by Ava Hayden
Chapter 16
PAUL WORKED Sunday morning and afternoon to finish the gift baskets. Haruni would deliver them tomorrow. He pulled off his apron just as his phone buzzed.
Carson: I’m outside your back door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Paul opened the back door, and Carson stepped through. “I knew you’d be here.” He scanned the space and then pinned Paul with a look.
Paul raised his hands. “I’m stopping for the day. I swear.”
“Excellent. You can come to dinner with me and Jay.”
Paul shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m about ready to collapse. I thought I’d eat something and turn in early.”
“Hmm.” Carson looked him up and down. “Sweet pea, you can’t go on like this. Look at you.” He gestured at Paul. “Scruffy, permanent shadows under your eyes, slumped shoulders.”
Paul tried to smile. “I know. But once Valentine’s Day is over, things will be better.”
Carson huffed and put his hands on his hips, his worry plain to see. “Are you sure you won’t have dinner with us?”
“Not tonight. But thanks.”
“And have you done anything more on that subject we discussed last night?”
Paul lifted his hands and let them drop. “After Valentine’s Day.”
Carson rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He dug into a pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and shoved it into Paul’s hand. “Don’t lose that.” He pushed through the door and then spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll be watching.”
“Wait, what is this?” said Paul.
“Huxley’s address.” The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off anything else Carson might have said.
Huxley’s address. Right. In the time they’d been seeing each other, he’d never gone to Huxley’s place, never even found out where it was.
Not that far. A walk to the train station, a short ride, and then a few blocks. Paul checked the weather. Cold but not wet or windy.
Maybe a walk was what he needed to clear his head. He could bundle up, walk—just for the exercise, of course—and see Huxley’s building. Maybe he could slip in and peek at the mailbox. Would there be one name or two?
Great, not just paying a visit to Crazytown—moving in lock, stock, and barrel.
Really not a good idea to walk over just to see Huxley’s place.
Stalkerish.
Strange.
Skin-crawly.
Paul pulled an apple from the fridge and dropped into a chair to think. He was famished. He finished the apple and retrieved a familiar pink box from the counter, dropping the core into the compost bin along the way. Not bothering with a plate or a napkin, he ate a cookie. Then another. When he finished the last remaining cookie, he stared into space and came to a decision.
He brushed his teeth and looked at himself in the staff washroom mirror. He’d wear a beanie to hide that he needed a haircut. It was already nearly dark outside—facial scruff wouldn’t matter. Nor would shadows under his eyes.
Five minutes later Paul strode down the sidewalk toward the train station, breathing in cold air that carried a heady spicy scent from the nearby Indian restaurant. Fresh air. Exercise. Good reasons for a walk.
SUNDAY EVENING Huxley planned to exercise and try the SUV’s front seat with seat belt on and door closed. Valentine’s Day was near, and he was determined to be able to ride shotgun by then.
He was about to head to the gym when his condo buzzer sounded. He bounded to the control. “Yeah?”
“Huxley, it’s Roger.” The voice was tinny but recognizable. “Can I talk to you? Just for a minute.” Static crackled. “Please.”
The look on Roger’s face the evening before had been tormented. Huxley grimaced. It would probably bite him in the ass, but he wouldn’t be a jerk. “Yeah, come on up.”
Huxley stood in his doorway and waited. When Roger stepped out of the elevator and looked around to get his bearings, Huxley waved him down.
“Nice place,” said Roger.
“Thanks.” Huxley ushered Roger in and pointed him to the sofa. He debated. How rude was he going to be? Crap. Okay, not that rude.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Roger looked up. He sat on the edge of the couch, arms on thighs, hands dangling. His face was pale and pinched.
“I—no, that’s okay.”
Huxley looked him up and down. “I think you need something. Coffee? I could use some too.”
“Yeah, okay, coffee.”
