by Leta Blake
As Casey crested the hill leading to his parents’ new house, he gazed at the hazy Smoky Mountains in the distance. He was “home” for the holidays. But he hadn’t been prepared for how much it hurt.
Chapter Two
“Did you know the Vreelands moved?”
Casey sat across from his mother on a stool at the wide, polished granite kitchen counter.
“Hmm?” She evaded his question by focusing on the pile of recipe cards she was sorting so that Heather, her new housekeeper, could come later that night to prepare the following week’s dinners in advance.
As Casey waited for her to choose between a lamb and beef soup, he studied her closely for the first time since he’d arrived home. His mother’s hair was freshly cut in a bleached-blond pixie style. It stood out against her trim black sweater, and the contrast brought out a cunning spark in her blue eyes. Her red, corduroy skirt hugged her yoga-sculpted hips, and black tights rounded out her casual look. She looked good, but then she always did.
Casey’s own red sweater felt too warm and his jeans too tight. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, tapping his fingers on the counter restlessly. He’d kept his tone carefully neutral when asking about Joel, shoving down the insistent feelings that had risen when he drove by the Vreelands’ old place. But now, overstuffed with them, he felt like he might burst open and spill everything out all over the counter anyway.
“Mom?” he asked again, several long seconds later. “Did you hear my question?”
“Sorry, honey. What did you ask?” She flipped between a pumpkin pie recipe in Grandmother Johnson’s handwriting and one in Grandmother Stevens’. “I wish Heather would hurry and finish the recipe spreadsheet I asked her to make. It’ll be so much easier when she has every dish all sorted by season.”
His mom had told him during a phone call several weeks before that she’d begun designing her menus around seasonally themed dishes because she’d read it was the newest meal trend amongst the wealthiest families in Atlanta and Dallas. And Deanna Stevens wanted little more than to be both wealthy and on trend.
Casey took a deep breath and steadied himself. “The Vreelands moved.” Stating it as a fact hurt enough that he turned his face away, pretending to look out the wide windows to the gray lake rippling by the edge of his parents’ new property. “Did you know?”
“Oh? Well, yes. I suppose I did,” she said. Casey turned in time to see her dark blue eyes soften as she glanced up from the recipe cards. She sent him a sympathetic smile. “Did you visit the old neighborhood today, honey?”
There was no reason to deny it. Still, he felt horribly exposed as he nodded. He remembered the shining armor displays at the Met in Manhattan and wished for a suit of it to cover his soft places, protection from his mother’s often unwittingly hurtful words.
“I see. Visiting old haunts.” She smiled sweetly at him again. “I used to do the same thing when I first moved to Knoxville. I’d go back home to Friendsville to visit.” Her eyes went distant. “It truly doesn’t seem that long ago. I can’t believe it’s been fifteen years since I last saw the old family home. Now that was a true loss when we had to sell Papaw’s land. Not like when we left Manor Crest at all.”
Casey cleared his throat, determined not to be led off course. “After I drove by our Manor Crest place, I swung by Joel’s old house.” He fought the tremor in his voice. “They don’t live there anymore.”
“Well, of course not,” his mother said, blinking at him slowly, as though he were stupid. “Joel had to sell the house when his father went into the nursing home.” She pursed her lips. “Something about qualifying for Medicaid, maybe? I can’t recall.”
Casey furrowed his brow. He hadn’t known Joel’s father was in a nursing home now. Why hadn’t anyone told him? Sure, Charlie Vreeland had always been a jerk to him, and to Joel for that matter, but he’d been Joel’s dad. “When did that happen?”
“A year ago? Maybe two? I’m not sure, honey.” She shrugged. “I overheard something about it a while back when I was at my stylist.” She patted her hair, making sure the pixie was still perfectly mussed. “I made a mental note to tell you at the time, but I suppose I forgot.”
“What else have you heard about them?” Casey knew his voice was pitched too high—that it gave away all kinds of things he normally tried to hide. But even as he tried to temper it, Ann’s voice rushed in, reassuring him that he was a grown man now, and it was safe to be himself, along with other therapist bullshit like “breathe” and “be yourself.”
