Vincent's Thanksgiving Date

by Cooper, R.

  “Yes, actually.” Cory followed his lead and shivered when the chill hit him. “Originally it was just a job, but I really like it. I learn new things all the time. Our customers are generally friendly, and if they’re distressed or panicked, we help calm them down and find what they want. It’s different from most other places I’ve worked. Of course, we still get to deal with some terrible people, but,” he looked like he was searching for the right words, “It’s different. I enjoy it, even during wedding and prom season. Knowing what different arrangements can mean, and seeing the beautiful things I’ve created… it isn’t,” he shot Vincent a confusingly hesitant glance, “it isn’t anything professional.”

  Vincent frowned while he unzipped his jacket, then handed it over. “But you like it, right?”

  Cory stared at his offered jacket as he gave another full body shiver, then reached for it right as Vincent was calling himself an idiot for thinking he needed it in the first place. Cory slipped it on, suddenly bulky with his hoodie underneath it, but at least he wouldn’t be shivering anymore.

  “I’ve got my own insulation,” Vincent pointed out, patting his stomach to show it was a joke. “Are you ready for this?” he asked a second later, when his heart once again went crazy for the way Cory was looking at him, as though he had no idea what to do with Vincent and was vexed that he couldn’t decide.

  Which was the kind of description Lando might have used, and which only proved that Vincent had been spending too much time in his own head. He started walking quickly away, but then slowed to let Cory catch up. When Cory grabbed a cart and tried to keep pace with him, he slowed even more.

  He turned when they were inside the store, both of them frozen amid all the harried-looking shoppers darting back and forth. Vincent expected to be waved away because surely Cory had had enough of his company by now. Vincent would have asked him directly, but being alone among this many people sounded terrifying now that he was witnessing the shopping frenzy, and anyway, Cory seemed no in hurry to leave his side. He gave Vincent a glance before pulling a piece of paper from his pocket with a long list on it.

  “Suggestions on where we should start?” he asked innocently, leaving Vincent to blink a few times in bemused wonder that someone was asking him for help, again. Someone who already knew Vincent was a train wreck and who was probably far more capable than Vincent would ever be.

  He swallowed. “We could pick a side to start, work our way down every aisle?” It was inefficient, but Vincent didn’t really know how to best bargain ship among aggressive holiday hunter-gatherers.

  As if that was all it took, Cory took off in the suggested direction, and Vincent found himself nudging the cart forward alongside him.

  “So,” Cory began after they’d made it through the fresh fruits and vegetables section, where Vincent had picked out apples for an apple pie he’d impulsively decided to make, and Cory had grabbed onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and green beans, and clucked his tongue, understandably, over the prices. He’d stopped to consult his list so Vincent had stopped to look up pies, assuming Cory had forgotten something. Cory did indeed hold up the list for him again, and this time Vincent noticed all the question marks next to each item. Cory was complaining. “I don’t like not knowing details. People telling me they might come, or not telling me if they have allergies. They say they will bring a dish and don’t tell me what it is. It’s impossible.” He was a planner. That hadn’t been Vincent’s imagination. But Vincent didn’t get to reflect on it, because Cory tapped the paper.

  “Tell me something.” Cory sounded so serious, Vincent tensed in anticipation of a personal question. “Would you prefer store-bought sourdough rolls or homemade cornbread at your Thanksgiving dinner?”

  There was no right answer, Vincent reminded himself, as his therapist would have told him to. “Store bought is easier,” he answered, to be safe, but that got him a dismissive huff so he had to keep going. “I, I once had cornbread with butter and honey with some chili. I never thought something so simple could taste so good.” He could have said more, but talking about food while being overweight was yet another thing that made him self-conscious. “Though I’ve never had it with turkey. Maybe it wouldn’t go with whatever you have planned. I overthink things. Sorry. I know there is no right answer.”

  Cory leveled another one of those assessing looks at him, then leaned close in order to reach the endcap display at Vincent’s shoulder. He tipped a box of cornmeal into the cart and then smoothly turned so that Vincent could only see part of his face. “I can make some cornbread later if I don’t make any on Thursday,” he remarked, with Vincent staring at him wide-eyed and dry-mouthed. Then he curled his hand around the side of the cart and pulled it along, neatly avoiding everyone but the oblivious or rude. “Who made you cornbread?” Cory flicked his shopping list out with a snap of his wrist.