A few minutes later, Huxley reappeared with a tray he set on the coffee table between them. He turned a mug so the handle pointed in Roger’s direction and gestured to the tray. “Help yourself.”
When Roger didn’t move, Huxley led the way, dumping sugar and cream into his cup before settling back into the armchair.
Roger sighed and reached for his mug. Either he was using product designed to give his hair a limp, oily appearance, or he hadn’t washed it in a few days. His shirt and trousers didn’t look fresh either. Huxley tried to recall what he’d worn the night before. Was he wearing them now? More proof of the universe’s indifference to fairness or justice, Roger still looked stunning, bedhead, wrinkled clothes, and all. If he walked into a club, he’d be swarmed in the first ten feet.
Huxley sipped and waited.
“First, I’m sorry.” Roger cupped the mug in two hands and met Huxley’s gaze. “I’m sorry for all the crap I said and did in high school, and I’m sorry about the other night.” He looked away a moment, as if he was gathering up his courage, and then looked at Huxley again. “I know what I said was messed up.” He dropped his gaze. “I want to apologize to your friend too. I was hoping you could tell me how to contact him.”
Huxley wasn’t ready to sign off on the past just yet. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“I thought maybe you could tell—” Roger wouldn’t meet his eyes. He flushed.
“Tell?”
“I….” Roger set the mug on the coffee table. He didn’t look at Huxley. “How did you get to be so brave?”
Huxley’s jaw dropped. “Brave? Are you kidding?”
“You always did what you wanted. Hell, you put a Valentine in Chase Perrault’s locker. You didn’t care what anybody thought.”
Huxley shook his head. “I didn’t always do what I wanted, believe me.” He smiled, rueful. “That Valentine was unsigned, you know.”
“But your family knows you’re gay.”
Huxley wanted to say “My family isn’t batshit crazy,” but that wouldn’t help. He shrugged. “Yeah, I told them. I had to. How else was I going to have a life?”
Roger’s face crumpled. The battles being fought inside spilled across his face. He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes and inhaled hard and deep. After a moment he dropped his hands and stared at the floor.
“I’m not brave,” Huxley said. “My mum’s spent months in physical therapy and rehab because of it.” He hadn’t had the strength to stand firm that day, and they both paid for it. He didn’t have to explain further. The accident had been front-page news.
Roger cleared his throat. “So… um… I really am sorry.” His mouth twisted. “If I’m having this much trouble telling you I’m gay, how the hell am I ever going to say it to anyone else?”
Huxley’s brows shot up. “You haven’t told anyone else?”
Roger shook his head, wordless.
“Let me see your phone.”
“Huh?”
Huxley held out a hand. “Phone.” A moment later he typed a number into Roger’s contacts, consulting his own phone for information. “There.”
Roger accepted the phone. “Who is this?”
Huxley smiled. “My therapist. Highly recommended. I suggest you give her a ring and set up an appointment. If she doesn’t think she’s the right fit, she’ll help you find someone who is.”
Roger nodded, obviously thinking hard.
“I’m not mad,” said Huxley. Roger stared at him, mute. “I acc
ept your apology, but really—high school was a long time ago. Yes, okay, you were out of line the other evening.”
Roger flushed.
“But Carson is the one you need to apologize to.”
Roger looked down. “I know. I will.”
“I don’t have a lot of patience with people or institutions that try to tell me there’s something wrong with me. If some group is telling you there’s something wrong with you—it’s not you. It’s them.” That was as close as Huxley would go to suggesting it was time for Roger to break free of his parents and their hate-driven congregation.
Roger looked thoughtful, and then he seemed to firm up right there in front of Huxley, almost as if someone had slotted a length of rebar down his spine. “I should get out of your way,” he said.
Huxley accompanied him out, and a minute later, they stood in front of the condo building.
“Thanks. Really, thanks,” said Roger. “Listen—what happened with your mum—you shouldn’t blame yourself.” He lifted a hand when Huxley started to speak. “Hear me out. You’d do it differently today if it happened again, right?”
