14 #2
You learned a lot about handling drunks when you were a cop.
And you learned a lot more if you went to NA.
When someone wouldn’t stop talking because they were high as a kite.
When someone stood up to share and puked all over themselves, and then tried to keep going.
When a man shambled in with shit in his shoes because he’d soiled himself walking into the meeting.
I moved to the cabinets, opened them one by one until I found a tumbler, and I filled it with water at the sink.
“Your father would help you,” Tracy was saying.
And Noah was talking to me in a low voice, “Howie, it’s fine, you don’t need to—”
I set the glass down in front of Tracy, and I picked up the gin and tonic. I grabbed the Bombay Sapphire next and the Fever-Tree.
“Hey!” Tracy said.
I leaned on the counter, looked her in the eye, and said, “Hello, beautiful.”
It was like a sharp turn; the anger that had been building in Tracy had a hard time changing course, and it lost momentum. “Howie,” she said, and she tittered. “What are you doing?”
“I’m cutting you off. Drink some water, and let’s have a nice dinner together on Christmas Eve.”
“But Howie, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. I’ve only had two drinks.” To my surprise, she suddenly looked like she was about to cry—embarrassment, maybe. And maybe a little panic.
“Sorry, babe, but you know how this works. If I overserve, they’ll take my license. We don’t want that to happen, do we?”
And now, because it was a game, because it was make-believe, she laughed. She touched my hand. “You’re so silly, Howie.”
“Drink your water.”
“You’re all being ridiculous. I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine. I’ve only had two drinks.” But she sipped her water.
“I was looking for a picture I used to have,” I said. “We took it out at Tahoe. We’re all holding our stockings, and you can see Noah’s ring. Do you remember that one?”
“Well, of course I remember,” she said, and it was tart, like maybe the question was really about how many drinks she’d had.
“Any chance you still have it on your phone?”
“Well, I don’t know, Howie. That was years ago.”
“Could you look?”
She tried to squint at me, and there was still that hint of a challenge. “Of course.”
“Great. Noah and I are going to finish dinner while you do that.”
Tracy mumbled something, but she didn’t resist when I walked her over to the sofa. Okay, perp-walked her—some habits, you don’t lose, even if you haven’t been a cop in a long time.
When I got back to the kitchen, Noah was staring at me.
“Plates?” I said.
He was still hugging himself, but some of the tension in his body eased. A long second stretched out between us. And then he said, “That one.”
I nodded and got out the plates.
Being a cop makes you a cynic. And if the job hadn’t taken the shine off things, being a junkie, being homeless, being in recovery—those would have done it just fine.
So, I guess that was why I only set the table for two.
Plates patterned with holly boughs. Red cloth napkins.
Glasses etched with wreaths and reindeer.
It was all very civilized, especially for a white trash son of a bitch like me.
I even found pewter chargers, and didn’t that look oh so fucking fancy?
By then, Tracy was snoring. I laid her on her side and covered her with a throw.
Noah was watching me from the kitchen.
Maybe we would have stood like that forever, except the timer went off. He started—a tiny movement, but telegraphed across the room to me.
“Sounds like dinner’s done,” I said.
He nodded; that was all.
I helped Noah bring the food to the table. He’d made prime rib, with all sorts of roasted vegetables to go with it—trust Noah not to settle for mashed potatoes. He gave me a pointed look as he took a salad out of the refrigerator.
“What?” I said with a laugh.
“You know what.”
“Good fucking Christ, Noah, we haven’t even sat down yet.”
“I know. I’m just making sure you know that you’re going to eat some salad.”
“Well, fuck, yeah, I’m going to eat some salad.”
“I’ve seen your refrigerator, Howard.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I almost laughed again, and I couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
“Here,” Noah said, laying the carving knife and fork across my plate. “Because you’re the man.”
“Excuse me?”
His smile was…I guess the best word for it would be sharp, but there did seem to be some genuine amusement there as well.
I wasn’t exactly a barbarian, but I wasn’t sure I did justice to the meal Noah had prepared.
I got a few good slices, though, and I plated Noah’s first. While he was helping himself to the roasted vegetables, I served myself. I made sure I got a lot of the salad.
“Do you want to say grace?” I asked.
Tracy’s soft snores filled the quiet moment that followed.
“I want to say thank you,” Noah said in a low voice.
