The Valentine's Day Resolution

by Ava Hayden

“Hey, I saw you in the paper a couple of weeks back.” Sukey grabbed two Chocolate Guinnesses and tucked them into a box. “I told Paul I recognized you because you always come in here on Tuesdays with the same guy.”

  Sukey didn’t seem to notice Huxley didn’t reply. Bishop asked a question about a new flavor of donut, and Sukey launched into an animated description that lasted until Huxley paid. He bid Sukey a distracted goodbye.

  Sukey told Paul he came in with another man every Tuesday. Paul told Huxley Sukey said he came in weekly—not that Huxley and a man came in weekly.

  It had been a test, and Huxley failed it. He flunked Relationship 101 because he was too scared Paul would think there was something wrong with him. Well, Paul had thought there was something wrong with him—just not the thing Huxley feared.

  Huxley recalled the stiff expressions all those times he refused a ride home. What had Paul thought? That he had a boyfriend waiting on him? That he was hiding something?

  Why hadn’t Paul asked him straight out whatever he wanted to know? He should have given Huxley a chance to explain.

  Maybe the more important question was why hadn’t Huxley trusted Paul to understand?

  HUXLEY WAITED on Alexandra’s front porch in the bit of shelter it gave from the wind. The outside light was on a timer, and its glow illuminated the textured concrete walk. Her steps slowed as she approached but sped up again when she recognized him.

  She pushed past him and stuck her key in the door. “Thanks for shoveling.”

  “You’re welcome.” Huxley followed his sister inside, where she flipped the porch light off, locked the door, and reset the alarm. “Crap day to take the bus.”

  Alexandra had already zipped off her boots, and he handed over his heavy wool coat before kneeling to undo his boots. Why did women get to have sturdy, attractive knee-high snow boots that zipped up their calves, and men didn’t?

  “Just trying to reduce my carbon footprint,” said Alexandra. She retrieved his scarf and mittens and stowed them with his coat. “And stay out of a fender bender.”

  It had been a whole two weeks since the last snow dump. Everyone in Oilton would have forgotten how to drive in one in the meantime.

  She glanced back at him. “Bishop drop you off?”

  “Yeah.” Huxley felt a little guilty about the longer drive, but he’d told Bishop to keep the SUV overnight rather than taking it to Huxley’s garage.

  Alexandra led him into her cozy sunken living room and turned on the gas fireplace. They sat on the floor and stretched out their toes to the fire, enjoying the warmth, exactly the same way they did as kids on trips to their family’s winter retreat in the mountains.

  “Nice socks, President and CEO,” said Alexandra with a smirk.

  Huxley wiggled his toes. “At least my feet are warm.” He wore a pair of thick wool work socks, indigo blue with white toes and heels and a matching white rim at the top that sported a jaunty indigo-blue stripe around it. “I didn’t wear them in the office. Just with my boots.”

  “I know. I’m teasing.” Alexandra leaned back on her hands and looked over at him. “So what brings you over here?”

  Huxley didn’t know where to start. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. What did they say? Begin at the beginning. “I have a lot of baggage.”

  “Yeah, that’s not just you, Hux. Hell, our family should change our last name to Samsonite.”

  Huxley couldn’t stop a smile, but he didn’t take his eyes off the flames dancing around the gas logs. “You don’t have baggage.”

  “Oh, please. We all do.”

  The fireplace blower whirred as Huxley pondered her words.

  “You came over just to tell me that?”

  Huxley shrugged.

  His sister narrowed her eyes. “How’s the new man?”

  Huxley stretched his toes to the fire again and mimicked Alexandra, leaning back on his hands. Push out the air. Let in the air. “That didn’t work out.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” Huxley watched the flames. Orange, red, blue. Metal pinged, expanding from the heat. “Maybe.” Push out the air. Let in the air. “I fucked up.” He explained about hiding his amaxophobia. He told her his theory about what happened in the last conversation with Paul.

  “Go talk to him. Explain.” Alexandra squeezed his shoulder.

  “It’s too late.”

  “You should at least try. You two seemed so well suited.”