Huxley nodded.
“You learned from it. So don’t beat yourself up. I think—” Roger pushed his hair back and settled his beanie. “I think we both have to stop doing that. We have to forgive ourselves. Like you said—how the hell else are you going to have a life?”
Roger held out a hand, taking Huxley by surprise. After a beat he grasped it and squeezed.
“Carson does a show at Billy Boy’s,” said Huxley. “If you want to talk to him.”
“Thanks.” Roger hesitated as if he were about to speak again and then smiled. “Thanks.” He turned and walked away.
PAUL STOOD in shadows and watched Huxley turn and walk back inside the condo building. What just happened with Roger? He hadn’t missed the way Roger looked at Huxley the night of GBU—or the fact Roger was as pretty as an Andrew Christian model.
His heart sank. Had Roger gotten his head out of his ass in time to step into the void Paul left?
He’d been listening to his gut, all right—but just one-half of it. He’d been ignoring the part telling him Huxley was different—special. No matter how bad his life had become, it was always better with Huxley around. Not that there was anything wrong with listening to the warnings from inside, but he should have listened to all of the information his intuition and his heart and his primitive amygdala brain were sending him.
I have to apologize. I have to ask for another chance. I have to get him back. Even if he is with Roger. He couldn’t be with Roger, could he? No one could go from loathing to love so quickly. I’ll fight for this.
Paul knew without looking his shirt had stains where the apron hadn’t caught everything. His hair—he would have to find time for a cut. His stubble was the not-sexy kind. Time to beat a strategic retreat. Now was not the moment to win Huxley back.
Yes, the business must not fail. But what kind of life was it when all you did was work? Love had to succeed too. He would find a way. There had to be a way.
V-DAY MINUS one. Huxley relaxed in the SUV’s front passenger seat, seat belt fastened, door closed. He breathed in and out with deliberation, eyes shut, envisioning a spring drive across the Great Divide.
The sound of Bishop’s boots on the garage’s concrete surface alerted Huxley to his approach. He opened his eyes and sat up as Bishop slipped into the driver’s seat.
Bishop grinned. “Want to try riding in the front seat today?”
Huxley considered and then shook his head. It might be superstitious, but his sister had called his plan a Valentine’s Day resolution. One more day. Then he’d try.
AT THE office Huxley trudged up the stairs and stopped to initial the Heart Health Challenge sheet. Odd. Around the end of January, the initials had hit a low, but since then, the number of people initialing had increased, sometimes just by one, but still—the count was bigger every day. The number of staff initialing multiple times a day had grown as well.
He dropped his things off at his office and made his way to the reception area. The celadon vases on the two pedestals in the entryway held fresh flowers.
“Those flowers look great,” he said.
“Thank you.” Sherrilyn looked different. She moved with confidence, looked him in the eye, and held herself with a professional poise he hadn’t seen when he started at Oilton Foods.
“I’m using the same vendor we had in the past. They were always prompt and did good work, and they were so happy to get our business back that they gave us the same price we had before.”
Huxley wasn’t about to second-guess. “Good work.”
Sherrilyn leaned in. “I wanted to say thank you for the promotion.” For a second the old Sherrilyn was visible. “It means a lot.”
Huxley smiled, but before he could reply, Bob lumbered in. “Huxley. A word.” Out of Bob’s view, Sherrilyn’s brows shot up, but she composed her face instantly. Huxley wasn’t so agile, and Bob glowered at his expression.
“Sure,” said Huxley. “Let’s go to my office.”
He tried to usher Bob in, but Bob waited for him to go first. Huxley winced as the door slammed behind the COO.
“Why is mission statement on the agenda? And strategic plan,” said Bob, scowling.
Huxley sat and laced his fingers on top of his desk.
“Good morning, Bob.”
Bob’s face went purple.