“Mmm. Let me think.” His mother narrowed her eyes, casting back. “There was some speculation that Vreeland’s Home and Garden was going to close down too. The new nail artist at my salon—Melissa, I think her name is? Anyway, she swears upside-down and backwards that Vreeland’s carries the best summer annuals selection and that if the store went under Knoxville would suffer a terrible loss.” His mother rolled her eyes, finally chose Grandmother Stevens’ recipe, and tossed Grandmother Johnson’s aside, turning her attention to seasonal sides next. “And maybe it would be. How would I know?” She shrugged. “I get everything through the landscapers now, and I think they buy from Lowe’s.”
Casey schooled his face. Even though he’d asked, he hadn’t really expected his mother to be so in the know about the Vreelands. Joel and his father weren’t society people and thus not on her usual radar. Besides, she’d always called Joel “that boy” and radiated icy displeasure whenever Casey told her he was jumping the fence to go hang out. Or, worse, whenever he invited Joel to come over to their place.
“Your aunt Courtney can’t make it until Christmas Eve. Did I tell you?” his mother said, flipping over a card for a seven-layer salad in her youngest sister’s handwriting. “But at least she’ll be here for the party.”
“You said.”
They studied the recipe cards together as a Christmas carol playlist he’d helped her create on Spotify drifted through a black, cylindrical Bluetooth speaker placed in the middle of the counter. All the mentions of snow in the lyrics made Casey almost miss Christmas in New York. For the last three years, his parents had flown up to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with him in the city. They’d all enjoyed the limited time together.
But this year Casey’s father had been promoted to executive VP, and one of his new positional duties was to throw a massive Christmas Eve party for his underlings, nevermind that most of them would probably rather be at home alone or with family on the night before Christmas. It was a company tradition. Casey’s parents had invited friends and family to the event as well, and, if his mother’s planning was any indication, it would be a great night. But two weeks in Knoxville without Joel, enduring the sticks and mud of a Tennessee winter, lacked the magic of the colorful bustle of New York and the potential for a white Christmas. Why did I think this was a good idea?
“I can’t believe Courtney’s the only one of my siblings living close enough to travel to Knoxville now. Remember the old days when the whole family used to get together for the holidays?” his mother asked wistfully, her eyes going soft again with memories. “I miss that.”
“It’s a shame the holiday rituals all fell apart after Grandma Johnson died.” And it really was. His mother’s side of the family was warm and loving, full of big voices and giant hugs.
It was his dad’s side he’d never enjoyed spending time with. Mainly because their hillbilly, Appalachian ways left his class-obsessed father wallowing in a paroxysm of shame. Unfortunately, on the ride home from those visits, his irritation usually got taken out on Casey in volleys of criticism and complaints.
His mother’s smile tightened, a grief spasm Casey recognized from the year following Grandma Johnson’s death. “At least Courtney’s coming,” she said again. “I’ve missed her since she moved to Atlanta.”
Casey let that sentiment rest on the counter between them long enough to gather a bit of dust before he came back to what he really wanted to know. “So, what happened to Joel? A
fter his dad went into the nursing home, I mean? Did he go to college? Is he still around town? Does he run Vreeland’s?”
His palms began to sweat in the small silence that followed his questions while his mother chose between an acorn squash casserole dish and a nutty chicken stew recipe. “Yes, I think he runs the store or at least owns it. I’m not sure how much time he spends there, though. He definitely didn’t go to college.” She tsked quietly and rolled her eyes. “He never had much ambition.”
Casey bit back a retort.
Joel always had plenty of ambition, just in ways parents never understood. He remembered how Joel had loved to write gory short stories and had once shared with Casey a great idea for a terrifying horror book. He’d wanted to get into writing screenplays too. Joel had been committed to his little high school garage band for as long as it had lasted, and he’d have been willing to see it through if he’d ever gotten a record contract. Most of all, Joel had wanted to travel the world. But that obviously hadn’t happened for him.
