Vincent's Thanksgiving Date (6 page)

On one wall, where a fireplace might have been in a house, there was a long shelf, like a mantel, where someone had strung white lights and a garland of twisted strips of brown and red fabric with little, probably plastic, pumpkins. There was a similar arrangement on the short bookshelves behind him, and small, fat, scented candles were at the edges of the kitchen counter. Orange and brown fabric strips tied together in another garland managed to look like leaves. They were around the candles and in the center of the kitchen table.

He couldn’t imagine how long constructing the garland had taken. “Did you make all this?” Even if the fabric hadn’t been new, and everything was recycled, it was impressive. In fact, that made it more impressive. Vincent would never have been able to reuse anything, or made it look so good. “You didn’t say you were crafty. I was expecting more flowers, but this is incredible.”

“You think so?” Cory angled his chin up proudly for a moment, as though he knew it looked good, but then stuck his hands in his pockets and moved his shoulders. “People in the shop always ask for certain looks they see online, so after a while I started researching them myself. I do baskets and wreaths and other arrangements for people, in addition to the regular bouquets and boutonnières.”

“Is everything repurposed?” Vincent could have been making too much out of it, but it was astounding to him.

“Leftover ribbon scraps from work, some old shirts in the right colors… I would have used some pinecones and branches from outside, but I didn’t want it to smell like a car air freshener in here.” Cory seemed like he was trying to play down the compliment, but he reached out to touch his garland and then smiled to himself. “So,” he met Vincent’s stare. “Does it look like a place where you’d want to spend your Thanksgiving?”

Vincent nodded, because it did, even if Cory was only asking him in a general sense. “It looks great. I couldn’t make my place look like this in a million years.”

“Well, I’ve haven’t thoroughly cleaned the bathroom yet—too focused on this and the kitchen.” Cory peeled off his gloves and dipped into the kitchen to put them by the sink. He’d reorganized his stock of groceries too.

“Oh. Yes.” Vincent cleaned fairly regularly, and yet now he wondered if his house wasn’t visitors-clean and he had never noticed. He should do that. And then reassess his plan of attack for the pies.

“Do you think there should be music?” Cory needlessly straightened a box. “Or…. TV? My family….” He briefly tightened his mouth. “With my family, there might be football in one room, but usually there’s no television because everyone is talking too much. Discussing whoever they think is the most scandalous.”

“We always had the TV on.” Vincent didn’t think he was meant to ask why Cory wasn’t eating with his family this year, though he knew all about judgmental family members. “But that was for the parade. My sister leaves it on for the parade too, except for when it’s time to eat. Her husband hates football, but the kids are usually watching something.”

“The parade? You watch that?” Cory stopped adjusting every can and bag on the counter. “With the lip syncing and the balloons and everything?”

Surprisingly, Vincent didn’t blush. “I watched it as a kid. It’s tradition.” And sometimes, if they’d been dealing with their mother, he and Judith would be tipsy by then, regardless of the time of day. “Sometimes the lip synced numbers are hilarious.”

“I see.” Cory was doubtful. He reached up to scratch his head, then seemed to notice the scarf he’d worn to clean still in place. He pulled it away and cleared his throat. “So. Vin.” He exhaled before smiling widely. “How can I help you?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Vincent stared at him for a few moments, his warm skin and parted lips, then blinked and studied every item arranged on his spotless counters. He blinked again. “I came here because--” It was on the tip of his tongue. He’d had a reason that wasn’t simply a chance to speak with Cory again and find out if Cory had been being polite yesterday or if he really did like him.

Obviously, Cory might like him as a friend. Cory probably had lots of friends, such as the ones dining here tomorrow, the ones he was cooking for. Vincent might be one of them now, and that was nice. It wasn’t kissing Cory, or curling up on the couch with him, or gasping into Cory’s ear as Cory made him come, but it was nice.

“Vincent?” Cory prodded gently.

“Milk!” Vincent remembered. “Evaporated milk. For the pie. It’s not regular milk. And I don’t have any.” More information was required, he could tell from Cory’s lightly puzzled expression. “You said I could borrow a cup of something.”