  “I thought we were.” It wasn’t his imagination. He was sure there was a connection there to explore, something that could have grown into a real bond between them.

  The gas flame hissed and rapid tick tick tick ticks sounded at intervals as the flames gradually lowered.

  “At least think about it.” Alexandra stretched and pushed to her feet. “I’m starved. Why don’t we eat something? You need food.”

  Huxley rolled to his feet and followed his sister to the kitchen.

  Alexandra spoke over her shoulder, fridge door open. “Omelet okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grabbed a carton of eggs and a jug of milk and set them on the counter. “Do you have plans for Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “Invite me to the game. Don’t stay home and brood. That’s what you did last weekend, isn’t it?” A wedge of cheese and a baggie with a big chunk of red pepper landed beside the eggs and milk.

  Huxley shrugged. No point in denying it. “Yeah, okay, we’ll go to the game. If you’ll read my mission statement draft and look at my notes for a strategic plan.”

  Alexandra simultaneously dropped a block of butter on the counter and butted the refrigerator door shut. “Deal.” She pulled a pan from a drawer. “So what’s the latest with Bob?”

  Huxley groaned. “Pass me the cutting board and a knife. I might as well be useful.” He began to dice the chunk of red pepper. As he chopped, he described recent run-ins with Bob.

  Alexandra looked up from whisking eggs. “And Dad said something to you about it?”

  “No, but….” It could only be a matter of time before he landed on Huxley like an avalanche. “I’m not exactly on his good side.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Alexandra.

  Huxley pressed his lips together and gave a quick shake of his head. He scraped the diced pepper into a prep bowl.

  “Hux?” Alexandra’s brow creased.

  “Dad asked why I let Mum drive. When I was in the hospital. I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t even know why I did it myself.” His face burned hot from equal parts shame and guilt.

  After a moment Alexandra spoke. “You’re a better person than me. After what she said to Kathy, I’d have let her go and called the police.”

  “I didn’t want her to kill someone.” He gave a bitter laugh. Right—too bad he hadn’t been able to locate his backbone in the moment.

  Huxley liked Kathy. His father’s second wife was charming, intelligent, emotionally stable, invariably pleasant and kind to Huxley and Alexandra. He couldn’t imagine what she saw in his father. That day when he’d run out after his mother, he’d rather have stayed. That was something else he felt guilty about.

  “Dad doesn’t blame you.” When Huxley didn’t reply, Alexandra pointed the whisk at him. “And you should stop blaming yourself.”

  Huxley nodded, the way he had the last three times she’d given him the same advice.

  PAUL SAT on his couch and stared at a game he wasn’t following. When had the Ospreys scored a third goal? There was no point in sitting here. Every time he sat on the couch, he remembered Huxley climbing onto him for their first kiss.

  Carson had asked him to come see his show. He couldn’t stand to sit home alone another evening. The last two weeks his life had consisted of work and sleep. Period. Not exactly living. He pushed himself off the couch with a grunt, joints popping, and wondered when he’d started moving like his Grandpa Vandenberg.

  He arrived
at Billy Boy’s in record time and minutes later stood at the rear of the club’s performance space. The place was packed, every table occupied. He saw a small café table near the front with only one person seated, and it was the man he met when they dined at Evil Twin several weekends ago—Huxley’s sister’s project partner. He skirted the room and approached the table. Jay’s eyes widened in recognition, and he beckoned Paul. Paul mouthed a thank-you and settled in to watch Carson’s over-the-top genderfuck drag.

  Miss Gordine wore a low-cut midnight-blue silky ruffled top with spaghetti straps, but it dipped below her nipples, which both sported wicked-looking titanium rings. Thick blonde chest hair glinted under the lights. The skirt was a tiered construction that consisted of layers of long tapered lengths of iridescent midnight-blue fabric with gold strips woven in here and there, all attached to a waistband that matched the top. When she walked, it moved like a Hawaiian grass skirt—or a blue-and-gold waterfall in the sun. The audience got glimpses of furred legs up to her ass, not to mention the gold lamé briefs she wore under it and the seam-challenging bulge that threatened to break free. The pièce de résistance was a mink-blonde wig that looked like a cross between Marie Antoinette and Dolly Parton.