  “A, a roommate.” Vincent swung his attention between Cory and his phone, while trying to guess how much flour he had at home and then pulling cans of pumpkin pie filling to the cart in a rush. Three was too many, probably. He put one back.

  Cory snorted. “Cornbread with honey was either made by someone’s mama or just for you by someone who knew you had a sweet tooth.”

  “Boyfriend,” Vincent admitted, not quite whispering but not in the mood to shout it down the length of the store either. “And a sweet tooth isn’t much of a guess with me.” He bumped into Cory when Cory stopped, and then felt a flutter in his chest as Cory took a moment to sweep a look up from Vincent’s toes to the top of his head.

  “Honey,” Cory said significantly, making Vincent blush at how much it sounded like an endearment, though Cory was of course referring to the cornbread.

  “He wasn’t my boyfriend for long. It was only college.” Vincent had no idea why he had to share that with Cory, but he did. “I wasn’t always this nervous.” That was a lie. He had been, but he’d hidden it better. “Dating used to be easier. Now, well….” He shrugged to sum up years of stress and his mother and being dumped until somehow the anxiety had taken over.

  Cory stopped to examine a bottle of corn syrup. “This wasn’t the one who was around after you moved in?”

  Vincent stubbed his toe on the cart’s back wheel and nearly dropped his phone. His face flamed hot and Cory put down the corn syrup. “That was…” He couldn’t believe Taylor’s visits had been noticed. “Not a boyfriend. Just a friend.” Who’d slept over sometimes, bringing take out and hurrying to his car in the predawn hours, which Cory clearly knew. He’d probably seen Taylor when he left for work. “He met someone,” Vincent informed Cory stiffly, lowering his head and scratching uncomfortably at his beard. “We’re still friends. Good friends.” Just not ‘spend Thanksgiving together because he had no place else to go’ friends. Vincent wanted a drink. Or every kind of pie.

  “So,” Cory hummed, “you like men who can feed you.” He appeared thoughtful.

  Vincent closed his mouth and put a hand to his glasses, as though they were to blame for what he thought he was seeing, what he was hearing. It felt like flirting. He hoped it wasn’t his imagination, but it had to be. People didn’t flirt with him like that. He could never decide if other men thought he wasn’t worth the effort, or if they thought he wouldn’t appreciate it. It was the glasses. People saw the glasses or heard ‘writer’ and they thought they had to be serious around him.

  He didn’t know what flirting even was anymore. This probably wasn’t it, even if his heart was beating hard in his ears. Cory was likely just curious about the other queer down the hall, or maybe he had plans to set Vincent up with someone he knew.

  Vincent shouldn’t feel so disappointed but of course he’d gotten stupidly excited in only a few seconds at the possibility that Cory might be interested. He gave Cory a blank smile and then took out his phone to frown down at the search screen he’d left it on.

  “I think I’ll make three pies,” he announced, only as half as morosely as he could have done. He would shove
l three pies in his face and be done with it. His sister would find him in a pie coma.

  “Three?” Cory echoed in disbelief. “I hope one is for me.”

  That pulled Vincent’s gaze up. There was that tone again, that look. He felt like his heart was going to fly out of his chest. “Really?” he asked quietly, not sure what he was asking. He wasn’t sure of anything today. “Yeah. Yes. What kind did you want?”

  “What are you making?” Cory inched closer, still humming a little as he glanced down at recipe on the screen. “Pumpkin? I love pumpkin flavor almost as much as a white girl.”

  Vincent widened his eyes at the comment, then focused blankly on his phone. “Apple.” He remembered buying apples, in addition to the cans of pumpkin. “Pumpkin. And pecan?” Pecan sounded good.

  “Pumpkin, just for me?” Cory patted his hair. “From scratch or from a can?” he wondered, while still preening, and grinned when Vincent automatically put a hand out to try to hide the cans already in the cart. Then he got jostled by someone trying to reach the shelf behind him, and made an exasperated face at Vincent before he moved out of the person’s way. “This holiday…” Cory remarked but then peered thoughtfully at the cans of pumpkin puree. “There is no right answer,” he reminded Vincent. “But canned will probably be easier, and honestly, it tastes about the same.”

