2. You Better Not Cry

2

YOU BETTER NOT CRY

PATRICK

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.