Wreck the Halls

by Jessica Payseur

  “Everything okay with you?” he asked. “You’re normally more into this. How’s the business going?”

  “Great. Mostly. I’m locked in a battle with the next-door eatery. It’s all very epic.”

  “You want to fuck him,” Brandon said without waiting for him to go on.

  “How do you even know it’s a him?” Nick asked.

  Brandon laughed. “I think I can tell by now. Just get it over with. Look, I’m not going to be mad if your two weeks of going out with this asshole completely overlaps when I’m there. There’s always next time. You know, six months or a year from now.”

  “This isn’t something I can solve by sleeping with the guy. He’s not interested. We’re actually stuck in some sort of battle of the wits.” Nick decided he didn’t care; he was hungry. He shoved the plate in the microwave and heated it.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve seen you flirt. You’re an asshole.”

  “Really, Brandon. First day I met him, he ripped my menu off the door and turned my sign to Closed.”

  “He sounds perfect for you,” Brandon said, and Nick cringed. He didn’t like the tingle that shot along his spine at hearing that.

  “So I convinced his waiter to ditch and go home.” Nick grabbed the reheated meal and returned to the couch, too annoyed at relating everything to make noises of joy at the food. “Now he’s hired a better cook and completely changed his menu. It’s taken some of my business—the food is that good.”

  “That’s what you’re eating.”

  “I have to know my enemy.” Nick stabbed a little of everything onto his fork—waffle, chicken, curd, bacon—and then ran it through the gravy. Food like this might put him out of business if he didn’t find some way to deal with it. Or a way to deal with Paul.

  “Well, how are you going to fuck him over next? Assuming you don’t want to do it the normal way.”

  “Brandon, I could barely get him to accept money from my hand. I don’t think the guy wants to touch me.”

  “I just want to know how you’re going to fuck with his menu. I expect a good story when I’m there visiting after all this.”

  “Sure,” Nick said.

  Brandon made a small noise of annoyance. “Actually, I have to go. Call me when you have an idea when you’ll be free over New Year’s. And good luck fucking your guy, one way or another.”

  The moment Brandon hung up, Nick dug into the rest of the food, thinking. He leaned over, grabbed his laptop from where he’d left it at the far end of the coffee table, and went to Paul’s Café’s website. It had been a few days since the food had changed, and the menu online was updated. Nick scrolled through as he ate. This was definitely a better selection than Paul had a week ago. Most of it looked better than what Nick offered too.

  He was screwed. Unless he could update his own menu quickly enough… but Christmas was in a few days, and he didn’t think he could change everything that fast. And for some reason, Nick felt he had to retaliate before Christmas.

  He frowned. Brandon had mentioned fucking with Paul’s menu, not updating his own. It seemed a shitty thing to do, but overall there would be no harm done if Nick made a few changes to the listed food. And printing up a bunch of fake menus was definitely within the time frame Nick could manage.

  He set aside his now-empty plate and sat back with Paul’s menu. He’d probably even have fun changing everything.

  PAUL BEGAN to hope soaps or candles would move in next door when Nick went under. He wouldn’t even complain if someone wanted to open a smoothie place there. Really, anything that replaced annoying Nick with something laid-back would do. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was before Nick had shown up. Steady, predictable. Not giving him weird emotions and strange dreams.

  Because that was exactly where he was now. With his café in no threat of folding, having Nick’s place next to his felt different, almost more companionable, and that worried him. Also, the dreams where Nick was randomly in his kitchen, placing parsley garnishes on every dish, even the pies.

  Paul hoped Nick was going out of town for Christmas. A little privacy would do him good.

  “Can you believe how much sun there is today?” Erica asked when Paul descended the stairs and entered the café.

  He stared at her. “Yeah,” he said. He hadn’t bothered to open his curtains, but he probably should—his sister had given him a houseplant a few years ago. He hadn’t managed to kill it yet, but it probably could do with a little sunlight.

