they first met at Floribunda.

  Carson’s voice dropped to a baritone. “You mean why don’t I talk like this?”

  “Yeah.” Roger had crossed his legs, and one foot twerked as if it had a mind of its own.

  Carson sat back. “Because, sugar—this is me. When I butch it up, that’s fake. I can do it, but why should I?”

  Roger gulped scotch. “Well, how do you make a living acting like that? I mean, how can you get a job?” He froze as Carson held his gaze while he drew a business card from an inner pocket. Roger took the card with shaky fingers and squinted. “Carson’s Custom Creations.”

  “Custom-designed furniture and built-ins for every room in the house,” said Carson. “I own the company.” Carson stopped a waiter and lifted off two glasses of champagne. “And I am absolutely, unequivocally the very best at what I do.”

  “Oh.” Roger chewed his lip.

  “Having an identity crisis, sweetie?”

  Roger glared and shoved himself upright, only to slump down again. “No. Of course not.”

  “And yet here you are at our little old table when you could be hanging out with the Feline Rescue Foundation… or Oilton MADD… or Safe Haven. Hotbeds of female activity, in other words.”

  “Hey, I saw an old buddy and came over to say hi.”

  Huxley’s jaw dropped. “You have a fucked-up definition of ‘buddy.’”

  Roger turned red eyes on him. “What? Yeah, you went off to some….” He made air quotes. “Private school. But we knew each other before that.”

  “We knew each other?” Huxley was so angry he was shaking. Paul palmed his neck and began a gentle massage. “If by ‘knew each other’ you mean you subjected me and a half-dozen other kids to nonstop homophobic batshittery, then yeah, I guess we did know each other. And the reason I went to private school was that you taunted Chase Perrault until he broke my nose because I put a Valentine in his locker, and my father pulled me out.”

  Roger stared at the tabletop as if it might dispense divine wisdom or at least a winning lotto number. “Yeah. I should go.” He slammed the rest of the scotch, thunked the glass on the table, and pushed up from the chair—only to stagger and catch hold of the table’s edge to keep from falling. Huxley grabbed his arm and steadied him.

  Roger collapsed into his seat again. “Sorry. Really, I’m….” He slumped against the chair back. “Sorry.”

  PAUL BREATHED in the fragrance of Huxley’s hair. Huxley leaned against him, pushing into Paul’s fingers as he rubbed circles on the back of his neck. So much for a light evening of chat and a no-pressure date. Oh well. If he and Huxley ended up together, this was the kind of story they could dine out on for years.

  If we end up together…. When had he accepted fighting the attraction between them was a losing battle?

  Paul flagged a passing server and requested mineral water for the table. She placed a glass in front of each of them, then took a closer look at the group and offloaded the remaining glasses on her tray.

  “Dahlink, why are we wasting time on water when there’s champagne?” Carson sipped mineral water with a wrinkled nose.

  Paul shook his head. “You’re not driving.”

  “Is that a question or an order?”

  “An observation.”

  A server cleared the six empty champagne flutes in front of Carson.

  “Well, no, I’m not driving, nor am I riding since the man who was supposed to be on a date with me decided he wasn’t interested after all and walked out.”

  Roger frowned, mo
ving his head up and down like a bobblehead toy. “Not interested?”

  “He thought I was going to be his poppa bear. Me? A bear? In plaid flannel? Can you imagine? My online profile clearly says I am a Diva.”

  Paul stifled his laughter. Somewhere under all the bravura, Carson was hurt. He wouldn’t have been two-fisting champagne otherwise.

  “See, that’s what I don’t get,” said Roger, startling all of them.

  Carson pinned him with a look. “What don’t you get?”

  Roger opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Paul wasn’t sure he’d ever seen someone actually speechless in the literal sense of the word, but Roger was opening and closing his mouth and nothing was coming out.

  Roger cleared his throat and tried again. “If a man—likes—men—wouldn’t he want a man that’s a man? A real man, I mean?”

  Huxley had gone rigid again and was squeezing Paul’s knee so hard he’d probably have bruises tomorrow. He pushed his fingers up into Huxley’s hair and rubbed.

