Holidays in Blue Read online

  Eric laughed, but it only sounded goofy to his ear. Cosmin wasn’t laughing at all. His frown had turned to a scowl. He finished the last of his drink and walked away. Without a word. Without a tip.

  The silence stung Eric. He ran a hand to his beard before he huffed a sigh. What the fuck was that? He couldn’t help but feel rejected and like a child all over again. He was a perpetual fuckup, and Cosmin had it together. The ten-year divide between them only seemed to grow larger and larger as years went on. Even if Eric felt like he was finally getting his life back together, he was in his early thirties and working as a bartender. No permanent job. No benefits. His acting career had dried up with too many bad decisions, along with his marriage.

  And now his phone was ringing again. Customers were coming. He didn’t have long to linger on the rejection. It was pointless to dwell. The two of them were different and always would be.

  Everything else was just economy.

  * * *

  “What do you mean you can’t pick me up?”

  “I’m sorry, man,” Cameron said. “I just got another gig. You know the drill.”

  Eric paced outside the Toronto docks. A light dusting of snow marked the ground, but it was unseasonably warm. He wasn’t freezing, especially not with his jacket and with a cocktail he’d downed before the party was over, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant to stand outside. Especially when his ride said he wouldn’t be there in fifteen minutes, like Eric had expected. When two thirty a.m. came and went and no one had pulled up, Eric’s stomach had started to turn. He’d not had a chance to check his phone messages, and now that decision seemed to bite him in the butt. The moment he called Cameron, he heard laughter and slurred words in the background.

  Another gig my ass.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Eric asked. “There’s no transit right now.”

  “I know, man. I tried to call to warn you—”

  “But when you didn’t get me, you just stopped worrying?” When Cameron didn’t reply, Eric repeated his initial question. “How exactly am I supposed to get home?”

  “Uber?”

  “To Waterloo? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Eric couldn’t fathom the size of the fare for a nearly hour and a half ride to Waterloo, a small city closer to the Niagara region than the city of Toronto. Especially so close to Christmas and in the middle of the night. “That was not the deal, Cameron. I took this job alone with the stipulation that you would pick me up.”

  “Plans change. I did—”

  “I know you did try to call. I know we have a rule about gigs, and that gigs come first. But that doesn’t negate the fact that I still have my own plans, too. Like my audition!” Eric wanted to throw his phone in the lake. He breathed coolly, counting to seven in his head. “I need to submit an audition for a voice role. It’s the only consistent work I have right now. And my soundproof room is in Waterloo.”

  “Does one day matter so much? Just ask for an extension.”

  “That’s not the point. And you know it.”

  Silence.

  But Eric could hear Cameron’s breathing on the other end shift and change. He was well aware he was being unreasonable, but Cameron liked to think with his cock more than his head. They both did. It was why they got along, even after Eric’s life imploded. Cameron was the only one who hadn’t judged him for his behaviour, but instead welcomed him back to Waterloo as if he’d never left.

  Yet in spite of their similarities, their promises to one another were lacking, as tonight proved. Cameron used Eric’s soundproof room in his apartment for his recording, usually in exchange for Cameron driving him places, but the exchange often fell through. Tonight had been the most tremendous fuckup as of late, though, since he couldn’t simply walk home from Toronto.

  It’s almost like you want to fail. It’s almost like you want to finally admit defeat and not even bother with this life anymore, so you give all of your responsibility to Cameron—who you know from experience after experience will fuck it up for you. If Eric weren’t so annoyed, and so cold, he’d almost be amazed at his own insight. Maybe he’d even be good enough to go on Cosmin’s show.

  “Look.” Cameron’s voice was softer now. “I’m sorry. I can pitch in for some of the cab. I know you’ve done me a solid in the last little while with your magic room. But I can’t come and get you tonight. So you’ll have to figure out another way.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” Eric hung up the phone. He sat on the curb, gasping out loud once he realized how cold the cement was. He realized he was holding his breath, waiting for Cameron to call back.

  But he wouldn’t. Cameron would wash his hands of the night and say he’d done all he could.

  And you will swallow your pride and call Trina because, well, Trina will always bail you out. Even if they weren’t married anymore, Trina was always there.

  Eric didn’t even understand why he was fighting it. Any other day of the week and he would have called her without question over an hour ago. He would have even accepted Cameron’s bullshit excuses and found another way. He was so used to bending to other people’s needs, sandwiching his own in where he could, that even the winter cold never bothered him.

  But you saw Cosmin again. And you remembered what it was like, for a brief moment, to want something more than what you currently have.

  Eric shoved down the realization. He dialed Trina’s number as if he’d never taken it off his phone.

  “Hey, Trina. Sorry to wake you...”

  * * *

  Trina and Michael showed up ten minutes later. Their late model black SUV seemed like a presidential vehicle as it pulled up and the doors popped open. He entertained the thought that he was a star, rather than a politician, and deserved the escort.

