by Gregory Ashe
“It’s perfect,” Hazard said, cupping the card like a breeze might carry it away. And even though they were inside, he felt like there was a breeze: something blowing through him, invisible and vast, threatening to pull him off the ground.
He had to do something, so he kissed Somers again. Then, snagging the plate, he added, “You’re out of time. You’ll just have to go without breakfast.”
“I can—”
“Shower.”
“Just two quick bites and—”
“Shower.”
Somers tried to reach the plate, stretching past Hazard’s arm. “I’ll just—”
Growling, Hazard dropped the plate and wrestled his boyfriend into the bathroom, into the shower, and pointed at the pebbled skin of Somers’s chest.
“Shower.”
Somers stretched with a lazy grin. “Maybe you should get in here and make sure I do it right.”
“Thirty-five-fucking-years-old, and you are still a brat.”
Hazard left him to the hot water. He ironed the shirt and hung it on the bathroom door; Somers was singing Sinatra—Hazard only recognized that much because Somers insisted on playing the song at an annoyingly high level. With the sole purpose, Hazard thought, of annoying Hazard. Hazard changed into a button-down and slacks.
Then Hazard went downstairs. The preparations were easy. He hung two banners. He got the champagne and orange juice, which he had chilled in a cooler in the garage; the winter nights were cold enough, and he didn’t want to risk Somers finding them and figuring everything out. At ten past nine, the doorbell rang, and Hazard let in the caterers from the Wahredua Family Bakery.
At nine twenty-five, Somers came downstairs in the shirt and cardigan and trousers.
“Thanks,” Somers said, plucking at his clothes with one hand while waving with the other at one of the girls who was setting out frittatas and coffee cake.
“You look nice.”
“No, not the clothes. Well, yes. The clothes. But all of this. I didn’t want you to—”
Then the doorbell rang, and before either of them could answer it, it joggled open and Evie sprinted into the house. Somers’s daughter—their daughter—crashed into her father, screaming, “Happy birthday” as he swung her up into his arms. Then, without taking a breath, she switched to, “Dee, Dee, Dee,” and Somers passed her, laughing, to Hazard.
Hazard accepted Evie, accepted the sticky hug and the stickier kiss on his mouth, and hitched her up on his hip. Evie was telling him something about school, and Hazard was half paying attention as Cora came into the house with two big bags.
“Morning,” Somers said, grabbing the bags. “What’s in these? Gold bullion?”
“Those breakfast casseroles we always do.” She kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday.”
“Cora, you didn’t have to—”
“Put them in the oven at three fifty, please.”
“Fine. But later, when I’ve had a couple of mimosas, I’m going to corner both of you and tell you just how happy I am.”
“No, thank you,” Cora said.
“At length.”
“Pass,” Hazard said.
“It’ll probably take an hour or two.”
Cora just shook her head and shoved him toward the kitchen, and Somers, grinning and oh-so-pleased with himself, jogged off with the casseroles. Hazard shifted Evie on his hip; she was still talking, and he tried to focus on the story—something about a carrot and reindeer—but Cora was standing there, and she was, after all, Somers’s ex-wife. He hated that he thought of her that way. He hated that he couldn’t treat her as well as she treated him.
“Thank you,” Hazard said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I love him too,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe not the way I used to, but I love him.”
“Thank you,” Hazard said again, and suddenly his eyes were hot and stinging, and his chest crumpled like an enormous fist had closed around it.
Cora noticed, of course. “Are you—” Then, for some reason, she caught herself. “Evie, get down, please. You’ve got syrup in Dee Dee’s hair. Let him go rinse it out.”
Almost blind, blinking frantically, Hazard lowered Evie and, one hand on the wall, hurried to the bathroom. He did have maple syrup in his hair; he wetted a wash cloth and wiped it away as best he could. Then he ran through the Fibonacci sequence until, all of the sudden, he was thinking about the dreams again, the labyrinth of the Haverford, the feeling of waking up and not knowing, not entirely, if Somers were dead or alive. Then, because he couldn’t breathe, he did prime numbers. He got to 199 before the chain was interrupted by the vision of a plane crashing into a mountain, and then he couldn’t have conjured a prime number even if he wanted to. He was so totally and utterly fucked.
But he had to go back. So after another five minutes, he went back.
By the time he got to the living room, several more guests had arrived; a handful of people Hazard didn’t know were at the buffet, loading plates with home fries and breakfast casserole and the Wahredua Family Bakery’s frittatas. Somers was talking to an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. DeBerry, whom Hazard had known since he’d been ten years old and shot out the rear passenger window of Mr. DeBerry’s Continental; Mr. DeBerry had put him over a wheelbarrow and strapped him within an inch of never being able to sit down again. Hazard decided he’d wait until Somers finished that particular conversation.
Dulac stood near a window in a column of sunlight; his freckled face broke into a partial grin when he saw Hazard, hampered only by his still puffy nose.
“Dude,” he said, holding up a mimosa. “Pretty sweet birthday party.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s the occasion?”
Hazard blinked. “That is a stupid question, so I’m not answering it.”
“I read this poster once that said there are no stupid questions.”
