The Merriest Misters by Timothy Janovsky (Excerpt)

1

YOU BETTER NOT POUT

QUINN

7 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS

There’s nothing sadder than watching a festive Christmas movie alone.

Scratch that, there’s nothing sadder than watching a festive Christmas movie alone when your husband is upstairs doing work. Especially when you went through the trouble of picking out his favorite—Elf—in the hopes it would lure him from his office for the evening.

No luck.

I sit with my lukewarm hot chocolate, melty marshmallows sloshing around in my mug like reminders of my waterlogged dreams of domestic bliss for a special holiday season in our very first house.

When I was younger, before my parents divorced, my mom used to cover our entire fridge with Christmas cards from friends and family members from all over the world. They were the fancy, customizable ones you got printed at the pharmacy photo kiosk that showcase images of the whole family at Disney World in front of Cinderella Castle or posed in matching pajama sets before a fireplace—the family dog only half looking, angry to be tucked into people clothes for the laborious shoot. Every morning before breakfast, I would look at the husbands and wives in those cards and think, That’s what my marriage is going to be like. Picture-perfect.

Then, I turned fifteen, realized I was gay, and suddenly those cards didn’t represent the ideal future anymore. Maybe still for some, but not for me. Not, at least, until marriage equality and not until Patrick.

Patrick, who is upstairs drawing various types of toilets for a presentation at his architecture firm instead of watching Elf with his husband, his husband who made sure to steal extra packets of Swiss Miss from the teachers’ lounge on his way out of work today.

I sit here joylessly watching as Will Ferrell tries to understand the complex crosswalks and door systems of New York City. There’s a week until Christmas. I should not be stewing all by myself in our garland-festooned living room. Today, I caught up on lesson planning during my prep period and put on an educational film at the end of the day, just to get a head start on grading. We promised tonight was movie night, so why has the kettle-corn bowl only had one hand in it all evening?

Okay, two. Two hands. Both of which were mine when I was shoveling away my sadness earlier since I’d been canceled on, but I can’t be blamed for that. It’s good kettle corn, straight from one of those decorative tins people love to gift around this time of year. Fresh and sticky and just the right amount of maybe-my-teeth-will-fall-out-this-time per chew.

For a whole of maybe twenty minutes, I’m angry. Then, Will Ferrell and Zooey Deschanel sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” in the women’s locker room at a department store that begs the question: Should this really be allowed in a family film?

Ick factor aside, I thaw, remembering when Patrick and I watched this movie together back when we were still dating. He started singing Buddy the Elf’s parts. I started singing the Jovie parts. We weren’t good singers. What we lacked in pitch, we made up for in volume, much to the dismay of our next-door neighbor, who banged a heavy fist on the wall and shouted, “This isn’t The Voice and, if it were, this isn’t me hitting my button! Keep it down in there.” We couldn’t stop laughing.

Floating on the memories of a better, less stressful time, I go over to the teakettle, pour some hot water, and dump out the powdery chocolate. In my backpack, which I tucked in the hall closet, I find a candy cane one of my students gave me and stick it inside the red mug to stir. Patrick loves that extra hint of flavor.

With a small bowl of kettle corn and the cocoa, I go upstairs, treading lightly on the stubborn, rickety boards. This place was sold to us as a fixer-upper. I didn’t realize that meant that with full-time jobs we’d need to be taking uppers just to get any of the fixing done in a timely manner. It’s a mess, but according to the mortgage, it’s our mess.

I’m trying to love it.

Just like I’m trying to love Patrick.

This Patrick, I should say. A Patrick that convinces me to forgo a honeymoon for a property investment and cancels movie plans last minute because he has to bring home the projects he didn’t finish during the workday. I know he isn’t getting paid extra for this overtime, even though we could use the money.

When I get to Patrick’s office, I hear voices. He usually works in silence, so I know it’s not a TV show or a podcast. He must be on the phone.

“It’ll be great. Don’t worry about it, Mom.” The creaking means Patrick is pacing behind his desk. Damn, do any of these floorboards not have something to say? “I love you, too. I’ll call again tomorrow once I tell Quinn. Sounds good. Good night.”

I take that as my cue to enter with treats. “Tell me what?”

Patrick stands behind his desk, appearing haggard. His shaggy sandy-blond hair hangs lifeless, the ends of his bangs brushing the top rim of his wiry glasses. He’s wearing one of his favorite sweater vests, unironically.