  Michael greeted Eric with a chipper smile and jovial expression, as if he hadn’t been clawed out of bed. Trina insisted that they’d just come back from a Christmas party across town and were actually close by. All of this was fine, super convenient actually, even if it was beyond clear that it was well past Michael’s bedtime. When Eric slipped into their back seat, he recognized Trina’s perfume with a familiar sense of nostalgic love. Apricots and almonds. He would always know that scent, and always love her, but it was now undercut with the fresh, mature cologne of Michael. They were both dressed immaculately; only one strand of Trina’s red hair was out of place in her updo.

  “How are you doing tonight, Eric?” Michael asked.

  “I suppose I could be better.”

  “What are you even doing working in Toronto?” Trina asked. “I thought you gave up this place ages ago?”

  “I never gave up,” Eric said, surprisingly defensive. “I just accepted my limitations and tried to shift to another source of income.”

  “Ah. Fancy for saying you could find no auditions so moved to a city with a cheaper cost of living.”

  Eric tapped his nose. Trina smiled at him from the rear-view mirror. “Besides,” he added, “Cameron moved back too, so I figured my roommate situation would be a lot better than before.”

  “Cameron? He was supposed to pick you up? No wonder you called.” Trina made a face.

  She’d only known Cameron in their last year of school together. While Eric fumbled through a never-completed degree in the arts, Trina had fast-tracked her undergrad. She graduated from the university where they met and moved to another to complete her master’s in economics.

  Now she was an investor, broker, or something that handled a lot of money while Eric still fumbled to keep his account out of overdraft. For a time, though, the two of them had lived in engagement and early wedded bliss in Waterloo before moving to Toronto when he thought his career would take off. Before the move, she never let Cameron into their one-bedroom apartment for longer than one cocktail and then insisted he leave right afterwards.

  Which, if Eric had been honest, should have been
a sign of his character. When he’d moved back to Waterloo after his funds and roles ran out, and found Cameron at a bar playing guitar, he thought it would be a good arrangement. Familiarity, plus a little dumb hope that Cameron had matured since then.

  He hadn’t. Tonight was a clear sign of that. But instead of Trina dwelling on Eric’s fuckups, she shifted the conversation. “So tell me: How’s Stratford? Are you still looking into working there?”

  “No, it’s still pretty far from Waterloo. And they’re mostly casting women in their leading male roles now, anyway.”

  “Oh, come on,” Trina said after Eric explained the most recent gossip about the switch-up in the Prospero role for The Tempest. It wasn’t a confirmed casting choice just yet, merely speculation, but Eric clung to it as the main reason he hadn’t bothered—yet again—to head to Stratford.

  As ever, Trina saw right through him. “It’s not like Stratford’s going to turn into some strange lesbian Herland utopia. And even if it did, that’s still no excuse.”

  “Um?” Eric gestured to his beard. “Sort of rules me out, doesn’t it?”

  “They’d still need lighting. Set design. Gofer boys for coffee. Things like that. There’s no reason to not be part of theatre, even if you’re not the actor.” When Eric didn’t respond, though, Trina moved on. “But tell me about your bartending career. How is that going?”

  “Slow. I don’t do it very often, but you know Christmas parties are the best. I forgot how to make a Black Russian tonight and had to google it.”

  “What an age for technology, though. You can learn anything on YouTube!” Michael said. His smile was positive, never wavering, not even when Eric had first met him and spent hours on end trying to push his buttons by reminding him that he’d been with Trina first. But the man didn’t seem to have a jealous or envious bone in his body, which meant, of course, that he was perfect for Trina. Soon enough, Eric had relented and learned to appreciate the man’s kind streak. It was sometimes like talking to Mr. Dressup, but it was still nice. “I even learned how to fix our toilet on YouTube. Fascinating stuff.”

  “Yeah,” Trina said. “And then I learned how to find a better plumber much later when his repairs fell flat.”

  “It’s the effort, though. Ten thousand hours and then I’ll be an expert. According to Mr. Gladwell, anyway.”

  “Yeah, uh-huh. Stick to what you know, baby doll.” She nudged Michael playfully before turning to regard Eric again in the back seat. “Same goes for you, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The bartending gig. I mean, why bother coming to Toronto if it’s just going to get in the way of your plans? Are you really hurting for money that badly?”

  Trina’s face fell the moment Eric’s jaw clenched. She knew that look from their nearly five years of marriage and years of youthful courtship beforehand. In spite of their messy breakup, there was no more ill will between them. Her face instantly took on the paleness of someone who had made a faux pas. She tried to backpedal, but Eric waved a hand.

  “Don’t you know it’s a gig economy now, Trina? And it’s all about service industry. And passive income. Gotta keep up those royalty checks.”

  “So you’re still getting royalty residuals from your show?”

  Eric’s jaw clenched again. This time, Trina didn’t notice. “Sometimes. But I’m thinking of diversifying my income. I’ve heard that laundromats are good investments.”

  “Really?” Trina said.

  “Yes. I read The Economist.”

  “On the toilet.”

  “Hey,” Eric said.

