HAPPILY EVER
AFTER
by Susan
“Remind me why
we’re drunk, Starsk.” Hutch was slouched down beside him on the couch, legs
crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table. He balanced a glass on
his chest and looked pleased with himself.
“Because we drank
too much?” Starsky swallowed a burp.
“No, I mean why
did we start drinking? We don’t do this anymore.”
“The anniversary,
remember?”
Starsky lifted
his glass—still half full with the best single malt scotch the liquor store
sold—in Hutch’s general direction. If the scotch hadn’t gone down so easy, or
if they’d had somewhere to be that evening, or even if they’d thought about how
hung over they’d be the next day, they might have stopped after two.
“Oh right, the
anniversary. I forgot.”
Hutch stared at
his empty glass, then at the half-empty bottle of fifteen-year-old Laphroaig on
the table, and wondered how he could get some more of it into his glass without
moving. He twitched his nose. Nothing happened. Damn. He wondered if now was
the right time to tell Starsky about his secret crush on Samantha from Bewitched. Probably not. Not
when they were celebrating an anniversary.
Which reminded him . . .
“Starsk?”
“Yeah?”
“What anniversary
is this?” He picked up the glass and
held it off his chest in case Starsky whacked him.
Starsky whacked
him. “Tenth.”
“No, I mean the
anniversary of what? You didn’t exactly say.”
Starsky had come
home earlier with the bottle of scotch, two sirloin steaks, and a pecan pie.
Two hours later and they still hadn’t made it past the scotch.
“Think.”
“I stopped being
able to think three drinks ago.” But he
tried really, really hard. He did all the right things – closed his eyes,
furrowed his brow, stroked his chin. Nothing. “At least give me a hint.”
“Nope. You should
know this. You were there, for chrissakes. August? 1974?”
Hutch thought
more scotch might help, so he pulled himself up and poured some into his glass.
Into Starsky’s too. Then he leaned in and kissed him. Awkwardly and drunkenly
maybe, but it still managed to give him a buzz that scotch never would. But
then it always had, even those first few times years before, when kissing him
was strange and scary and more than a little brave.
Starsky laughed
and pushed him off. “You don’t get off that easy, Blondie. Think. Ten years
ago.” He kissed him quickly and pulled himself up off the couch. “I’ll be
back,” he said as he made his way unsteadily to the bathroom.
Ten years ago?
August, 1974. Starsky had just bought the Torino and they drove it up the coast
for a few days. “To try it out,” Starsky had said. “To show it off,” Hutch had
countered. “Well, that too,” Starsky’d admitted. They’d packed a tent and
camped out near Big Sur for a few nights, surfing and swimming, and cooking on
an old Coleman stove. Their last night out, in the middle of roasting
marshmallows, Hutch had wrapped one
hand around the back of Starsky’s sunburned neck and pulled him close. His lips
had brushed against Starsky’s skin in that small hollow just behind his ear.
He’d expected Starsky to pull away, but instead he’d just sighed and turned his
head and kissed Hutch long and slow. But then they heard the sound of car doors
closing and laughter coming up from the beach. Hutch had pulled back and
dropped his hands and the moment had passed. The next morning, they’d put it
down to too much sun and too little sleep, and they never talked about it
again. It had taken five years and three bullets to get to the second kiss.
“I had no idea
you were keeping track,” he called to Starsky. I had no idea you even remembered that night.
Starsky came back
with a box of Wheat Thins and a block of Vermont cheddar on a plate and set it
on the coffee table.
“Appetizers. This
is a classy joint, you know.” He handed Hutch a knife and a napkin and sat
beside him. “Of course I keep track. It was one of the best days of my life,”
he said around a mouthful of cheese. “I waited so long for it.”
“You never
said.” You should have said.
“You never
asked.” He shrugged like it was no big
deal.
“And now?”
“I feel the same
as I did that first day.” Starsky’s
voice was husky with emotion. Scotch and love were a powerful combination.
“Me too, Starsk.” Hutch cleared his throat.
“Though I figure
we only have another few years together, then it’ll be time to move on.”
The Hallmark
moment evaporated.
“Excuse me?” he
sputtered.
“Everything has a
shelf life, Hutch. Even us.” He said it in that “trust me, I know these things”
voice that drove Hutch crazy.
“If that’s the
way you feel, why the hell are we celebrating?” He sat back and folded his arms
across his chest.
Starsky rolled
his eyes. “Great, now you’re pouting. You always get like this when you drink.
It’s no wonder you love Hamlet so damned much.”
Hutch winced.
“What does Hamlet have to do with this?”
He’d dragged Starsky to see it at last year’s Shakespeare Festival and
had been paying for it ever since.
Starsky waved an
arm around. “All that thinking. And pondering. And deciding. I wanted to go up
on stage and off the guy myself. Get it over with. Enough with the fucking angst, already.”
“But how can I
celebrate now? After what you just said about us?”
“Us?” Starsky
tilted his head and looked confused.
“Yeah, us. About
how we only have a few years left together.”
Starsky burst
into laughter. “Us? You think we’re celebrating our anniversary?”
“Aren’t we?”
“Mushbrain. Ten
years ago today I bought the Torino.”
“Oh.” He felt a
blush creep up his neck. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s okay then.
Ten years, huh?”
“Ten years.” He
was still laughing.
They ate the rest
of the cheese and crackers in a silence broken only by Starsky’s occasional
giggle.
Later, in bed,
Starsky turned to look at him. “Hutch?”
He cracked open
one eye. “Yeah?”
“What did you
think we were celebrating?” He said it softly, like maybe he knew the answer
already and just wanted to be sure.
“It doesn’t
matter. You probably don’t remember anyway.” He reached out and brushed a curl
off Starsky’s forehead. He let his hand linger against his face.
“Tell me,”
Starsky kissed his palm.
“That night, up
in Big Sur, when we, you know . . .”
“Made that huge
mistake?”
“Kissing was a
mistake?”
“Pretending it
never happened was the mistake.” He yawned into the pillow. “Took us long
enough to get to happily ever after, didn’t it?”
Hutch was too
tired, and still just a little bit too drunk, to find the words that would say
what he wanted them to – so he borrowed someone else’s and hoped they would be
enough.
“Doubt thou the
stars are fire;
Doubt that the
sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be
a liar;
But never doubt I
love.”
“Good night,
Sweet Prince,” Starsky whispered.
Hutch smiled and
kissed him in that small hollow just behind his ear