Hazard and Somerset, Gregory Ashe [ebook reader with internet browser TXT] 📗

Somers said, poking his head into the living room. “But maybe we could still make a pie.”

“Uh huh,” Hazard said, licking a finger to turn a page.

Footsteps retreated into the kitchen again. Somers’s phone chirped—some game he was playing, Hazard thought distantly—and then footsteps came back toward the living room.

Hazard tried to swallow a groan; he was focusing on the text so hard that it swam in front of him.

“My parents said we could still come over. You know, if we change our minds.”

Hazard marked his place with his thumb. He looked at Somers. “We talked about this.”

“I know.”

“We said we didn’t want to do Thanksgiving.”

“I know.”

Hazard waited twenty seconds. Then he opened the book again.

“It’s not like we completely, totally agreed, though,” Somers said.

Hazard marked his place again. “What?”

“I mean, we talked about it. And you said Thanksgiving was stupid. But we didn’t really agree, not really. You just kind of assumed I agreed when you said Thanksgiving was stupid.”

“I didn’t say Thanksgiving was stupid. I said Thanksgiving was a sentimental fabrication, when corporate turkey farmers take advantage of emotionally-stunted, braindead mouthbreathers who don’t have enough intelligence to realize that they don’t like turkey the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”

“Jesus Christ, Ree. I like Thanksgiving.”

Hazard held his breath.

“So, what,” Somers said, “I’m one of the mouthbreathers?”

This seemed like dangerous territory; Hazard tried to sink into the book again.

“That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“I make statements like that all the time, John. You never got mad before.”

“I never thought I was included in them before.”

Hazard made the mistake of looking up.

“Oh my God,” Somers said. “Oh my God. So, last week, when you were talking about people who read novels and you said they were a bunch of drama queens who just wanted to live somebody else’s life, you were including me in that group?”

“I said,” Hazard began, but he faltered, suddenly sensing that now might not be the best time to worry about his precise words, “that all novel readers suffer from a mild case of histrionic personality disorder that could be simply treated by—” The words dried up at the look on Somers’s face.

“I like novels.”

Hazard’s thumb worried the edge of his page.

“And I like Thanksgiving.”

“Ok.”

“I like the food.”

Hazard bent the corner of the page; this was going to take longer than he’d thought.

“I like pumpkin pie.”

“You said that.”

“I like my mom’s stuffing.”

“You said your mom always makes you eat way more than you want.”

“I like a cigar and whiskey with my dad, the one time a year he’s not bitching at me.”

“You hate cigars. You told me you can’t get the smell out of your hair.”

Somers walked back into the kitchen so hard that the plates rattled in the cupboard; a small part of Hazard’s brain tagged it stomping.

Then, the stomping came back.

“You know, somebody put a quote up at work. ‘Pride slays thanksgiving.’”

Hazard threw down his book and looked up at his boyfriend.

“What?” Somers said. Then, rolling a shoulder, “It’s just a quote.”

“It’s just a quote.”

“It’s just a quote. Somebody pinned it on the bulletin board at the station. I saw it this morning, and I thought I’d share it.”

“Don’t do that. You’re trying to pick a fight.”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.”

“So what is happening?”

Somers seemed frozen; then he melted. He was practically steaming, red in the cheeks, eyes fever bright. He went back into the kitchen, accompanied by the rattle of plates.

Stomped, a part of Hazard’s brain supplied.

“What?” Hazard said, going after him. “What’s going on?”

“I’m pissed off, ok?”

“You said you’re not mad.”

“Well, I’m mad. And I’m acting like an asshole. I know I am. So, just, I don’t know. Leave me alone for a little while.”

“No.”

Somers spun, leaning against the sink, studying Hazard with those dry, fever-bright eyes. “No?”

“No. I don’t know why you’re mad. You’re not being fair. We talked about Thanksgiving—”

“You talked about Thanksgiving.”

“We talked about it, John. And you didn’t say anything about pie or stuffing or a fucking cigar. You just nodded and said you didn’t want to do Thanksgiving either.”

Somers was nodding. He wiped his face. Then he started smiling, still nodding. So much nodding.

“You’re right.”

Hazard shifted his weight, waiting for the rest of it.

“No, you’re right. We talked about it. We totally talked about it. You’re right, just like you’re always right.”

Hazard had the urge to hunker down, really brace himself.

“Come here,” Somers said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He held open the garage door and motioned Hazard to go in front of him. Hazard padded barefoot onto the cold cement of the garage. Then he turned back.

“Hold on; let me get my shoes.”

“When I say I want to be left alone, Ree, I want to be left alone.”

Then Somers shut the door, and the bolt went home.

II

NOVEMBER 21

WEDNESDAY

4:57 PM

JOHN.” HAZARD TRIED THE KNOB. “This isn’t funny, John.”

Nothing.

He knocked. Cold seeped into his bare feet, and he bounced up and down on the cement.

“Ok, I get it. I should have left you alone when you said you wanted to be left alone. Can you open the door please?”

His toes ached. Knocking changed into hammering, the door shivering in its frame.

“I’m sorry. I was a shit. I know I was. Can you please open the fucking door now?”

Pausing the blows, Hazard listened for a response.

Instead of words, though, he heard the front door crash shut.

“Shit.”

Slapping the garage door control, Hazard padded past the cars and slipped out onto their driveway. He went up onto the porch.

His heavy winter coat was neatly folded on the doormat.

Next to it, Somers had placed a pair of wool-lined moccasins.

“Oh, fuck no.” Hazard rained blows down on the front door, hard enough that the side of his hand throbbed. “John, open this fucking door, I’m not going to—”

Movement caught his attention, seen out of the corner of his eye. Mrs. Kasperick stood on her porch, a long coat over her house dress, her feet stuffed into googly-eyed dalmatian slippers. Her own