  When his serious expression burst into guffaws, Trina soon followed. Michael laughed along politely before he added, “Sort of reminds me of a movie I saw once. Oh, I can’t remember the name. It was super old—but had Daniel Day-Lewis in it, so I watched it one night on TV.”

  Eric’s chest tightened. He knew the exact film. It was the exact reason why, when he actually had been reading The Economist or some other magazine he found in a waiting room, and laundromats as a good source of passive income was mentioned in an article, he attached himself to the idea. It was one of those get-rich-quick schemes that didn’t seem like a scheme, because he’d seen it in Technicolor beforehand. “My Beautiful Laundrette.”

  “Yes! That’s it. Quite a strange little film. All I remember were the people dancing in the middle of the place as if it was a palace.”

  “Yes. That’s my favourite part.” Eric wanted to add that, while the two people danced as if they were in their own little world inside that shitty, run-down laundromat in a deeply racist area of Thatcher’s London, the two main leads were falling in love in the back room, talking about futility as they took off one another’s clothes. Eric had been no stranger to his own desires by the time he saw that film. He’d watched it on TV one night when he couldn’t sleep—maybe the same channel, maybe the same date that Michael had—and he’d forgotten who he was, how he had screwed up, and all the problems with the future. It was just a nice story.

  “Well, Daniel Day-Lewis is a fox,” Trina said. “So at least we can all agree on something.”

  Again, more quiet laughter, which Eric interrupted. “Speaking of foxes, I also saw Cosmin tonight.”

  Trina’s brows lifted. “The Cosmin Tessler?”

  “One and only.”

  “The radio guy!” Michael said. “Oh, I loved his show when I was single. Listened to it all the time.”

  “No wonder you’re so sweet and give Hallmark a run for their money.” She smiled at her husband and then shifted back to Eric’s more pertinent conversation. “And what happened with Mr. Cosmin Tessler, the one and only?”

  “I don’t think he really remembered me.”

  “Well, you’re no longer the pasty-face youth crushing on the older boy. And your beard is strange. Doesn’t suit your face.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  Trina shook her head, her nose scrunching. “It’s not just the red hair, though that doesn’t precisely help. That, plus your bartending gig, makes you still seem like you’re twenty-three, not thirty-three. You’re not a kid.”

  Eric nodded. The words stung him far more than they would on any other day of the year. He’d normally cite his gig economy spiel, his artistic lifestyle, or smile to deflect any kind of negative attention, but he couldn’t this time.

  There was no time to dwell or spout witty comebacks as the SUV pulled into the underground parking garage. Michael turned off the car before turning back to face Eric. “Eric, if you really are serious about that laundromat, I know some people. I do think it is a good investment. And if you’re looking for something to diversify...?”

  “Oh,” Eric said. “Maybe after the holidays.”

  Michael nodded, smiling politely, but also with a tacit understanding that Eric would not call. He would never be able to afford anything like that, not with the way he was currently living. My Beautiful Laundrette was a wonderful film, but that was it. And he was bad at acting now, anyway.

  Trina set him up on the pull-out couch in the guest room. The condo was small but more than enough room for the two of them, plus a random mooch of an ex-husband. She laid out towels for him in the bathroom and made sure to let him know what kinds of food they had for breakfast in the morning.

  “Neither one of us has work, so we’ll be sleeping in. Definitely.” She leaned against the bedroom door, waiting without saying much at all. When Eric only folded out the sheets, she added, “Are you going to be okay tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I can find a way. Don’t worry. Maybe I won’t even bother with Waterloo. With Christmas so close...” Eric became aware of the lack of decorations in their apartment, suitcases in the living room, and the fact that they weren’t working tomorrow. Trina’s parents were most likely hosting Christmas this year, which meant that they’d be headed to BC, probably the next aft
ernoon. He’d need to leave here as soon as possible to make that happen. And the fact that he’d once been to her BC cabin but was no longer invited made his heart ache.

  Trina seemed to nod along, hastening their conversation from the intimate to the perfunctory. “Well, if you need anything—”

  “Yeah, actually.” He bit his lip. “Do you know of any place where I could record an audition?”

  After explaining the sound and mic levels he’d need, she eventually shook her head. “Sorry, no. All we know are bankers and realtors. Not artists.”

  “It’s fine. Probably wouldn’t have gotten it anyway.”

  She gave him another sympathetic nod. He expected her to tell him he should stick to what he knew well, but she wished him goodnight instead.

  In the dark, just before sleep took him, he realized that the auditions were all he knew how to do. That was his talent. And in his dreams, he was dancing inside a laundromat with all the doors closed.

  Chapter Three

  Cosmin paced outside of Sherry’s office. He’d not slept more than two hours last night, and it showed. His normal office attire of a suit jacket with a collared shirt had been downgraded to jeans and a pullover sweater. The lines around his mouth and eyes were deeper set than he remembered, and made more distinct through his perpetual frowns. The expression “you’ve got a face for radio” moved through his mind like a song he couldn’t shake.