Page 10 of Regret Me Not
It was like watching the pictures on a slot machine whir and click… wanted to be a masseur or a fitness trainer—cherry. Too gay for the holidays—cherry. Twenty-three and not done with school—cherry and jackpot!
“If you don’t do what they want you to do, they’ll cut you off,” Pierce muttered. “Charming.”
“Whatever. I told them I’d come here and think about it.”
Pierce remembered Hal’s outfit on the first day and felt a chill in his stomach. “Don’t you mean drink about it?” he asked kindly.
“Yeah, well, that. Except….” Hal kicked at a piece of gravel as they neared the gate of the condo.
“What?” Because now Pierce was curious.
“I hate getting drunk. Seriously. I like training and helping people and shit. You can’t do that if you’re going to destroy your body. So I bought, like, all this fucking vodka, and after the first three greyhounds, I trashed the place. I fell asleep. I woke up and decided to take a swim and… well, you were already here.”
“Trashed the place? Do you need to clean up?”
“When I’m not so mad, I’ll do it again, sure. But I’m not drinking any more vodka after that.”
Pierce stepped forward to undo the lock on the gate and laughed. “Well, lucky for us both. You don’t like to get drunk, and I’m not happy about drowning. It was kismet.”
Hal pushed through the gate and held it while Pierce limped by. “You don’t agree with my dad? That I should get my ass in gear and pick something?”
Pierce thought about it as he led the way through the back hallway, past the laundry room, the bedroom, and into the kitchen that opened up to the living room. He paused there—he always did—because the back door looked over a brace of rushes and off to the sea. While the sea in Florida was a little tamer than the sea in California, that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate having it right there at his window. Of course, he hadn’t this trip—because pain and bitterness and general assholery, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t startnow.
“No,” he said, almost absently, pondering that view. He snapped to and answered with more conviction. “I think that whole ‘your kid has to do what you tell them, even as an adult’ idea is sort of… bullshit,” he said. “I mean, you support them, sure. Hold them accountable. But you’re obviously not partying the fuck out of UNC. How many units do you have?”
Hal grunted. “Well, if I had them in the right classes, I’d have a master’s by now.”
Pierce laughed and settled down onto one of the stools that sat at the counter. “I… I always wanted more time to think about it,” he said, remembering. “I mean, I took a film theory class and some history classes and thought ‘Hey! I’d like to do something with this!’ But I was tired of eating soup and crackers five nights a week and driving a car that was writing its last will and testament. I mean, if I could have gone to school for another three years, I totally would have.”
Hal’s smile still had an edge of unhappiness to it, but Pierce didn’t know what to tell him. “Here—let me see what’s for lunch,” he said. He began poking around the pantry and the cupboards, clucking when he came up with english muffins and lunch meat. “You were going to have tinned soup? Here, let me make you a sandwich. You even have a tomato and pickles. And butter! Geez.”
Pierce stood up and tried not to groan theatrically. “Hal…. Hal… bubby… the reason I was going for canned soup was that I didn’t feel like making anything. I can’t ask you to—”
“I’ll make myself one too,” Hal said mildly. “Now sit there and talk to me about something stupid.”
“Something stupid?”
“Yeah.” Hal looked up from his food preparation, and Pierce realized he wasn’t kidding, even a little. “Something that doesn’t hurt.”
Oh. Well, at least Pierce wasn’t the only one not comfortable with all the soul baring they’d done in the last two days.
Pierce bit his lip, trying to remember something, anything, whimsical that he could talk about. All he had in his arsenal was stuff from when he was a kid.
“So,” he said, feeling foolish, “have I talked to you about my deep and abiding love for the old Looney Tunes cartoons?”
Hal shot him a look of such naked hope, he felt like an absolute hero for even thinking about it. “Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck?” he asked.
“Wabbit season, naturally.”
Hal’s smile turned wicked. “Duck season,” he returned.
“Wabbit season.”
“Duck season.”
“Duck season!” Pierce remembered this game.
“Bang,” Hal told him with a smile. Derrick had a widescreen TV on the far wall, and Hal gestured with his chin. “I bet you could find some of that on a premium channel. Go, sit—I’ll bring you food, you eat and fall asleep.”