  “After all the gray and the snow, I’m a little sad I don’t get to enjoy it.”

  “We need to talk about reducing your hours,” Paul said, and Erica opened her mouth. “After Christmas, I know. How many presents are you buying if you have to put in sixty-hour weeks?”

  “It’s closer to seventy and you know it. You’re here too. Got a long list?”

  Paul didn’t bother mentioning he was here all the time because he owned the place and lived above it. It actually sounded kind of pathetic, even in his head. Instead, he invoked Mike. “I have more nieces and nephews than you can count.”

  “What’s that, like, three?” Erica asked.

  Paul rolled his eyes. There really was a lot of light coming in through the café windows; he pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. “I left the windows closed. If I let the houseplant my sister gave me die from lack of sun… she probably won’t actually know.”

  “What is it?”

  “Spider plant, I think,” Paul said. Erica nodded, but he didn’t want to get into a discussion with her about house plants. He liked his ignorance about it, and he suspected she’d have too much information. “Be right back.”

  Erica was right about the sun. When Paul pulled the curtains back, it flooded in, such a contrast to the past two weeks or so of gray skies and snow that he got caught up staring around his place for a moment. It wasn’t cluttered, but it still felt depressing to him. Nobody ever visited, so his walls were still blank and unpainted. He’d gotten himself nice furniture, but the house plant really was the only thing that gave his space any life.

  Maybe he should get a cat. Not a gray one.

  He wondered what Nick’s place was like. He seemed to have done a bit of reworking when he’d moved in—at least, Paul had seen empty paint cans out by the dumpster, a discarded bookcase box, and a few other such indications that Nick had done up his place a little. If Paul dropped by with a beer, Nick would probably let him in. He’d wanted to go for one anyway.

  Paul caught and berated himself. The fuck was he thinking, assuming he and Nick could be anything approximating friends? To envision himself going into Nick’s apartment—no, more than that, wanting to see what Nick had done with the place, his couch, his bedroom. Wanting to see Nick’s bed? Paul definitely needed a break. This business competition was obviously wearing on him.

  He returned to the café, which was bordering on panic. Erica was arguing with the waiter, who seemed to be accusing her of whatever it was they were both pissed about. Paul blinked, shocked that he could be gone for twenty minutes and everything could go to shit in that amount of time. He moved to split them up.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, looking from a glaring Erica to a grimacing waiter.

  “You could tell me when you update your menu,” the waiter said. “I didn’t realize it changed every couple days.”

  “And I told him it was just the one change,” Erica said, gesturing with gloved hand. “One new menu, no further changes. Instead, he’s ordering five-star fish and risotto with truffle oil.”

  “We don’t have any of that,” Paul said.

  “That’s what I told him,” Erica said. “But he insists.”

  The waiter, looking about ready to walk off, shoved a menu at Paul. “I just take the orders and serve. Tell me what I’m supposed to think with shit like this?”

  Paul blinked, motioning for him to calm down, as a frowning customer came up to him.

  “Excuse me, is there something wrong with our o
rder?” he asked.

  Paul stifled his building anger and put on a helpful expression. “We’re sorting that out now,” he said. “If you would just have a seat….”

  “I need to know now if we need to pick a different place to eat. My wife and I have an appointment—”

  “And I’ll be right over in a few minutes,” Paul said, gesturing for the customer to retake his seat. He waited until the man had returned to his table before looking down at the menu. It felt like it was supposed to—the right font printed on the right paper, Paul’s Café in the top corner even—but this was not his menu.

  “The fuck?” he muttered, running his eyes down it. This was all food he’d expect to see in a nicer restaurant than his—bruschetta made with hydroponic tomatoes, bisque, steak with bleu cheese sauce. “What exactly is freshwater paella?”

  “It’s what table four ordered,” the waiter said. “Also, the chicken-fried lamb.”

  Paul gaped at Erica.