I think sometimes he wishes he were a dad in a nineties sitcom. It’s a dated aesthetic that works for him and gives him gravitas as an architect. Though, he thinks he’d look better with a mustache and curses his genes since he can’t grow facial hair to save his life. “Are those for me?” he asks, nodding down at my offerings.

He makes space on his desk for me to set them down. “I thought I’d bring some of the fun up to you since you’re so busy.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “These toilet partitions are a doozy.”

I smile despite myself because Patrick Hargrave is not a man of many words and yet he still finds a way to slip doozy into casual conversation.

I approach his desk. From his printouts, notes, and sketches for the project, he’s toying with everything from solid plastic to plastic laminate to stainless steel for the toilet cubicles. The sheer number of latch locks there are in the world makes my head spin.

“Looks like you’ve still got a lot to sort through,” I say, rubbing a hand along his back as I always do. The wool of his sweater vest causes a slight, unpleasant static shock. “When’s this presentation again?”

“Tomorrow.” His shoulders slouch forward even more as he exhales.

It’s selfish of me to wish that when he leaves the office he leaves behind his work, too, so we can be a couple again, like we were before we became a walking joint bank account, a talking marriage license.

Because this is his dream job. Just like teaching is—was?—my dream job.

That dream has started to feel more like a burden as of late, with budget cuts and class sizes doubling and my bulletin boards getting vandalized every other week. At times, I’m tempted to walk out the front door and never look back, like Nora in A Doll’s House.

Dream jobs come with sacrifices. I have to support Patrick in his, despite his sacrifice being our time together.

He seems uninterested in discussing work any more, so I ask, “What were you talking to your mom about?”

“Uh, do you remember when their downstairs bathroom flooded a few months back?”

This is probably the longest conversation we’ve had this week, and even though we changed topics, it’s still somehow about bathrooms. “Yeah,” I say.

“Well, as a Christmas gift, my dad is going to get it redone.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. They didn’t ask me to do the redesign, but—” He slants his body away from mine, clearly not wanting my sympathy, even if I can see the color drain from his features. He shakes his head as if he can erase the emotion like a drawing on his iPad. “Their contractor wants to start right away—barring work on Christmas Day—which means the bathroom is going to be off-limits and the house will be a mess, so they can’t host.” Patrick’s voice keeps going up at the ends of his sentences, which gives me pause.

“Okay, so what? Should we see what restaurants are open and reserve a table so we can plan to meet there?” I ask.

“It’s so late. Everything is all booked up.” Patrick smiles weakly. “I told her we’d host it here.”

I gape at him. “You told her what? Without asking me? This place isn’t any better than theirs, even with the renovation happening. They could be jackhammering there while we eat, and it would still be better.”

“Come on,” Patrick protests. “You know that’s not true.”

Patrick would’ve told you as much five months ago before we settled on this place and signed our lives away. It was Patrick’s dream to design us an English-inspired farmhouse from scratch—someplace secluded, close to nature. Somewhere we could go on hikes and read books while drinking coffee on a charming porch. We’d each have our own office. The master bedroom would overlook a forest. But porches and master bedrooms with views even on already-built houses are expensive, so we shelved that dream for at least another decade.

“Are your parents still going to cook dinner at least?” I ask.

Patrick worries his bottom lip. “I sort of said we could handle that, too.”

That anger from earlier? Oh, it’s back. “And when exactly was the last time you touched an appliance in our kitchen that wasn’t the microwave, the fridge, or the toaster oven?”

“Does the air fryer count?” he asks, obviously trying to defuse the tension with a joke.

“Jesus, Pat. Would it have killed you to run it by me first?”

“It’s Christmas. You know how much Christmas means to my mom. I couldn’t be the reason it was canceled,” he says.

“Canceled? Your brother makes six figures and has a massive New York City apartment. Why couldn’t he host?” I ask, arms folded, foot tapping. The anger comes out in all the clichéd ways with Patrick because I love the guy, but otherwise, he’s largely oblivious.

“You know my parents would never drive into the city on Christmas. Besides, they’d never ask Bradley,” he says.

“Because?”

“You know because. Because he’s single. That’s because.” He huffs at me. “We’re married now. We have a house now. This is what people who are married and have a house do. They host holidays. Why is this so surprising to you?”