“That’s almost as stupid as the question.”
“Because I thought, maybe, you were, like, going to—”
“Shut. Up.”
“Right, bro. Totally.” And for some reason Dulac started grinning and held his fist out for a bump.
Hazard began calculating how much violence Somers would tolerate at his birthday party; the amount he came up with was tragically low.
“That’s my date over there,” Dulac said, pointing at the buffet.
“I don’t care,” Hazard said.
But he did look. A slim blond with an undercut was picking through the salad, probably trying to sniff out any contraband carbs.
“How old is he? Sixteen?”
“Gross, dude.” Then Dulac laughed and pointed. “No, that one.”
The man was big. Heavy, although fat would have been the wrong word, because he looked like a lot of what he carried was muscle. More importantly, he carried it well. His dark hair was in a simple, conservative cut, and he wore a barn coat with jeans and a flannel shirt.
“Did he come straight from mucking the stalls?”
Dulac shifted, passing his plate from hand to hand. And then, without his usual humor, said, “Don’t be an asshole.”
Glancing over, Hazard saw red spots in Dulac’s cheeks. He was so surprised that he said, “I’m sorry,” without really thinking about it.
“It’s ok, bro. I know you’re trying; that’s what counts.”
Hazard wasn’t sure about that, but before he could answer, the big man had joined them. Dulac pressed against him, and one of the big man’s arms slid around Dulac. It wasn’t excessive; it didn’t have the grotesque abundance of passion that so many new couples showed. It looked surprisingly comfortable, and Dulac was practically glowing.
“This is Emery Hazard,” Dulac said. “He’s trying not to be an asshole.”
Hazard shook the man’s hand.
“Darnell Kirby, Mr. Hazard. Pleased to meet you. Thank you for inviting us.”
“Nice to meet you.”
&
nbsp; “You have a lovely home.”
“Yes.” Hazard studied Kirby. “What is it that you do? Something with technology?”
Before either man could answer, Somers appeared, grabbing Hazard and steering him away from the conversation.
“I was asking a simple question,” Hazard said as Somers led him toward the buffet.
“I know.”
“I wasn’t going to cause a scene.”
“I know.”
“It’s worth verifying his employment, though. And his bank accounts. This whole story about a tech whiz living in the middle of nowhere sounds like horseshit.”
“There it is,” Somers said with a sigh.
“I suppose you’d rather find out the hard way, when Dulac wakes up in a bathtub full of ice without kidneys.”
Somers shushed him. “It’s very cute, how protective you can be—”
“I am not protective of Dulac. I don’t care; he can wake up without kidneys and I won’t lose a minute’s sleep.”
“—but not right now. Here. Eat something.” Somers shoved a plate into his hands. “And maybe have a drink. Oh, damn. My parents. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Somers hurried to greet his parents at the door. Hazard watched him go; panic, which had been at a low simmer in his gut all morning, now boiled over. He loaded the plate without even seeing what he was doing, slopping eggs all over the table, and grabbed a mimosa. His stomach had petrified; he didn’t think he could eat if he had to. Noah and Rebeca were there, standing across the room, and he might have joined them. But instead he found an empty corner, parked himself, and took a drink. It went down like battery acid.
Hazard touched the card in his pocket. Astraea. He thought about the fact that, somehow, Somers had known the right name, the right reasons, the right things to say. And in that moment Hazard knew it was almost time; all the important guests were here, and Somers was moving among them like a comet. He juggled his plate and the drink, but he couldn’t bring himself to try again. The panic was making him lightheaded; he felt like he was swimming and couldn’t touch bottom.
“Ok,” Cora said, taking the plate and glass and finding a spot for them on the sideboard. She dabbed at something on his hand—ketchup, maybe?—and then grabbed both of his hands in hers. “Ok, it’s going to be ok.”
He stared at her. She was talking, and he recognized the words, but nothing made sense anymore.
With a quiet laugh, she squeezed his hands. “I kind of thought this was going to happen sooner rather than later, and then I got here and saw your face—”
Hazard felt that fist crushing his chest again.
“Yes,” Cora said with another soft laugh. “That expression. And I thought maybe today. Am I right?”
Hazard gave a single, jerky nod.
“Oh, Emery, it’s going to be ok.”
He gave another nod.
“Do you have—”
Somehow, he managed to touch his pocket.
“When did you—”
“July. After the Haverford.”
Cora nodded; she smoothed his shirt. Hazard followed Somers with his eyes, watching how he laughed, how he listened, how he socked one guy on the shoulder and the guy’s face lit up like they were best friends.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?”
Nodding jerkily, Hazard managed to produce the scrap of paper. “I made a list.”
“Can I see it?”
Reading from the piece of paper, Cora said, “Every important decision should be made after careful consideration of the costs and benefits—” She trailed off, whispering a few of the items from the list to herself. “Patriarchy, sociopolitical history, objectification of women, ok, and then the good stuff, let’s see, public display of affection, helpful to have another person around the house, tax benefits.” She looked up. “You have two paragraphs about quarks and atomic spin.”
