The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(74)

“I’m in,” David said. “Screw the theater, I’ll raise chickens.”

They joked around, elaborating the fantasy, but Erik felt serious about it. Still high from sex and refreshed by good sleep, he was firmly under the spell of this wonderful house. He was shaping a dream, a sweet vista unfolding before him. A house like this, a kitchen like this, dinners like this with friends like these. A lifetime of f*ck-the-turkey Thanksgivings.

With Daisy.

After dinner they set up the tree. Will built a fire and Joe put on Christmas music. He had an ironclad rule forbidding any holiday songs produced after 1959. The living room filled up with the scent of pine and all the vintage, old school standards. Daisy sang and smiled as she passed ornaments up to Erik on the ladder. When Nat King Cole came on, David serenaded them with his version of the Christmas Song:



Roast nuts chesting on an open fire.

Nipfrost jacking off your nose.

Yuletide Carol getting laid by the choir…



The smell of baking began to waft as well. “You remember the errand I ran today?” Francine said. With a flourish, she brought a book out from behind her back and showed the title to Erik—Lights of the North: Swedish Christmas Traditions.

“Does it have pepparkakor?” he asked, flipping the pages.

It did, and they were in the oven. Before anyone else was allowed, Francine and Erik tasted them carefully.

“Yes,” Francine said.

“I remember these,” Erik said. “Wait. Something else. You’re supposed to break them. Everybody take one, don’t eat it yet.”

He remembered. You held the cookie in the palm of your hand, made a wish and pressed down on the center. “If it breaks in three pieces,” he said, “your wish will come true.”

“What if it doesn’t break in three?” David asked.

“You still have cookies.” Erik looked around the room at his circle of loved ones, then down at the treat in his palm. Happiness pulled his chest apart. He threw it onto his growing vision of the future. How every Christmas, Francine Bianco would make pepparkakor for him, a tin of rounds flecked with citrus and heat, golden and crisp with memory.

This, he wished, and pressed his finger onto the cookie, which broke cleanly into three pieces. Daisy moved by his side, eyes shining as she held up her hand and showed him her own triumphant thirds.

Later he lay in bed, Daisy’s head pillowed on his heart, his hand resting on her cheek. They had made love again and it was gorgeous. Sweet and spicy like the cookie flavors lingering in their mouths. The night was gentle around their spent bodies. And Erik whispered, “Do you ever think about marrying me?”

The curve of Daisy’s smile filled his palm. “If I marry anyone, it’ll be you,” she said.

He scooped up a handful of her hair and held it to his face. He smiled into its damp softness, his tongue tingling with orange zest and pepper and Daisy.





No Heroics


“I want to dance ‘The Man I Love’ again,” Daisy said.

Erik was startled, thinking it was the last thing she’d want. “Why?”

A ripple of defiance along Daisy’s jaw and her eyes flared. “Because f*ck him. That’s why.”

It was early January, the beginning of another semester. The two couples were at Jay Street, having pizza and discussing the advent of the spring dance concert.

Will stopped chewing, looking at Daisy. Then he slowly swallowed his food, nodding his head. “Three months,” he said. “We have three months.”

“You’re physically ready?” Erik asked.

Daisy nodded. “I can do it.”

Lucky was only picking at her dinner. She didn’t seem to be feeling well. “Are you mentally ready?” she asked.

“I am.” Daisy looked at Will. “I need to dance it. Otherwise, it’s…”

Will put his hand on her head. “I’m in,” he said. “I want this. And you’re right. Fuck him.”

“What does Kees say?” Erik asked.

“He’s on board with the idea,” Daisy said. “But he has to get permission from the trust.”

Who Cares? was copyrighted and could not be performed anywhere without express permission of the Balanchine Trust. Marie Del’Amici had gone to great lengths to secure permission last year. All Kees could do was ask again.

“We got it,” Daisy told Erik a few days later, coming down to the basement set shops to jump in his arms. “The trust will let us do it. Kees had a meeting with Michael Kantz and it’s final, we’ll dance it.”

“Nothing else?”

“For me? No. It’s enough. No heroics, just the one pas de deux with Will.”

“Well, I call it pretty heroic,” Erik said.

He was busy with his own project: an art student wanted to present his senior portfolio in the Black Box Theater, making an interactive, multi-medium experience of art, poetry, music and light. Erik was commissioned as lead designer. It felt good to be immersed in the creative process, getting his hands dirty, getting his mind dirty, helping someone build a dream.

Class. Rehearsals. He worked, and Daisy worked. They came home at night to Jay Street where the two couples were living all the time. David came over almost every evening. John Quillis was a regular visitor. They took care of each other.