I shake my head, thinking back on all the conversations we had about never being a typical married couple. About doing things our way. Only being in this for the tax breaks and the joint health insurance and the yes-you-have-legal-claim-over-this-human-being in life-or-death scenarios. What happened to that? “Hosting a holiday is not surprising to me. What’s surprising to me is that my husband agreed to clean our house and cook an entire Christmas meal when he can’t even pull himself away from his work for two hours to watch a Christmas movie with me.” I wish I didn’t sound so pathetic right now, but it’s too late to gobble the words back up. Frankly, it was easier said than “I miss you” because it’s impossible to miss someone sitting under the same roof as you every night, isn’t it?

“Quinn, I didn’t know it meant that much to you,” he says, voice softening. “Just give me ten minutes, I’ll bring all of this downstairs. I’ll work in front of the TV.”

I shake my head again, stopping him and feeling stupid this time. Work is more important. I could stand to have a little perspective. “No, that’s silly. I’m being dramatic. Please forget I said anything. We’ll make it work.”

“We will,” he agrees, offering me a conciliatory smile. “But right now, let’s not worry about how and let’s go watch Elf.”

“I already watched half of it,” I say, gently waving his idea off. Not feeling so argumentative. It’s the holidays. Tensions are high. I don’t want to be like my parents. I won’t end up like my parents, that much is certain. Which means putting on a good face and being agreeable. Good spouses don’t make unnecessary drama. “You keep working. Enjoy your snacks. I’m going to get into bed and google how to cook a ham.”

“Are you sure?” Patrick asks.

“I’m sure.” Though, as I trot off down the hallway, I’m secretly hoping step one for cooking a ham is: stick your head in the oven.



2YOU BETTER NOT CRYPATRICK

Disappointing my husband feels like grounds for inking my name on the Naughty List.

Quinn leaves my office with reassuring words. But I’ve made a mess of our night. I know that.

Probably could’ve gotten this bathroom nonsense done at the office today. But lately, I’ve been blocked. Creatively. Emotionally. Motivationally. So, all-nighter it is.

I pick up my pencil again. But I keep making mistakes. Erasing wrong lines and incorrect notes. The smudge marks grow larger and larger as my nimble fingers become tired. But I push through.

I sip the hot chocolate Quinn brought me. The tickling notes of peppermint from the added candy cane are perfection. Quinn is the most thoughtful man in the world.

Sometimes, I wish he could see that my care comes out differently.

Ever since I was young, I sought approval everywhere I went.

When I was in elementary school, I won a grade-wide contest to draw our dream house.

We had recently read a picture book about a kid who moves towns. He thinks up this fantastical house he could be moving to. Of course, when he gets there, it’s just a regular old house. He’s disappointed. His parents have to remind him that the memories they make in the house matter more than the house itself.

A sweet sentiment, sure. But my mind couldn’t shake the way he imagined a ski slope on the roof and an aquarium in the basement. Plus, it didn’t help that my parents showed me the movie Richie Rich starring Macaulay Culkin—you know, the Home Alone kid—immediately after. It sent my imagination into a tizzy.

I ended up designing this futuristic smart house. All the teachers agreed it deserved the prize. My parents were vocally proud for once. And all the kids in school wanted me to design one specifically to their tastes. I was happy to do it, so I spent recesses drawing for the pleasure of my peers.

Words, I’ve never been great at. But drawing came naturally.

It wasn’t until Spencer Haven—the class bully—asked me to make a house for him that I realized how much approval equated to success in my mind. When he asked for a drawing, he gave me little guidance. So I designed what I thought he’d like and when I gave it to him, he told me it was “trash.”

I tried again.

“Garbage.”

And again.

“Not even close.”

To the point that I finally drew him a hundred different sketches over a weekend, brought them to school on Monday, and dropped them all on his desk.

“Here!” I shouted. “There has to be one in the bunch that suits you.”

I got detention for making a mess. But Spencer never bothered me again.

In a way, it prepared me for the brutal feedback I got in architecture school and the disapproval from my parents over my career choices. So maybe I should send Spencer my thanks on Facebook one day. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?

Through the wall, I hear Quinn struggling to start the shower.

Gurgle. Gurgle. Creak. Bang.

I really need to get someone over here to check on these pipes. Add it to my barely touched to-do list.

Quinn’s muffled plea makes it through the paper-thin wall. “Come on, please work!”

I go to stand then—

Slosh. Running water, finally. I let out a relieved sigh.

I’m hit with a fleeting thought. I should join Quinn in the shower as a sexy surprise. Watch as rivulets of water and soap slide down his freckly arms. Help him shampoo his curly, dark brown hair, which is long on the top and short on the sides. Kiss my way across his stubbly, deeply dimpled chin.