  Miss Gordine runway-walked to the front of the low stage and looked the audience over, giving Paul and Jay a sly wink when she caught sight of them.

  “Dahlinks, it’s time for Miss Gordine to riff.” A murmur of excitement rolled across the room. “Now you all know how it works.” Miss Gordine shaded her eyes against the stage lights and looked at a table of young men Paul would have bet were there on a dare. They were mildly to heavily blitzed, except for one unfortunate soul who was probably the designated driver. He shifted in his chair as if he had a bad case of hemorrhoids and sipped a soft drink.

  “Or do you?” Miss Gordine smiled at the young men, and from where he sat, Paul could feel the anxiety level at their table ratchet up.

  “We know, baby,” shouted a bear dressed all in black leather across the room from Paul. Miss Gordine gave a lilting laugh, all the more disconcerting for being delivered in a baritone.

  “Well, then, let’s do this.” Miss Gordine beamed.

  “Queen Elizabeth,” called out someone in the audience.

  “The carbon tax.”

  “Topher.”

  Miss Gordine’s laugh rang out. “Topher. Oh, honey, you wish. Naughty, naughty.”

  “Health food,” said one of the more mildly blitzed young men.

  “Health food,” said Miss Gordine. “Do you know….” She posed with a hand on her hip. “I once dated a man who was into health food.”

  “Tell us more.” Shouts came from audience regulars, the expected response.

  “Why, sweet pea, I will.” Miss Gordine winked at one of the regulars, and whistles sounded along with laughter and applause.

  “This man would not touch white sugar or flour. Everything had to be whole this and brown that. And he put nutritional yeast on it all.”

  Laughs and groans came from a few audience members.

  “Yes, honey, you understand what that means.” Miss Gordine waved a graceful hand in the direction of one of the groaners. “The rest of you don’t even want to know what that does to the digestive tract.”

  Laughter swelled.

  “One of my friends was over visiting one day and said, ‘Is there a gas leak?’ I said, ‘Yes, sugar, there is, but not the kind you mean.’”

  Miss Gordine swayed across the stage, making the long ribbons of her skirt ripple. She propped a ruby patent-leather-heeled foot on a chair, revealing one golden-haired leg.

  Wolf whistles, laughter, and applause echoed.

  “Seriously, if someone had struck a match, we’d have been blown—and not in a good way. There would have been flames, and not just because I was there.”

  Miss Gordine waited for laughter to die down.

  “I finally said, honey, it’s the nutriyeast or me—and here I am, single today. I need a man who likes junk—” Miss Gordine waited a beat. “—food.”

  Over the resulting laughter and applause, a loud belch came from the table of uncomfortable young men. It sounded deliberate. Paul settled in to watch Miss Gordine eviscerate the hecklers. She glided to the edge of the stage and struck a pose, hand on hips.

  “I see we have visitors this evening. What brings such luscious lads to our fair club?”

  The drunkest of the group pointed to the young man next to him. “He wants to know about ass fucking.” The “lad” in question had to be shoved back into his seat by Soda-sipping Dude. The speaker laughed off his buddy’s attempted assault with the lack of concern of the truly inebriated.

  Miss Gordine looked him up and down the way a shark might look at its lunch. “If he wants to fuck asses, he could have stayed home with his friends, now couldn’t he?”

  The speaker didn’t seem to realize he’d been insulted. “He says his girlfriend put her finger up his asshole, and he saw God.”

  Miss Gordine lifted one brow and directed her gaze to the beet-red friend. “Well, sugar, just think. If you’d been with me, you could have seen the Holy Trinity.”

  The room exploded. Laughs, whistles, cheers, and a chorus of yelled offers to the friend rang out. The lads on holiday had had enough. All but one scrambled a hasty exit. Only the young man who had seen God remained sitting with his mouth hanging open and his eyes fixed on Miss Gordine as if he’d had another divine revelation. A second later Soda-sipping Dude reappeared, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him from the room.

  Miss Gordine bowed and announced the intermission. Carson dropped his stage persona when he slid into the chair beside Jay and leaned into him. Well, well, well—when did this happen?

