“A miracle is a lot to deliver.”
“Miracles come in all shapes and sizes, son.” The moniker carves its way into my sternum. Takes my heart and cradles it. “Remind yourself of that. Remind Quinn of that.”
“How?” I ask, voice as paper thin as the straws I’m grasping at.
“Here.” He presses me down into the chair he just got up from and types inPatrick Hargrave. Up pop hundreds of thousands of my memories featuring hundreds of different people in thousands of different locations. Some forgotten. Some still stored in my own memory bank for safekeeping. All containing sensations and experiences that made me who I am today. That turned Quinn and me into the couple we are.
My shaky hand taps the first one that calls out to me. It’s when Quinn and I first met.
“I still have hope, Patrick.” He’s facing the door now. Hand on the sensor. Words barely above a scrape. “Hold on to yours, too.”
47PLAYING DRESS-UPQUINN
72 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
“Nickel tones or gold and brass tones?” I ask Veronica as we stand in an empty, industrial aisle of the local hardware store deciding on a new centerset faucet for the downstairs bathroom.
For the last month, I’ve worked in a fugue state.
After a night of wine and pizza and recounting everything for Veronica, she went off to school and I surprised myself by turning my pent-up attention toward the house. I changed into an old college T-shirt, ripped-up denim overalls, and a pair of workout sneakers that have seen better days. My relationship may be in shambles, but the house doesn’t need to be.
In the garage, I catalogued the towers of untouched moving boxes. I unpacked lamps I thought we’d lost in the move and books I received as gifts for birthdays or Christmases or from my students. I found permanent places for them inside the house. The more personal effects I set out, the more the place came to life.
Wedding presents we never made use of—a juice press and a purely aspirational hand-crank pasta machine—got unboxed and placed in the kitchen cabinets. I jotted down in a notebook where I’ve put everything, so nothing is missing when I’m ready to use it.
One day, my hands got coated in an obscene amount of dirt and dust, so I went into the bathroom, turned the hot water handle, and was not even shocked or annoyed when it fell off. I had another project for my idle mind and hands.
“The gold and brass tones will go better with the bath mats you ordered last week,” Veronica says, effortlessly pragmatic.
I settle on a royal style, placing it in our cart alongside a wrench and a drop bucket. On our way to the checkout, we pass the Halloween decorations. I nearly clock an oncoming cart. Stopping short, I glance up and find Kacey Ortega, our old college friend, with a basket full of jack-o’-lanterns, ghouls, and boxes of orange lights.
“Quinn, it’s been forever. Where have you been hiding?” She circles around her cart to embrace me. I eye Veronica over Kacey’s shoulder, unsure how to respond.
“Oh, here and there,” I say noncommittally. To segue, I introduce Veronica. I can’t help but notice her gaze as it takes in Kacey fully. She is objectively beautiful with long, flowing black hair and golden skin. “How are you? How’s the nonprofit life treating you?”
“It’s been tough as of late. We’re expanding, trying to hire team members, and rapidly outgrowing our space,” she says. What goes unsaid is how Patrick ghosted her on her workspace. He told me it would be a long-term project. Still, it sounds like she could use it now. “No matter, though, because we’re gearing up for our big queer Halloween party, which is going to be spectacular.”
“Don’t you meanspook-tacular?” Veronica says, showing her goofy side.
Kacey’s having a cartful of fun, and the ghoulish items make me realize that I have no Halloween plans. “Are you looking for volunteers?”
She pops her lips. “Always. Why, are you interested?”
Within the week, Veronica and I have an email full of details and responsibilities, which help keep my mind off the Christmas wonderland I left behind.
55 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
On Halloween morning, Veronica texts,I’ve got the costumes covered.
Fine by me!I send back because I hadn’t given costumes a single thought.
I eat my words when she arrives, though, because Veronica comes right from school toting two garment bags. Inside the first is a Santa costume. Inside the second is a Mrs. Claus costume. I resist the urge to vomit.
“I thought it would be funny,” she says.
“Too soon,” I say dryly. “I’m not wearing that.” I don’t even let her inside with those monstrosities. I don’t need more reminders of the magical life I had to leave behind.
In the bedroom, Veronica marvels at the new accordion-style closet door I replaced the broken one that fell off with. Her compliments wipe away the unease.