Whoa there. This is no time for distractions.

That’s not what Quinn wants right now anyway. Even if we haven’t had sex in a good … Jeez, it’s bad when you can’t even remember.

Our intimacy must still be stuffed in one of those brown boxes out in our mess of a garage.

Sex drought notwithstanding, I need him to see that I’m trying my hardest to be the provider I’m supposed to be for him. That’s what husbands do. Specifically, that’s what Hargrave men do.

Which is why I’ve taken on a moonlighting gig outside the architecture firm. I haven’t told Quinn. Yet. He’d scold me. He’d worry. I don’t need that. I need the money it’s going to bring in, so we can turn this place into a proper home.

When our college friend Kacey Ortega came to me saying she wanted to use some of her backyard as a hub for her nonprofit—the one where she, as an out-and-proud trans woman, mentors queer and trans youth—I couldn’t pass it up. One, because it’s a good cause. Two, because it’s Kacey. And three, selfishly, because I need my own designs out in the world if I plan to open my own architecture firm at some point in the future.

I make hasty adjustments to the bathroom presentation and shove it in my portfolio for tomorrow before switching over to Kacey’s workshop. This is a true passion project. My design is something akin to a tiny home but with a good sense of space and workflow. There’s an area for small group activities, shelves for a curated LGBTQ library, and long communal tables for volunteers to work at.

I need to get these plans squared away so I can send them off to Kacey. Because once I get them to Kacey, she’s going to pay me part of what she owes me. I know there’s not a ton of money in nonprofits. But she recently received a sizable grant and offered to pay. I would’ve done it for nothing because at my real job, it feels like I’m doing work that means nothing. And the people I work for make me feel like I’m nothing.

But I won’t say no to a check.

I burn the midnight oil for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

Before I know it, I’m dozing over my drafting table. Drool spills out of the side of my mouth. My head fills up with dreams of sugarplums, bank misers asking for mortgage payments, and Quinn sleeping all alone in our bed. He looks so beautiful. Curled up and clutching a pillow to his chest.

I reach out to hold him.

But he disappears like a ghost.

6 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS

I’m stupidly late for work.

I fly into a parking spot, grab my hastily packed portfolio off the passenger seat of my clunker of a Toyota Camry, and race inside the building.

It normally wouldn’t be a huge deal if I were late. But, of course, this morning I’m one of the key presenters in our big client meeting.

Operating without coffee is hard for me, so my first stop is the break room. I pour a steaming helping into whatever mug looks the cleanest. I say hi to no one. But I do get the general sense people are whispering about my disheveled appearance. This wouldn’t bother me if all of my senses weren’t ramped into high alert.

I slurp as much scalding coffee down as I can. My tongue burns so badly that I can feel every angry taste bud.

I beeline for the bathroom, where I tame my hair into some semblance of presentability. As I unfasten my pants to tuck in my shirt, the door to the hallway swings open. My best work friend, Jason, stands there. Jason is tall, Black, and damn good at what he does.

“You know that’s the sink and not a urinal, right?” he asks. He points right at my precarious pants situation while laughing to himself. “Does Quinn know you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes?”

I look down. Not only am I a mess, I’m a mess in yesterday’s outfit. Salmon-colored button-up. Tan sweater vest. Wrinkled khaki pants. “This isn’t a walk of shame.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says. He disappears into a stall.

“I fell asleep in my office. I’ve got ten minutes to look like a human.” I splash my face with water.

“And nine minutes to get those bathroom plan copies out to every chair in the meeting room,” Jason says. His voice takes on a ghostly echo in the tiled, cavernous room.

“Oh, damn. That was my job?” I rush out before I hear his answer.

I throw most of my shit down at my desk, then try to wrangle the copier into cooperating. It has a mind of its own. And it is always out of paper. I load the tray, slip the drawing at the top of my stash into the scanner, and wait for that satisfying, robotic hum to begin.

Hrmmm. Music, absolute music.

Finally, one thing is going right.

I slide into the boardroom right as the clients are beginning to arrive. Satisfied with my performance, I slap down the papers with aplomb before taking my seat. It’s only when the big boss, Calvin Carver—white, midsixties, thinning hair on the crown of his head that he combs in a way that’s deceiving nobody—has called the room to order that I sip my coffee and nearly spit it out for all to see.

In my still-sleepy daze, I accidentally made a dozen copies of my sketches for Kacey’s backyard workspace. Not the office building bathrooms we’re meeting about. Shit.