  Carson straightened and scrutinized Paul. “Where’s your man?”

  Paul flushed. “We’re—um—not seeing each other.”

  Carson’s brows rose. “Whose idea was that?”

  Paul didn’t bother trying to bullshit Carson. He pressed his lips together and stayed silent.

  “I see.” Carson tapped a nail against the tabletop. “Did you ask him what we discussed?”

  Jay pushed back in his seat. “Maybe I should make a quick trip to the bar. Anyone want anything?”

  “No, sugar,” said Carson. He grabbed Jay’s hand and kissed his knuckles, leaving a smear of lipstick. “Thank you.”

  Jay left and Paul raised a brow. “So you and Jay?”

  Carson fluttered his fingers. “Never mind about me. Answer the question.”

  Paul slumped against the chair back. “I told him Sukey said she recognized him because he came in regularly, and he said that was true. He buys donuts every Tuesday morning.” He exhaled. “Not a word about the guy Sukey sees with him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him exactly what she said?”

  Paul huffed. “Because it never crossed my mind he wouldn’t mention it.”

  Carson crossed his arms. “Really? There was no ulterior motive at all? I don’t think so. Like I said, there is probably a perfectly reasonable explanation, but now you’ll never know because you decided to play little Miss Shirley Holmes, and it backfired in your sneaky face.”

  Paul dropped his head and rubbed his temples with both hands. “You’re not helping, Carson.”

  “Child of grace.” Carson leaned forward. “Do you miss him?”

  Paul exhaled again. “Yes.”

  “Then give him a chance to explain.”

  Jay slid into his seat with just enough time for a kiss from Carson before Miss Gordine glided back onstage for her next set.

  SATURDAY NIGHT Huxley and Alexandra arrived at the executive suite early enough to schmooze with Amelie’s guests. Huxley had promised himself he’d act more like a president and CEO. Amelie was hosting a group of staff members from nonprofits whose members were heavy users of the types of products Oilton Foods produced. All of them had been recruited for her focus groups.

  Huxley and Alexandra took their place
s just as the pregame show started. Only three seats remained empty, the two farthest from Huxley and one in the tier behind him. He was thoroughly enjoying the production when he heard someone slide into the nearest unoccupied seat. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Roger Tunney but whipped back around before they could make eye contact. Bob and Greta had occupied the remaining two unclaimed seats.

  Huxley slid down into his seat. Alexandra gave him a curious look, and then the puck dropped, and their attention was riveted to the ice.

  At intermission Amelie’s group stood and stretched, some departing for washroom breaks, others for the buffet. Huxley rose to join them.

  “Huxley.” Roger licked his lips. They looked cracked and dry. “I—how are you?”

  Stay calm. Push out the air. Let in the air. “Very well. How are you?”

  Roger opened his mouth to speak and had to clear his throat. “Good.”

  A beefy hand clamped on to Roger’s shoulder. “Roger, come meet some people.”

  Bob Tunney’s expressionless gaze met Huxley’s. He inclined his head a millimeter, and Huxley did the same. Nope, no love lost between the two of them.

  Roger rose to follow his father, whose hand never relinquished its grip. His eyes met Huxley’s before he turned away. For a moment Huxley thought Roger’s expression was one of… pleading? No way to know. He wasn’t going to chat him up to find out. The last thing he needed was Tunney Sr. on his ass again about his homosexual agenda.

  Shake it off. Huxley headed to the buffet where Alexandra was filling a plate. She lifted her brows in a silent question. He shook his head and mouthed “later.”

  After the game ended (a win for the Ospreys), Huxley thanked Amelie’s guests for coming and bid them all good night. The suite emptied out quickly. He sensed Roger hovering at his elbow, and when he finally had no excuse to avoid talking to him, he turned, only to hear Bob calling.

  “Roger. Let’s get going.”

  Roger’s eyes looked dead as they met Huxley’s. He turned and followed his parents without a word.

  “What was that?” said Alexandra.

  “No idea.” Huxley shrugged. “But remind me the next time I complain about our father just how much worse it could be.”