  Carson leaned back and crossed his arms, looked Roger up and down. “Do tell, sweet pea. What makes someone a real man? Are you one?”

  All the blood drained from Roger’s face. He shoved back from the table and staggered away.

  “PICTURES?” THE event photographer flashed a bubbly smile.

  No wonder Roger bolted. Paul, Huxley, and Carson posed for staged society page photos, Huxley doing his best not to look like a glassy-eyed tool, and then they resumed their seats. Carson scanned the room.

  Paul smiled. “I think they turned the champagne tap off, Carson. You probably wrecked their budget.”

  Carson settled into his seat with a look of disgust. “Par for the course. I’ve been stood up and cut off. How much better can this party get?”

  “Stood up?” Paul quirked his lips, his gray eyes warm. Paul had probably held the same hopes for the after-party portion of the evening Huxley had, but he wasn’t prioritizing his libido or his love life over a friend’s problems. And the way he’d calmed Huxley down—Paul was a nurturer.

  “Fine. So he showed up. Dumped, then.” Carson shoved away from the table. “I’m going to offload some champagne.” He strode away, ignoring the shocked gaze of several party attendees who’d overheard.

  “Things haven’t really been going our way this evening.” Paul gave Huxley a hesitant look.

  Huxley smiled. “I’ve still had a great time.” He had a new definition of a “great time”—being in the vicinity of Paul.

  Paul’s smile in return was relieved. “Me too. I was wondering—I know Carson isn’t your problem….”

  “But you want to make sure he’s okay. Of course.” Did Paul ever get any nurturing of his own? “What if I call a cab for the three of us, and we can make sure he gets home all right?”

  “Actually….” Paul wrapped a thumb and forefinger around Huxley’s wrist and glanced up at him. Huxley felt a surge in the vicinity of his banana hammock. “I was thinking it might be fun to do something silly like go out for all-night breakfast. Carson will feel better if he eats, and I feel like I’ve hardly said two words to you.”

  Breakfast and chat—a tease, a little pre-smexy-times aperitif while looking out for a friend. “I’m in.” Huxley pushed his thigh against Paul’s and thanked any deities in range he wasn’t wearing anything with an anatomically correct pouch under his trousers.

  Chapter 10

  HUXLEY PAID off the cab, and the three men pushed into Evil Twin, an all-night diner in the South Village next door to Millicent’s, Carson’s favorite brunch spot. The same family owned both restaurants. Evil Twin came to life for Oilton night owls, and it attracted hungry people from every spectrum of Oilton nightlife, from raucous sports fans and emo teens to university students and workers on the night shift. It was the only all-night breakfast place in town with bouncers.

  Huxley and Paul sat on one side of a roomy red-upholstered booth, and Carson took the other.

  “Bouncers?” Huxley said. The neighborhood wasn’t that bad, was it? Paul only lived a few blocks away.

  “Honey, South Village may be gentrified, but in this neighborhood, that just means the people shaking you down want the money for something besides a fentanyl addiction.”

  Paul pressed his thigh along the length of Huxley’s and leaned forward as Huxley tried to act as if he wasn’t getting a hard-on.

  “Stop exaggerating, Carson. It’s mostly crowd control for the lineups.” Paul looked at Huxley and smiled when their eyes met. Huxley felt the heat in his face as he flushed.

  “If you two are going to subject me to ooty-sweety nausea-inducing antics all night, this breakfast is over before it has begun.” Carson fanned himself with the menu.

  Paul laughed and sat back. “We wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Huxley’s stomach roiled. “Speaking of nausea… I’m sorry about Roger. I haven’t seen him except across rooms in years. The last time I saw him, he didn’t even acknowledge my presence.” And he sure hadn’t looked as good as he did this evening. What happened to him?

  A waitress stopped by to take their orders. As she walked away with the menus, Carson stretched and then lolled on his side of the booth, arm flung out along the back. “Oh, honey, he’s a classic closet case. Always the loudest homophobe in the room, am I right?”