  “That’s good to know.” Vincent meant it. “I’ve never made a pie before so this will be an experience.” He wasn’t going to imagine burning the pie, or dropping it on the floor once it was done. He wasn’t. That nightmare was for later. “You must cook all the time if you decided to throw a big dinner party.”

  “Do you need the ingredients for the crust?” Cory expertly zigzagged between shopping families to grab flour and sugar and dump them in the cart. Then he shrugged. “I can’t really afford this, but for my first Thanksgiving dinner of my own, I don’t mind spending some money.”

  He moved and Vincent followed him, taking the cart with him. “So these people coming over are special?” If Cory’s apartment was like Vincent’s, it wouldn’t be huge, but Vincent thought a gathering of friends in a small apartment sounded nice and cozy, not nearly as tense as a dinner with his relatives in their big house.

  “I’ve got Laci and Rhonda, who weren’t expecting to get the day off together and so didn’t make any plans. Then I’ve got Ricky, who told me if I was finally going to be a grownup and host my own Thanksgiving, he had to be there. Then there’s my roommate, Sarah, but she’ll probably only be there at the beginning, or after. She’s a butterfly. And this list of guests doesn’t include the people I told who demanded to be invited and then didn’t RSVP. Which, I shouldn’t have to say, is rude. Which I also told them.” Cory shook his head. “My friends. They’re special to me even if half of them don’t have the sense of cat. But, no, it won’t be too large of a group. Nothing too intimidating. Just the people I want to be there the most.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I think it could be a good year. You’ve got to be grateful for the little things. Sometimes they’re all you’ve got.”

  Asking what Cory was grateful for seemed too personal. Nonetheless, Vincent knew he was expected to say something. “Little things?” he asked. “Like, finding a decently priced turkey this close to the big day?”

  “Ha.” Cory laughed and shook his head at the same time. “Yeah, or one that isn’t huge, or frozen solid.”

  “Or a good bottle of wine for cheap,” Vincent suggested, because he knew how he was spending the holiday.

  “Yes, Jesus, yes.” Cory, apparently, also liked wine. “I can’t believe I didn’t write liquor on the list. Good but cheap wine is definitely something to be grateful for finding,” he leaned in toward Vincent and whispered the rest. “Like good dick.” Vincent almost choked on his own spit. Cory didn’t seem to notice. “The thing is,” he murmured, with his eyelashes against his cheek, “when it doesn’t mean much, then it’s almost like not having any. At least, it’s that way to me. You ever feel like that?”

  He raised his eyes and Vincent wasn’t prepared. There was no way to prepare for something like that. Before today he’d thought blushing in front of Cory was bad, but his expression right now was probably far worse. He felt caught by that soft gaze and that carefully thrown out question. Cory wanted to know if Vincent felt lonely. Vincent nodded, but the need all over his face was already answer enough.

  The admission made him step back, arms flailing a little before he reeled them in and put his phone away. “Pecans,” he heard himself say, and hurried to the start of the aisle to grab a bag.

  When he returned, Cory was again consulting the list he could have had memorized by now, but he looked up and smiled at Vincent so warmly that Vincent felt it down it his feet. People did not look at Vincent like that.

  Cory handed him the list and acted as though Vincent wasn’t practically hyperventilating while he wondered what that look meant or what to do about it.

  “Hmm.” Cory thought out loud. “Would you rather get a turkey or one of those tofu things?” He asked, then laughed gently when Vincent answered, “Yes!” before he’d fully heard the question.

  But although Cory undoubtedly thought Vincent was one of the most ridiculous men he’d ever met, he stayed next to him as they turned into a new aisle. And after a while, with the list in Vincent’s shaking hands, he took over the duty of pushing the cart.

  Vincent wasn’t sure what had happened, in his life, with his day, whatever. He had his arms full of bags of groceries and he was following his handsome neighbor, the object of his frustrated fantasies—Cory, as Vincent now got to call him, back to his apartment.