  “I didn’t do that,” she said.

  He shook his head. He didn’t believe she did either—she was far too overworked to have developed a new menu, and beyond that, she wouldn’t have needed to when she’d just finalized the replacement recipes a few days ago.

  “Where are the old menus?” Paul asked, waving the one he was holding at the waiter. “I’ll go talk to the tables, but I have to have something else to offer them.”

  The waiter started shuffling through the entire menu stack. When he came up empty from that, he went to check the one taped in the window.

  Paul glanced at Erica.

  “It does sound like good food,” she said, shrugging. “I mean, I’d like to have stuffed lake trout or crimini risotto. And the flourless chocolate cake with fresh berries and whipped cream? Sounds like the perfect dessert and breakfast.”

  “Until we get the menus back, you don’t think there’s any way you could…,” Paul began, but Erica laughed.

  “Hell no. We don’t have any local freshwater anything to put in a paella, and last I checked, we don’t stock lamb either. Do you remember buying hydroponic tomatoes or that nice a cut of steak? I sure don’t remember adding it to the vendor list.”

  “I was worried you’d remind me of that,” Paul said, pushing back his anger again as the waiter returned, shaking his head. “All right, clear away all these menus. I don’t want any more people confused by this.”

  “What are you going to say to the tables?”

  Paul pulled out his phone and sighed. “That they should order based on what’s posted online. At least the clever prankster who went through the trouble of giving us new menus didn’t fuck up the site.” He paused. It figured that on the one sunny day of December, something shitty like this would happen. “Wish me luck.”

  PAUL AT least waited until there was a dip in customers around two before making an appearance. Nick hadn’t really expected him to stay away, so he was ready when Paul came storming over. Or at least he’d thought he was. But one glance at Paul’s face, flushed from the cold and anger, his eyes alight, did something strange to Nick.

  Shit. Maybe Brandon was right about Nick wanting to get in bed with him.

  Maybe that was why Nick hadn’t just let everything drop after the menu change. Maybe that was why he had to push it with Paul, see how much he could be provoked, soak up his reaction. Well, it was a bit late for that kind of introspection now, with Paul stalking toward him in the back of his restaurant, waving a large piece of paper at him.

  “Where are my menus?” Paul asked, voice surprisingly low. But then, he did seem to be growling.

  Nick put his hands up. “What?” he asked, feeling gloriously like an asshole. He realized he liked pushing Paul’s buttons—so Paul wouldn’t have a drink with Nick, but he would come right over if he was irritated. And Nick liked being that important.

  “You did this, now put it right.” Paul’s growl stirred something at the back of Nick’s skull, and he swallowed, smiled awkwardly, and took the menu. Paul stepped closer as Nick loosened his collar a little and made a show of examining the menu.

  “Looks like I did something good if you’ve updated your menu again. This is way outside my ability.”

  “Mine too, you bastard,” Paul said. He wrenched the menu from Nick’s hands. “Why the hell do you keep screwing with me?”

  Nick couldn’t help it. He grinned.

  Paul’s face twitched, and for a moment, they locked eyes, staring at each other. Nick desperately wanted to know just what Paul was thinking, but he seemed to be working through something. Nick’s own mind was running wild, and he searched for the right way to respond.

  “You started it,” he managed at last.

  Paul crushed the menu in his hand and pulled away. Nick watched as he ran a hand over his beard, wishing he could get Paul back in his personal bubble again. They’d been so close, Paul with his charged anger, Nick prodding him nearer.

  “I’ll end it too,” Paul said. He threw the menu to the floor as Nick’s smile vanished. That didn’t sound good.

  “That’s not a threat, is it?”

  “Why, do you get off on that?”

  Nick opened his mouth, then shut it.

  Paul breathed out hard through his nose. “Stay away from my café,” he said, then stormed out onto the sunny sidewalk.