At first, I think maybe nobody will notice. But then I feel Jason’s elbow nudging me on my right.

When I look up, Calvin is glaring at me with the intensity of Krampus come to steal children’s toys.

Jason, ever the quick thinker, begins scooping the papers up. “Leftovers from our last meeting. Leftovers from our last meeting.” He keeps saying it to every old white man in a navy-blue suit crammed in here, so they don’t think we’re an incompetent firm that enters meetings unprepared.

Paralyzed by my mistake, I barely even register when Jason hands me the pages and says, “Go. Now. Quickly.” He’s saving my ass. But I can’t help but read into his harsh tone.

The copier decides, this time, it’s back to being my foe. It won’t even turn on. I follow the power cord to the outlet hoping I just need to unplug it and plug it back in. But that doesn’t work.

At least this time, it pings and tells me what the issue is: paper jam.

I have no time to get our head of technology over here to work his magic. Instead, I take it upon myself to open this sucker up and clear the clog.

By the time I’m racing back into the boardroom with the right copies, the meeting is halfway over. When it finishes and the office building people file out like zoo penguins at feeding time, Calvin pulls me aside and says, “My office. Ten minutes.”

Another ten minutes of the worst cramps I’ve ever experienced.

We have one of those open floor plan offices. Even the more senior members of the firm have desks that are only separated by low dividers. I watch in dismay as the whisper network starts up. Numerous heads turn in my direction. My stomach becomes a snake eating its own tail.

Jason perches himself on the edge of my desk. He’s loudly eating an apple. “Calvin’s a hard-ass, but he’s not heartless. He’ll scold you. You’ll be fine.”

But when I enter Calvin’s office, the temperature is far more frigid than usual. Calvin’s hunched over his desk, rubbing his temples where his graying hair has also receded. He says nothing. I take the seat across from him.

Without opening his eyes, he holds up my sketch for Kacey’s workshop. Jason must’ve missed one. “What is this?”

“Oh, uh.” I’ve never been good about thinking on my feet. “Just something I’m fiddling with in my spare time. Nothing serious.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. His black, beady eyes are intense. “Because I made a call to this organization—the Rainbow Connection Coalition—and the kind woman on the phone told me she hired you—Patrick Hargrave—as the architect for the project.”

I should’ve been more explicit with Kacey about the parameters of our working relationship. Carver & Associates Architecture has a firm stance on moonlighting. While doing a job for a nonprofit isn’t exactly a conflict of interest, it doesn’t look great for me. Especially with my royal mess-ups this morning. “She’s not paying me.”

“That’s not what I was told,” he says. His frown lines grow their own frown lines. “Who am I to believe?”

I open my mouth. No words come out. I wish I could draw him an apology.

“Patrick, you’re a hard worker, you’re talented, and I think you make an excellent addition to our team, but teams need team players, not people who think they’re superstars all on their own.”

“Oh, I don’t think that.”

“Taking a moonlighting gig tells me otherwise.” Calvin’s wrinkly hands steeple in front of his face. He taps the point of his nose. Very serious. “On top of that, you used company supplies—the copier and the copy paper—to disseminate your work.”

“That was an honest mistake. I swear to you.” It’s times like these I wish I didn’t wear such strong prescription glasses. I’m sure he can tell my magnified eyes are growing watery. “I—”

I cut myself off. Defending myself is fruitless. I was running late and wasn’t thinking. That’s not a strong case for keeping me on. “I’m sorry.”

“Regardless, Patrick, here at Carver & Associates Architecture, we have a zero-tolerance policy. Your general lack of attention over the last several months, your performance at the meeting today, and your disregard for policy mean we’re going to have to let you go.”

The words sound like an earthshaking explosion. “Sir, it was for a nonprofit.”

“No matter.”

“I needed the money for home repairs.”

“Perhaps your next position will pay better.”

“It’s the holidays!”

“All the more time to spend counting your blessings.”

I’m flabbergasted. I haven’t been at this firm that long, but the blatant disrespect is unsettling. Even if I did make some major flubs today. I stand, stupefied, and begin to exit. Under my breath, I mumble, “Scrooge,” but it doesn’t make me feel better.

The door slams shut behind me.

Earlier, that wasn’t a walk of shame. But this? Carrying a cardboard box full of my supplies out of the office with Jason by my side and an angry-looking security guard on our tail? Now this is a walk of shame.



Copyright © 2024 by Timothy Janovsky.