  Cory managed the key with one hand, kneed the door open, and walked in as if he knew Vincent would follow. Which was probably because Vincent had already done everything Cory had asked of him in the short time they’d been on friendly terms. Later, when he was alone, Vincent was going to be very embarrassed about that, because he was being as obvious as he had at fourteen when the varsity baseball team had walked by. But for now he couldn’t seem to stop himself from setting the heavy bags down on the counter where Cory indicated he should.

  The layout was similar to his place, a small kitchen with a counter that separated it from an equally small living room, and then a short distance away were the doors to the bathroom and two bedrooms, although Vincent only had the one bedroom, and he paid more for an in-unit washer and dryer. He’d learned how awkward sharing laundry time with neighbors could be at his first apartment. Never again.

  There was a tiny, two-person table at the end of the kitchen with a vase full of flowers on it. He guessed Cory always had flowers around. The arrangement was lovely, what looked like chrysanthemums and berry branches, which gave him some ideas about how Cory planned on getting his place, “all Martha Stewart.”

  The doors to the bedrooms were closed, and Vincent wasn’t that creepy that he was going to make up an excuse to peek. He began pulling groceries from the bags while Cory put a few away and arranged others into some kind of order on the countertop. “Some things I am going to prepare or set up tomorrow,” Cory explained when he caught Vincent looking, and then studied the box of tofu turkey with the same disbelief and interest he’d shown in the store. Regular turkeys, at this point, had either been too big or too expensive, so Cory had decided on the flavored tofu and then a small ham in case some of his guests still wanted meat. Most of them would be getting turkey from somewhere else anyway, leftovers from friends or family.

  They’d gotten cans of cranberry sauce too, because according to Cory, Ricky liked the jiggly shape it was in when taken out of the can and had requested it over fresh cranberry sauce. Cory didn’t care either way. What he did care about was the shape of the sweet potatoes, the amount of marshmallows, and having plenty of butter and brown sugar on hand. He’d also grabbed heavy cream, which he quickly popped into the fridge while Vincent was trying not to drool at the thought of that much brown sugar on anything.

  “Now
,” Cory announced when the perishables had all been put away, “your stuff. Hurry now.”

  Vincent thought he was being dismissed until Cory slipped out of the kitchen and took hold of Vincent’s shirt to lead him along too. Vincent only had two bags to bring in and didn’t need help, but Cory closed the door behind them and insisted on going to his car with him. “You wouldn’t let me pay for your gas,” he reminded Vincent when Vincent tried to say something, then with quiet authority, directed Vincent to close the trunk.

  Vincent let Cory into his apartment with no small amount of trepidation and then was forced to view the mostly bare walls and consider them the way a stranger might. He wasn’t much of a decorator if he didn’t count the pillows and blankets he bought by the ton.

  Clearing his throat, he took the bag Cory had carried up and went into his kitchen. He had two perishable items and one was ice cream, which, he’d be happy to tell Judith, was for the pie. The other was frozen pie crusts, in case he messed up the ones he was going to make from scratch.

  He would probably mess up the ones he made from scratch.

  When he turned from the freezer, Cory was by his couch, considering either the mug of now-cold tea or the closed laptop and pile of blankets. “Is this where you write?”

  Genuine, paralyzing shock was the only thing that kept Vincent from tripping over his own feet and falling onto his face. “You know about that? How?”

  He hadn’t said anything. He didn’t even write under his own name. Admittedly, Vincent Green wasn’t the most secretive penname, but he didn’t have his picture on his books or anything.

  “You aren’t the only fabulous soul in the building,” Cory reminded him sweetly. The complex had been listed as “gay friendly” after all, which was one of the reasons Vincent, and probably Cory as well, had chosen to live here. But that still didn’t explain how Cory knew what he did. Vincent stood motionless at the start of the living room, and Cory took pity on him. “You went to a convention or something a while ago. Ricky worked it as a bisexual booth babe—Ricky is bi, by the way. You aren’t going to be one of those gays who act like that makes them less than us, or treat him like he has a disease because he’s touched a woman, are you? Because I don’t have time for those kinds of people.”