Casey wondered what kind of life he had made. “Did he get married? Have kids?”
“I’m not positive, but I think he’s still single. Why?”
“Just curious. Hope he’s happy. That’s all.”
She put down her recipe cards and gazed at him warily. “I admit I was surprised when you didn’t keep in touch with him. Though, in retrospect, I suppose your father was always right. It’s one thing to play together when you’re young, or to hang out when you’re teenagers. That’s a matter of proximity.” Her light eyebrows rose pointedly. “But it was only natural to discover as adults that you have absolutely nothing in common.”
Ah, there was the sharp pain of a word arrow well-landed. Casey rubbed his chest, an ache over his heart, and said nothing in reply.
After a long silence, he picked up the recipe card for his favorite autumnal dish: sweet potato casserole. Studying it carefully, like he was putting it to memory, he recalled the time he took a scoop of it over to the Vreelands’ house. Joel had warmed it up in his dad’s messy, food-encrusted microwave before eating the casserole like it was ice cream, moaning with each bite.
“You don’t know how good you have it, man,” he’d said enviously as he’d polished off the bowl. “Having a mom who makes something like this?”
Casey had wanted to share every good thing in his life with him after that. For almost a year, every time Casey jerked off, he’d thought about the noises Joel had made eating that casserole. They’d been sexier than any sound he’d ever heard—sexier even than the moans men made together in the gay porn he’d dared to watch in the dead of night on his phone.
But everything about Joel had been sexy back then. Like the way Joel’s lips curled up in a snarl when he played bass, or how his eyes softened whenever he really looked at Casey—instead of looking at everything but him. Or how his face brightened with excitement when he told Casey the storyline to one of his dark, morbid stories. Or the way he said Casey’s name all gruff, while they sat side by side on the bench and shared their forbidden cigarettes.
Hell, Casey’d been half-hard nearly constantly around Joel back then.
“I always knew it was a puppy crush,” his mother said, eyeing him. “Your father, of course, was terrified your obsession with Joel meant you were gay.”
“I am gay.”
She laughed. “I know, dear. And now that you’re out and your father’s come to terms with it, his terror has subsided. It was just such an uncertain time for him, you understand.”
“It was an uncertain time for me too.”
“I’m sure it was.” She cocked her head, trying to peer into Casey. He tightened his walls, battened the hatches, and endeavored to make himself unreadable. Screw Ann. What did she know about the relative safety of his parents’ home? Nothing.
His mother asked, “So you did have a crush on him then?”
Crush? Hardly. He’d been madly in love with Joel and still was if the barely restrained pain in his heart was anything to go by. Casey wasn’t going to give her that much, though. She hadn’t earned it with her behavior so far today. So he only met her gaze and held it silently. Even that said more than he really wanted her to know.
“Never say I don’t understand my son.” She patted his hand. “But it’s good he’s in the past now. You deserve so much better than someone like him. Speaking of… Have you heard from Theo? He’s such a delightful young man. And your father likes him so much.”
Casey almost laughed. Theo was the only reason his father had “come around” about him being gay. Even the “black thing,” as Theo had called it, hadn’t been an issue in the end. As the son of a famous black NBA player and a wealthy New York City heiress, Theo had brought a certain caché that the crushes of Casey’s past, especially Joel, lacked. Casey’s dad had enjoyed flaunting Casey’s glamorous connection amongst his pals, especially when that connection led to some pretty amazing courtside tickets.
“Mom, I know you both liked him, but he’s not coming back.”
“We liked him, yes, but what about you? I’m sure it’s been hard for you since he left. You were quite serious about him, after all. You were living together.”
“We weren’t, actually.”
“He was there all the time!”
“Just on the weekends.” Casey frowned. “And now we’re not seeing each other at all. There’s a reason for that.” He picked up another card. Chess pie—Theo’s favorite. He rolled his eyes. Wasn’t the universe just full of jokes today? “We weren’t a good fit. It’s better this way.”
