After sixty seconds, Hazard stepped out of the bedroom and moved toward the stairs. His boots clomped on the floor. The bag of presents dragged behind him, giving off a slow rustling like a snake in the grass. He could picture all of it: the banality of the requests; children exposing their deepest desires, which consisted entirely of toys and video games and clothes; the fundamental silliness of pretending, play-acting, even though everybody could see through the disguise. But he didn’t slow down; he took the steps at an even pace, and then he swung around at the bottom and headed toward the living room and the Christmas tree, where everyone was waiting.
The best plan, he told himself, was to keep his eyes fixed in the middle distance. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he saw Somers laughing. He’d go in there, get it over with, and then get out of this silly costume. He didn’t even have to be very enthusiastic about the performance, did he? He hadn’t promised to be a good Santa. He’d just promised to put on the suit and make an appearance. That’s all he was going to do. No nonsense. No frills. Just fifteen minutes.
He stepped into the living room. The air smelled like pine and overheated children and the tamales steaming in the kitchen. The LED lights on the tree twinkled in shifting blue-red-green. Seven kids, three adults, and one Santa. Hazard’s eyes went straight to Evie, who was staring up, her features laid open with wonder. He couldn’t hear her little voice through the hub of the other kids shouting with excitement, but he saw her mouth move in two syllables of pure joy: “Santa.”
And then Emery Hazard forgot about Marxism, the axio-epistemological challenges of the Santa story, the twang of systemic racism in the myth. He even forgot about American cultural hegemony and the global triumph of Santa Claus. All he saw was that tiny, perfect face.
He didn’t even try to stop himself; swinging the sack of presents down from his shoulder, he belted out, “Ho, ho, ho.”
VALENTINE’S IN SIX BEATS
This story takes place before Wayward.
I
FEBRUARY 23
SATURDAY
4:00 PM
HAZARD LAY ON THE SOFA, trying to read. He wasn’t illiterate, but he was finding it hard to force the words to make sense. Part of it had to do with his fiancé, John-Henry Somerset, who was sitting at the end of the sofa with Hazard’s feet in his lap. Part of it had to do with the TV, which was showing Love, Simon. Part of it had to do with the way Somers was eating his popcorn, tossing kernels up in the air, head bobbing as he caught them in his mouth, and then snapping his teeth shut with obvious self-satisfaction. Part of it had to do with the moments when Somers forgot about the popcorn and leaned forward, his whole body connected to the film as though a live wire ran between them.
“He’s going to get outed,” Hazard said, flipping back a few pages. A Comprehensive Registry of Missouri Migratory Birds was delightfully comprehensive, but he kept getting the snow goose confused with the greater white-fronted goose, and all the distractions weren’t helping. He glanced at the clock. “Probably in about two minutes.”
“Nope,” Somers said, chucking another kernel in the air, teeth clicking shut around it, and then, after he swallowed, “Not gonna happen.”
Hazard tried to pay attention to the section about the greater white-fronted goose’s albifrons, but now he was mostly tuned in to the film. He did his best to keep a straight face when the kid in the movie got outed.
“God damn it,” Somers said. “No!”
Hazard didn’t say, I told you so. He didn’t smirk—smirking was almost exclusively a Somers thing. He didn’t even raise his eyebrows. He kept his focus on the book. But he did, maybe just a little, wiggle his feet.
A popcorn kernel pegged him in the forehead.
“Ow.”
“We.” Popcorn kernel. “Talked.” Popcorn kernel. “About.” Popcorn kernel. “This.” Three popcorn kernels in rapid succession.
“Jesus Christ, John.” Hazard brushed popcorn off his book and then flipped it toward Somers in display. “You got butter all over the greater yellowlegs.”
“You can’t even tell,” Somers said. “Its legs are already yellow.”
“It’s a new book.”
“Yeah, a new book about birds.”
“Birds are important. And interesting. Did you know that feathers are one of the most complicated structures in vertebrate animals?”
“I’m watching this,” Somers said, settling back into his seat and giving Hazard’s feet a playful shove. “No more spoilers.”
“It wasn’t a spoiler; I haven’t even seen this movie.”
“Well, no more predictions.”
“It’s not that hard, John. It’s a romantic comedy about a closeted gay boy. You’re a detective—pick up the clues.”
Somers shushed him.
“Once you know the Hollywood Three-Act Structure, it’s actually very easy to—”
Somers shushed him more loudly.
“It’s all the same movie over and over again,” Hazard grumbled into his book. “The same stupid formula, just with a different name. I don’t know why you get so invested.”
“Emery. Hazard.”
“I’m being quiet.”
“Not quiet enough.”
“I’m reading my book.”
But it was hard to read when every five minutes Somers was oohing and awwing and swearing a blue streak at the television.
“Come on,” Hazard said when Somers leaned forward abruptly to grab his Pepsi, knocking Hazard’s feet off his lap.
“He’s being an asshole to Simon!”
“Ok,” Hazard said, checking the clock and then beckoning. “Remote.”
“It’s almost over.”
“Remote, please.”
“No, I want to finish this.”
“I know; you’ll have to finish it later.”
“What? Why?”
Hazard stretched and then rolled off the sofa. “Time to go. Well, time to get dressed. Then go.”
“Did we have plans?” Somers grabbed his phone and checked it. “You didn’t send me one of those anal-retentive calendar invites.”
“First of all, shared calendars are an incredibly useful tool; they’re not—”
“Anal retentive.”
Growling, Hazard said, “Don’t do that. Second of all, get off your ass and come upstairs and get dressed. I already laid out your first outfit.”
“What is going on? My