There was something about his eyes. About how blue they were. About how he was looking at me, like he was asking me something, and I couldn’t quite hear the words. It was too much, so I looked down and speared some salad and mumbled, “It’s no big deal.”
We ate in silence for a time, and then I realized I was being a horse’s ass, and so I asked about the salad, and Noah told me it was a citrus vinaigrette, and I told him how good it was, and he said we’d had something similar one time when we’d tried that little coffee shop next to the college—and just like that, we were talking.
About the food, sure. Because it was all delicious, the way it always was with Noah. But also about…everything.
And suddenly I realized we hadn’t talked like this—talked—in years.
In the week since Noah had shown up unexpectedly in my life, we’d talked, sure.
But those had been conversations with a goal in mind, with something we had to decide, with offers and counterproposals.
I remembered, with a flush, wanting to set limits.
Even the phone sex had been…well, not transactional.
But we’d definitely had an end point in mind.
This, right now, was just a flow of words. Back and forth. Easy. Like we’d never stopped.
Why had we stopped?
We’d fought. By the end, we’d been arguing almost constantly.
Noah had wanted me to be someone else. And I hadn’t understood why he couldn’t just let me be myself.
But while those were answers, and they were the truth, they also seemed like…
like they were too easy, maybe. Had we even tried to work things out?
Or had it just been fighting, pushing, demanding, insisting?
I wanted to say yes, I’d tried. But had I?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, because I didn’t think I’d like the answer.
So, instead, I let the questions drift away, and I focused on enjoying the moment.
The roast was perfect—a crispy crust on the outside, tender and flavorful on the inside.
Anybody who had known me growing up—or in my early twenties, for that matter—would have thought it hilarious if I said I loved vegetables, but fuck me, I loved the vegetables.
I’d never even heard of celeriac before I met Noah.
I’d heard of parsnips, but I’d never eaten one.
I had no idea how he prepared them except that it involved roasting, but whatever he did, they were like crack.
Noah did most of the talking, but that was normal; he’d always been the talker for the two of us.
But the thing with Noah was that it wasn’t like a wall of words.
Somehow, that nonstop flow of chatter was like a river.
You could step into it whenever you wanted, and Noah would make you feel like you were supposed to be there.
I hadn’t even realized I was falling in love with him until one night, on his sofa, when I suddenly realized we’d been talking for hours.
“—every time we clean him up,” Noah was saying, giggling between words, “he screams, ‘Watch the nuggets!’”
I couldn’t help myself—the memory was so strong, laughing with Noah like this back at MagnaCare about a patient who couldn’t keep his hand out of his pants, feeling like it was the first time I’d laughed in my whole life. “Oh my God, Mr. Hahn’s nuggets!”
Noah burst out laughing. “Mr. Hahn! I can’t believe you remember that!”
And then I was laughing too. It felt strange.
Not because I was laughing. I’d laughed plenty since Noah and I had split up.
Si had a great sense of humor—not her dad jokes, but in general.
But for some reason, I couldn’t remember laughing like this.
What I remembered, when I tried to think if I’d laughed in the last couple of years, were sharp, cynical bursts.
Laughing at the world. Or at a fuck-up—mine or somebody else’s.
But not like this, my body loose and warm after the sound rolled out of me.
I was so caught up in the conversation that when Noah stood and started picking up plates, it took me by surprise.
I managed not to look like a total asshole—I hoped—when I lurched to my feet a moment later. “Here, I’ll do that.”
“You’re the guest.”
“I’m doing it,” I said, and I took the plates from him.
With a half-smile, Noah sank back into his seat. He watched as I carried everything over to the counter. One slender finger ran around the rim of his glass.
“What do you want me to do with the leftovers?” I asked.
“Leave them. I’ll take care of them.”
“Fine,” I said, “I’ll figure it out myself.”
For some reason, that made Noah giggle. I found storage containers in one of the drawers, and I packed up the food. There was a lot of it. Sure, Noah had been cooking for five. But how much had Noah eaten? A few bites? A little of everything, moving it around on his plate so I wouldn’t notice?
“There’s pumpkin pie for dessert,” Noah said as I put the last of the food into the refrigerator. “Do you want some now, or would you rather wait?”
“We can wait.” Tracy’s soft snores from the sofa made me add, “You can open your present.”