“Is it, though? You always sound so lonely when I call.”
Did he? He hadn’t realized he was letting it show. Maybe he’d lost his touch at keeping his emotions tucked away. Maybe living alone had made him soft. Ann would be proud. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I can’t help it. You’re my baby.”
Casey raised a brow. “I know, I know. Let’s not go there, okay?”
“Oh, men. Always so afraid of their feelings.” She sighed and returned to her dinner planning.
Casey couldn’t argue with that. He’d been terrified of his feelings since he was eight and…
Nope. Not going there. He ruthlessly shoved away those useless thoughts and moved over to the window by the kitchen table. The view of the lake was undoubtedly better in summer when everything was lush and green, and the blue sky was reflected in the water. But it wasn’t bad in winter either, with the fuzzy gray of the leafless trees gentling the edges of the water and softening the winter ashen sky.
God, he hated how quiet he had to be here. At least in New York, he was so alone these days he could speak freely. No one gave a shit what he said or did. Ann called it the liberation of anonymity. Seriously, why had he thought it was a good idea to come back to Knoxville?
His heart beat faster, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. A strange urge crept up his spine, not unlike the one he sometimes got on swarming subway platforms or in the middle of crowded New York streets. What would happen if he started screaming? What would happen if he made a huge, loud, painful scene? What would his mother do? What would she say? What would happen if he stopped being Casey Stevens and started being free?
“Speaking of home-and-garden stores,” his mother said, interrupting his shadowy turn of thought with a smile, “will you do me a favor today? Can you run by Costco and pick up a Christmas tree? I haven’t had time, and your dad wants a real one this year.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Something about it just not feeling like Christmas without the real-tree smell.”
Casey smirked. “He didn’t say it was classier to have a real tree?”
His mother shot him a sharp glance to see if he was being a jerk. He softened his smirk into a genuine-looking smile. She laughed warmly. “You joke, but, well, there’s a reason it’s funny.”
“I’ll pick one up, sure.”
“Costco makes it easy. Just swing by there. I want it to be at l
east eight feet tall, if possible. Oh, and grab a few wreaths. Two medium-sized and one large. But nothing gaudy. Make sure it’s something that will look nice on the front door.” She winked and chuckled. “Keep it classy.”
Twenty minutes later, Casey passed Costco without even slowing down. Enough with feeling sorry for himself. It was time to act. He held the steering wheel tightly, and his gut churned. He had another destination in mind—a place he should have gone as soon as he crossed the Knoxville city line. Where, if he were lucky, he’d get a glimpse of the brown eyes he couldn’t forget.
And sure, he’d get his parents a tree and some wreaths while he was at it. Classy ones.
Chapter Three
Joel hauled the five-foot Fraser fir from the half-full tree lot and out to the blue 1982 Volvo waiting in front of his store. The temperature dropped fast as the sun skimmed the horizon, and he wished he had gloves on his numb fingers while he tied the tree to the rack on top. The late afternoon light, orange and bright, glared into his eyes as he worked the final knots.
“That’ll hold ’er.” He turned to his former neighbor, the sweet and old-for-as-long-as-he-could-remember Mrs. Hendrix. “You sure you don’t need me to follow you home to get her down and into the house?” He brushed the pine needles from his fleece-lined jean jacket before sticking his hands into the pockets of dirty blue jeans, smiling at her. “I’m happy to do it.”
“You’re a good boy, Joel.” She patted his arm with her arthritis-gnarled fingers. “But my grandson Troy—you remember him?”
Joel raised a brow. Remember Troy? How could he forget? Troy Hendrix had been bucktoothed, acne-pocked, and a nicotine fiend. He’d given Joel his first smoke during one of his summerlong visits to his grandma’s back when Troy was nineteen and Joel sixteen. Joel could never forget heaving and gagging after he’d smoked that cigarette or how he’d thrown up afterward, dizzy and overcome. For some reason, he’d taken the whole pack Troy had offered him even after that. “How could I forget Troy?”