  Nick watched him walk back to his café and enter, then noticed Sammie had come out of the kitchen to stare at him. She was standing behind him, and he turned as she spoke.

  “Damn. You ought to give him those menus back.”

  “You think it’s me too?”

  Sammie made a face at him, nearly rolling her eyes.

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t have them here.”

  “You do get off on making him mad. Damn, Nick.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” Nick said, not wanting her to misinterpret things. Not wanting her to think he was that bad. He liked having fun. He wanted to get a reaction out of Paul. But this probably had been too far. Considering he’d had to spend a decent amount of his own money on printing the new menus and had stayed up late creating them in the first place—

  “—something for you to wrap it in.”

  “What?” he asked, realizing Sammie had continued the conversation without him.

  Now she did roll her eyes. “I said, if you’re going through all this trouble and money, you might as well just get him a gift. It’s Christmas—you can find an excuse. Mend things between you or whatever. If you don’t have any paper, I probably can find something for you to wrap it in.”

  “Right,” Nick said. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll manage.”

  “You going to give him his menus back?”

  Nick hesitated and glanced in the direction of Paul’s Café.

  “You didn’t throw them out,” Sammie said.

  “No, I have them. I think I’ll give him a chance to cool down first.”

  Sammie shrugged and returned to her dishwashing.

  Nick waited an hour, getting nervous as the time passed. Paul had sort of told him not to drop by the café, and while Nick could ask one of his staff to take the menus over, he did want to see Paul again.

  But Paul probably didn’t want to see him. It was dawning on him he’d probably blown whatever chance he hadn’t originally realized he wanted. Shit. Well, he could apologize when he dropped the menus off. He wondered whether he should make an offering too. No, he shouldn’t overthink it.

  Despite that, Nick found himself outside Paul’s apartment door after their restaurants had closed for the day, menus tucked under the same arm that held a six-pack. It was too much, Nick knew, to hope Paul would forgive him and invite him in to share the beer, but Nick had always been the kind of person to do what he wanted regardless of how slim his odds were.

  He knocked and waited. Nick thought he heard Paul on the other side of the door, probably peering through the peephole, but he held back from saying anything. He’d pretend this was normal as long as he co
uld. Long minutes passed, and Nick decided to knock again.

  He gave up after twenty minutes, disappointed Paul wasn’t going to open the door for him. He really had fucked up if Paul saw he had the menus and still wasn’t responding. That meant he didn’t want to talk to Nick. He glanced at the beer, tempted to take it back and drink it all alone, but eventually decided to leave it too. Nick propped the menus against the wall, set the beer down in front of them, and left.

  Sammie was right. The next step would have to be a real gift.

  “I’LL GIVE the fucker lake trout,” Paul said as he typed in an online search. He was sure he could find a supplier who would sell him one of those miserable fishes on short notice. He’d have to wake up earlier than usual, which was an annoyance, but it meant he could be through with everything in time to ruin Nick’s day.

  And after the stunt he pulled with the menus, Paul really wanted to ruin Nick’s day. They’d be even. He looked forward to watching Nick cope with the hell Paul was about to put him through. Assholes like Nick should learn to back off, or there’d be unexpected consequences.

  He glanced at the stack of menus he’d thrown on the other side of the table. At least Nick had kept them in good condition—apart from the fact that he’d kept them for a fucking half an hour under his arm. Paul hoped the smell of Nick’s soap would wear off by the time he opened tomorrow. Paul had gone back to the stack several times to sniff it, and decided he’d take the top few and bottom few off and set them aside for now.

  Paul reached over, pulled the menus to him, and inhaled. It wasn’t a bad smell, whatever Nick used, and seemed to compliment him, but Paul didn’t want that on his menus even if he didn’t personally hate it. He pulled away the offending sheets, trying not to think about what it meant that the smell of Nick didn’t immediately piss him off.

  Didn’t matter anyway. He was dealing with Nick, lake trout style, regardless of what the asshole smelled like.