Cory nodded as he understood. “I did.” His smile widened. “And you came. Let’s hope I have what you’re looking for, since I’m not sure we have the time to go to the store today.” He made a thoughtful noise and took a step closer in order to open a large cabinet. As he did, a door creaked behind Vincent, and he turned around as Cory’s roommate, who was named Sarah apparently, emerged from her room.

Vincent had never seen her looking less than perfect, but now he was privy to her beauty process. Sarah was short and curvy, with flawless, tawny skin and a penchant for bright colors. Right now she was in a yellow bathrobe and slippers, with a pale green beauty mask hiding most of her face and pink things between her crimson-painted toes. She nodded at Vincent the way she always did—friendly but impersonal, the kind of neighbor he liked—then paused to look at him again with her eyebrows high.

Cory pulled his head out of the cabinet and made a noise.

Sarah turned her lips up into a sharp smile. “Aha,” she said.

“Shut up.” Cory used a no-nonsense voice. “And don’t mess up that bathroom.”

“I’m not going to ruin your perfect day!” Sarah called out, sing-song, and began tying up her many long small braids before she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

“You’re really nervous about tomorrow, aren’t you?” Vincent asked, fluttering his hands a little at the tension around Cory’s eyes. “You shouldn’t be. Everything seems great so far. Under control.” He coughed and Cory focused back on him, stealing the breath right out of Vincent’s lungs by giving him the widest, sweetest smile Vincent had ever seen.

“Honey,” Cory said again, though in a much different tone from the day before, and then began to hum as he resumed digging around in the cabinets until he found a small can. He closed the cabinet before handing it over. “Your milk.”

“The mysterious evaporated milk.” Vincent peered at the label. “I don’t get why it’s special, or comes in a can. But okay. Now I,” he braced himself, “have to make the pie.”

“You haven’t started?” Cory appeared genuinely concerned. “Do you need some moral support?”

“I gave myself some last night, but I woke up with a hangover.” Vincent’s honesty got him another bright smile and a crack of a laugh. Then he felt like an idiot as it occurred to him that Cory had been offering to help, or to at least hang out with him for a little longer. “I can’t lie. I could use all the support I can get.”

That was good. Desperate, but in a deprecating way. Playful, that’s what it was. Vincent could almost fool himself into thinking he was getting better at this.

Maybe he was. Cory patted his hair where the scarf had been. “I could use a break, if you don’t mind me nosing in your business again.”

“No, you can always--” Vincent calmed himself just in time, but barely. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?” Cory shared a grin with him and then waved him to go ahead. He stopped to put his keys in his pocket and locked the door behind him.

Vincent, of course, had been too excited to remember if he’d even closed his door. He had, and luckily, he hadn’t locked himself out. He let them both in and then clasped his hands together as Cory slid him a glance and then approached the kitchen.

Vincent had left out all the ingredients out except the butter, which one had to keep cold, he’d learned; icy cold butter for the crust was a requirement. But looking at the collection of bags and cans made him sigh tiredly.

“Thanksgiving is exhausting,” he announced, with feeling, and placed the can of milk on the counter.

Cory turned to him and heaved a similarly worn out breath. “Truth.”

“Do you want to sit down?” Vincent offered immediately, pointing to his couch, which was still, always, a mess of blankets and squished pillows. He took a step toward it as he realized that, but Cory was faster, and sank onto the many cushions with a short, pleased exclamation.

He sat ramrod straight for one moment, and then apparently the soft pillows got to him, and he slid down enough to put his face against the arm. He got comfortable, then twisted around to stare at Vincent over the back of the couch with his chin on his hands.

That left Vincent under his direct attention. A distraction was needed. “You, um, would you like something to drink? Coffee or water or wine?” Vincent probably came off as an alcoholic, but it was the holidays, and really, he was such a light weight. Most of the bottle from last night was still there.