“The mission statement needs review and possibly revisions. And we don’t have a strategic plan at all, at least not that I can find. Since we’re finally doing some market research, now would be a good time to think about where we want to take the company in the future.”
“Did it not occur to you to talk to me first?”
Um. No? Huxley opted for a diplomatic grimace masquerading as a smile. “I’d like to have managers participating in the brainstorming. A strategic plan has to come from all of us because it will take all of us to make it work. We need buy-in.”
“This is a company, not a commune.”
“This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteen fifties.” Huxley was proud his voice held firm.
Bob’s look promised he would go over Huxley’s head. So be it.
“Fine,” said Bob. A moment later the door slammed behind him.
Huxley sat without moving, taking stock. His heart wasn’t beating overly fast. His mouth hadn’t gone bone-dry. No sign of a cold sweat. Whatever happened would happen. He was finally doing his job in a way he could be proud of. If his father replaced him, he’d survive. If he didn’t get his trust fund until he was thirty-five, he’d still survive.
Only one thing could wreck his whole world now, and that was never having a chance to try again with Paul.
After Roger left the previous evening, Huxley wrote down what he wanted to say to Paul. Wrote, crossed out, rewrote, practiced saying it aloud. Cursed at how stupid it sounded. Wrote more, crossed out so hard his pen made gashes in the paper. Rubbed his eyes and wanted to cry from frustration. Settled for yelling a string of the worst words he knew and throwing the pen across the room.
In the end he found the words he wanted to say. Tomorrow—Valentine’s Day—he’d find Paul, and he’d say those words.
Chapter 17
V-DAY. PAUL was downstairs in the workroom early, checking and double-checking orders. Haruni arrived and loaded the van with deliveries destined for the city’s northeast quadrant. He pulled away just as Sue let herself in the front door at eight thirty to prep for opening.
Sukey stopped by during a break in the morning rush and gave them a selection of Valentine’s Day cookies. Paul gave her one of the impulse-buy bouquets from the cooler.
Haruni texted that he’d dropped off the last of the northeast deliveries and was on his way back for another load.
Out front, the door chimed regularly—customers picking up orders or purchasing ready-made bouquets.
Paul leaned against the wall and closed hi
s eyes. He was so tired he’d fall asleep if he lay down on the floor. He just might manage to pull this day off. He had one more arrangement to create—the most important of all.
HUXLEY STARED in dismay at the SUV. The right front tire was flat. His lips in a grim line, he shrugged off his coat and suit jacket, tucked his tie out of the way, and squatted to change the tire, something he hadn’t done since high school driver’s ed. Calling for roadside assistance would take forever. Bishop arrived soon afterward, and between the two of them, they mounted the spare, but not without cost to their appearance. Huxley brushed off as much dust as he could and shared a rag with Bishop to wipe off the grease.
From habit Huxley jumped into the back and then remembered he was supposed to ride up front today. Later. After they got the tire repaired. He called Sherrilyn and rescheduled the managers’ meeting for the next day as Bishop drove them to the dealership where Huxley had all his maintenance done.
“Will this make you late?” asked Huxley.
Bishop shook his head. “Nope, my first class is at eleven.”
At the dealership the manager squeezed them in and had them on their way an hour later. Given the amount of money Huxley’s family spent there, it was the least he could do.
Once again Huxley climbed into the back seat. “Let’s go to Sukey’s.” It was Valentine’s Day, after all—even without a manager’s meeting as an excuse, his staff deserved a treat.
“You got it.” Bishop pulled out and glanced in the rearview mirror. “You going to try riding shotgun?”
Huxley flushed. “After we get the donuts.”
PAUL HAD just finished the final arrangement and tucked in the card when his cell phone rang. Haruni. Oh shit.
“Hey, Haruni, what’s up?”
“Paul—man, I got some bad news. I was in an accident.”
Paul’s heart felt as if it were going to climb up out of his throat.