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 acurated 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 thatmeansnothing. And the people I work for make mefeel likeI’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.