“You’re offering to bring me a drink?” Cory blinked a few times, in real or pretend astonishment, Vincent couldn’t tell. “Yes, please. But a small one. I have more to do before I can properly pass out. Did you know this is one of the busiest nights of the year in bars?” He watched Vincent pull out a wine glass, a real one, and not whatever he had at hand like when he drank by himself, and that wasn’t making Vincent anxious at all. He managed to pour a little into the glass and bring it over without spilling a drop. Cory explained what he was talking about. “People come into town for Thanksgiving and then don’t want to spend time with their families, or they want to visit with local friends, so the bars are packed. That says something about Thanksgiving, don’t you think? I’m not sure if it’s good or bad. People wanting to visit and have fun, but unable to do it at home.” Cory accepted his wine with a bob of his head, then took a careful sip.

“You’re going out tonight?” Vincent went to the kitchen to fiddle with his pie ingredients while Cory made appreciative noises over the wine. Stupidly dejected at the idea of Cory going out, Vincent decided make the pumpkin first. It had been rated the easiest online. Then, when—if—he ruined it, he would had time to run out and buy one if it didn’t turn out right. He’d have all the time, because he wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight.

“What?” Cory seemed lost for a second. “Going out? No. I’m going to be up early, I’m sure, worrying that I’ve forgotten something. The stores are only open for a short time tomorrow, so if I need something, I’ll need to know early.” Cory made worrying sound so normal. Of course, it was normal for him. His concerns were legitimate.

“You could always ask me.” Vincent cleared his throat, then unwrapped his three disposable foil pie tins. “Not much of a cook, but I might have what you need. Or I could go to the store for you. I mean, I won’t be doing anything.”

He kept his gaze on his hands while he rinsed off the apples and left them to air dry. He didn’t want to do anything serious yet. If he failed, he would prefer to do it when no one was watching. “No pressure,” he joked in an only slightly shaky voice. “Just going to make pie for the first time ever.”

“A failed attempt at something doesn’t mean you’re a failure. It doesn’t mean anything. No one’s going to hate you if there’s no pie, Vin,” Cory reminded him, then frowned when Vincent raised his head. “Say the same thing to me tomorrow, only make it about potatoes, or that tofu, deal?”

Vincent felt himself smiling. “Okay.” For some reason, it was now easy to imagine Cory showing up midmorning, covered in flour and smelling of gravy while he complained about something not turning out the way he wanted it. Vincent could even hear the put-out tone in his voice. “Okay,” Vincent repeated, a touch more confidently, and inclined his head. “First real grownup Thanksgiving dinner party. Mistakes are allowed.”

“But a backup plan too. Just in case.” Cory nodded too, serious but maybe a bit tipsy. His glass was empty. Vincent hurried over to take it from him and refill it, although when he handed it back, Cory gave him a wide-eyed stare. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable being the only one drinking, Vincent reasoned, so he grabbed an available glass and poured himself about an inch of wine.

Drunken pie making was a bad idea, but at least he’d be relaxed. It ought to go great. “Here’s to hopefully getting it right,” he toasted, then swallowed his wine in one go.

Cory toasted him in return, then drank more of his. “And not worrying too much about it if we don’t.” He amended Vincent’s statement then stared at his glass. “If it’s not perfect, it doesn’t matter. Right?”

“No, of course not.” Vincent wasn’t drunk, yet, but the wine was going to hit him soon. Cory must not have eaten in a while, because his head was already listing to one side. Vincent was torn between letting him sober up, and the notion of Cory taking a nap on his couch while Vincent baked a pie for him.

That this was his most thrilling fantasy at the moment was probably something he shouldn’t reflect much upon if he could help it. 

“So you wouldn’t mind?” Cory’s eyes went shiny when he’d been drinking.

Vincent smiled helplessly at him. “I wouldn’t mind a bit.” He spoke the truth, even if he wasn’t certain exactly what Cory was worried about. But he was hardly going to get in the way of a planner of this magnitude. Cory had already admitted this dinner party was kind of last minute, and yet he’d found the time to create and construct those garlands as well as make a menu and complete shopping list. He was not someone who took his plans lightly. He probably hadn’t slept much these past days either.