  “Yeah, he was. To be fair he wasn’t the kind of bully that shoved people into lockers just because.” Most of the time, Roger was okay—unless “gay” came up as a subject. Then he had no boundaries. Something clicked in Huxley’s brain. Now it all makes sense.

  Carson spun a hand. “If he ever gets over himself, he’ll make someone a gorgeous husband, but you know it’ll take two or three sacrificial boyfriends just to get him started.”

  Paul put a hand on Huxley’s knee and squeezed. “Maybe just one, if he’s the right one.”

  Carson snorted. “You are not looking at me. No, you are not. I am not some queer peer mentor in waiting. I have served my time. I have paid my dues. Somebody else can have him.”

  Huxley glanced at Paul and winked. “I don’t know. He seemed taken with you.”

  Carson jabbed a finger at him. “You’re still on probation, sweet pea, so don’t get mouthy. Do I look like the little red hen to you?”

  Huxley’s brows shot up. “You lost me.”

  “The little red hen. You know. She wanted bread, so she planted the grain and weeded it and watered it and picked it and I don’t know what the hell else, but in the end, she got her bread. I just want to go to the store and buy a loaf.”

  Huxley’s phone buzzed.

  Alexandra: Turn around!

  Huxley looked at the entry. A line of people stood in the heated foyer waiting for tables. He kept going. Front window facing onto the street. Group of smokers puffing and talking. The part of the lineup that didn’t fit in the heated foyer. Alexandra. Alexandra?

  “No way.”

  “What?” Paul turned to look.

  “That’s my sister.”

  Alexandra pointed at a man standing beside her, then at herself, and then held up two fingers. She pointed at Huxley’s booth.

  This was officially the strangest date Huxley had ever been on.

  “I think she wants to share our booth,” he said just as his phone buzzed.

  Alexandra: Thirty-minute wait. Can we share please? It’s COLD.

  “Oh, honey, I’d love to meet your sister. And look at that delicious little morsel standing next to her.”

  Paul leaned close. “Invite her in.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah.” Paul’s lips were so close Huxley couldn’t resist giving him a quick kiss. Then he waggled a hand at Alexandra. Come in.

  Moments later Alexandra and her companion stood beside their table.

  “Thank you so much,” said Alexandra. She slid into the booth beside Huxley, and he didn’t mind at all that he and Paul were now pressed together from calves to shoulders. Her companion, a slender man, slipped in b
eside Carson.

  Huxley introduced Paul and Carson, and Alexandra introduced Jay Bhatia. He was a little older than Alexandra since he’d had some real-world experience before pursuing his MBA. His dark brown eyes were set off by chic designer glasses, currently defogging after having moved to the warm room from outside.

  Alexandra and Jay explained they had been toiling away on a joint project for class over several days and finally hit a point they could call “the end” or at least “the end in sight.” Clearly pancakes or donuts or something decadent was in order.

  The server appeared to take the two additional orders and shortly after to deliver the first three orders.

  “Something you want to tell me?” Alexandra spoke into Huxley’s ear. He shook his head and shoved a forkful of pancakes in so he couldn’t answer.

  Carson and Jay found common ground to discuss when they figured out Carson did all the built-ins for the high-end loft conversions in an old foundry, now dubbed “Foundry on Tenth,” where Jay’s parents had downsized into a two-bedroom condo.

  “There were plenty of gay-listers buying there too,” said Carson. Jay appeared unperturbed. “They are the most picky, demanding people on earth. Every single detail customized. I’d rather deal with a platoon of trophy wives any day. You do not want to mess with a gay man’s built-ins, believe me.”

  Jay chuckled as the server set slabs of pie in front of him and Alexandra and refilled coffee mugs around the table.

  Carson nestled back into the corner of the booth. “We did get a lot of good commissions for custom furniture out of them. Although seriously, I thought if I had to build one more coffee table with Tofino driftwood, I was going to require a rest cure.”

  Huxley and Paul exchanged a glance and a smile.

  “The driftwood that washes up at Tofino looks no different than the driftwood that washes up at Bear’s Butt, British Columbia, but you can’t say that.”

  “What brings you all out so late?” asked Alexandra. She eyed Carson’s attire. “Love your tux.”