“I listed reasons in order of importance, and atomic spin is fundamental. He needs to understand that people are like quarks.” He shook his head. “That we are like quarks.”
“Like quarks. Right.”
“Quantum entanglement. Two particles that are linked so that no matter how far apart they are, they have the same direction of spin. They could be on opposite sides of the universe and if one flips its direction of spin, the other does too. At the exact same time.” She was staring at him like he was crazy, and he fumbled for a way to explain. “Quarks. Spin. Even when we’re apart, we’re still together.”
“Oh, Emery,” she said. “He understands.”
“I just want to—hey.”
She folded the paper and stuck it in a pocket.
“Hey, I need that.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I spent a long time—”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Well?” Cora said, and suddenly Hazard realized that she was crying, and the realization was so disorienting that he thought he might have slipped back into a dream. She picked up the mimosa and a fork and said, again, “Are you ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve been ready since July. Just say what you feel.”
And then she tapped the fork against the glass; it chimed, the sound carrying clearly through the party’s bustle.
Everyone turned toward them.
Hazard froze; might have stayed frozen forever if Cora hadn’t planted a hand in the small of his back and given a little push.
“I, uh—”
There were so many people. The room seemed so bright. He still felt like he was swimming.
“Ree?” Somers said. “Are you ok?”
All the reasons he had labored over spun in his head: marriage was a practical decision; an economic one; it was a public commitment to support each other, to care for each other; it made them part of each other’s lives in significant legal ways. English common law, for example—
But it all spun out of his head. All he could focus on—all he could see, as panic whittled down his vision—was Somers, frowning, the first signs of real worry emerging as he walked toward Hazard.
“Knee,” Cora whispered.
Hazard dropped to one knee.
“Ring,” Cora whispered.
Hazard wiggled the box out of his pocket and popped it open.
Somers froze.
A ripple of surprise and excitement went through the crowd; it might as well have been the wind in the Indiangrass.
“John,” Hazard said.
Somers’s eyes were bright and wet. Hazard thought, again of what it had felt like, the first time he had seen those eyes, tropical blue. He had been a boy, and he had felt something he called love. And then, to come back, and to find Somers again, to find out that love was something entirely different than what he had thought as a boy: vaster, more complicated, and infinitely more frightening.
But also so much better.
“John-Henry Somerset,” Hazard said. He had never believed in God, not even as a boy, but suddenly he believed in this, in this feeling, and the way the words went through him like a gale ripping away his breath. “I love you more than anything else in the world. Will you marry me?”
Somers smiled and said, “Yes.”
TRANSACTIONAL DYNAMICS
Keep reading for a sneak preview of Transactional Dynamics, book three of Hazard and Somerset: A Union of Swords.
CHAPTER ONE
FEBRUARY 10
SUNDAY
6:28 PM
EMERY HAZARD NOTICED THAT the dirty dishes were still in the sink: three plates, two forks, a sippy cup with chocolate milk puddled at the bottom.
“John?”
His boyfriend, John-Henry Somerset, called back something unintelligible from the other side of the house.
Hazard glanced at the clock, calculated, and sighed. Opening the dishwasher, he jammed the remaining dishes inside,
loaded a tab, and started the wash cycle.
The rest of the house looked presentable: counters gleaming; clutter picked up and stored, if not properly organized; pictures finally hung after almost six months of living there. The two-story Arts-and-Crafts that they had purchased together, in a flurry of life changes that had followed the terrible events of last July, was starting to look like a home. In the living room, the sound of a children’s TV show spewed some kind of copacetic nonsense; when Hazard glanced in, Evie, three years old and suddenly an expert on quality programming, was giggling along with an enormous, talking platypus.
The house even smelled like a home: tomatoes and cheese—undergoing the Maillard reaction, Hazard hoped—and the basket of garlic knots, still steaming under a tea towel. Hazard had insisted they add a salad, and Somers had dumped a few bagged mixes in a bowl and put the dressing pouches to the side.
“John?”
Another unintelligible shout. Hazard padded through the house, snatching up a Cardinals hat that had somehow sneaked out of the bedroom and ended up on the back of the sofa, and took the stairs. In their bedroom at the back, he found Somers kicked out on the bed, ESPN blaring on the TV.
“Hey,” Somers said, patting the bed beside him. “Come sit down.”
“Noah and Rebeca and the kids will be here any minute.”
“Then come sit down for one minute.”
“I want to make sure everything’s ready.”
“You’ve been making sure everything’s ready for about two days now, Ree. Come sit down.”
“Your shirt is getting wrinkled.”
Somers glanced down; the chambray shirt had bunched up, exposing the hardened muscles of his abdomen. The edge of a dark swirl of ink appeared when Somers ran his fingers under the hem.
“Boy, it sure is.” He fluttered the chambray, exposing another inch of skin. “Maybe you should come sit down.”
“No. You’ve been randy as a goat since you got that damn award, and if I sit down, you’re going to want to mess around.”
Somers’s eyes—blue like Caribbean waters—widened. “I might want to mess around a little bit. I might want to get you all hot and bothered and do one or two terrible things to your body. But I am not randy as a goat.”