by Rhys Ford
“Look, you and I both know we’re probably going to swear, but I expect you to be respectful. You’re not a little kid anymore, Zig. You can read a situation. You know when to reel it in.”
Parenting was hard. Deacon had learned that from day one, and Zig kept him on his toes. And from the sound of things, she probably would for quite some time. “I’m not saying you’re going to make the right choices all of the time, but I want you to try. That’s my job as your dad—making sure you go out into the world and do the best you can do. That’s all I’m asking. Don’t be an asshole.”
“Rule number one,” she murmured. “Covers everything.”
“Pretty much,” Deacon agreed. “Take care of you, and a big part of that is making sure you’re trying to do right by yourself and others. Everything else will take care of itself.”
“IT’S… KIND of like cinnamon bread? It’s all swirly.” Rome poked at his slice of the king cake. “I thought they’re supposed to be purple and green. Why’s it red?”
“It’s Christmas. Red’s a good color. And that’s almond paste, not cinnamon,” Zig scoffed at him from across the table. “Is your tongue broken? You can’t taste the difference?”
Lang didn’t take the teasing seriously. The pair were often nipping at each other’s heels, and it didn’t take much to hear the laughter in their banter as it winged back and forth. West leaned back in his chair, his elbow resting on the table near Lang’s arm, and Lang heard him make an odd noise, a faint, regretful murmur he nearly missed under the chatter around them.
The house was in its full Christmas glory, and a massive blue spruce starred as the centerpiece of the house as it sat in the great room framed by the broad bay windows that faced the front drive. Smaller trees were scattered about the house, their placement determined by a beloved grandmother, now gone. A three-foot-tall tree sat in Zig’s room, a smaller version of the tree in the great room, its branches weighted down by handmade ornaments and strings of popcorn and cranberries.
A lopsided star made of blown glass and glitter sat atop the main tree—a wonky, rather heavy blob of spires and twists. It took the place of a delicate porcelain angel that had sat on every Christmas tree in the great room for as long as Lang could remember. But on a motorcycle ride up the coast after Thanksgiving, they discovered a glassblowing shop, and Deacon charmed his way into having a go at forging a simple piece. They each blew a little bit and decorated it as best they could while the glassblower practically hurt herself laughing at their efforts. Deacon was surprised when Lang insisted their star go up onto the blue spruce, but he insisted and declared it as much of a tradition for their family as burning at least one batch of Christmas cookies in a failed attempt at being domestic.
The house smelled of Christmas, and laughter echoed through the halls. It was a sound Lang had grown fond of hearing. He’d been alone for so long before Deacon and Zig entered his life, and now their presence illuminated every aspect of his day. They’d celebrated a Christmas or two before, but this was different. It seemed settled, as though they’d always woken up on December weekends and planned their days over breakfast, excited to see what the farmers markets would hold, or plotted out what Main Street shops they would hit that afternoon.
Zig’s exploration of holiday traditions led them to ice cream making and learning about Hanukkah as she bravely attempted mouthfuls of gefilte fish and matzoh balls during a visit to an open house at a Jewish cultural center. They were all in agreement that it was interesting and they enjoyed it, but no one was willing to give up bacon. That conversation ended up with the creation of a batch of brown-sugar-bacon-ripple-vanilla ice cream that Lang was convinced would be horrible, but then he became addicted to its sweet-salty taste.
The king cake was an inspired idea, a way to discuss religion and how different people celebrated the same events. Angel poked at the dessert and asked Deacon intense questions about it. Deacon responded with an offer to get the recipe, since all he did was follow directions and couldn’t explain why the almond paste caramelized the way it did. He was just glad everybody liked it.
West nibbled at his piece and then set his fork down to refill his and Lang’s wineglasses. Along with the house, Lang was enjoying a revitalized relationship with his twin. He was finding a lot to admire in West and discovering that his dry, sardonic sense of humor masked a very tender heart. That didn’t mean West didn’t poke at things—or Lang—especially when it seemed like the situation called for a bit more teasing than Lang would have liked.
“How is this trip through the Ghosts of Christmas Past going?” West cupped his wineglass and stared into the depths of the fragrant red that Lang had uncorked to go with the garlic and herb roast that Deacon had prepared for dinner. “You’ve done how many now?”
“Seven, I think. We’re not sure how we’re counting the salt-flour ornaments, since she’s done those before, but it adds to the list.” The wine was sweeter than he liked. It bordered almost on a port he’d had once, but its flavor seemed to go well with both the beef and the slightly damp cake. “She’s doing a good job documenting everything. Deacon and I have pinkie sworn not to give any suggestions on how to make it better, but then she asked if we’d give feedback after a dry run, so I’m not sure how that’s going to work out.”
“She lit a fire under Rome,” West murmured. “He’s making a Christmas journal so we have all of our own ducks in a row. Apparently me making waffles and crispy bacon in the morning before we open presents is a Harris-Daniels tradition now.”
“A good tradition. The Harris-Reid household prefers pancakes, bacon, and grilled-cheese-and-jalapeno sandwiches,” Lang informed him smugly. He broke into a chuckle when West faked a gag. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“You done?” Zig sidled up to Lang’s elbow. “Dad said we’ve got to clear the table before we can play.”
“Who found the baby?” West dug through his cake. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a baby or something in this thing?”
“Yeah, um… it’s on the kitchen counter.” She shrugged. “We sorta forgot to take it out of the bag. It’s ’cause Dad and I didn’t know if you’re supposed to bake it with the cake or push it in from underneath afterward, so we figured we’d shove it in, but stuff happened.”
“Well then, I feel cheated. I was expecting someone to break a tooth or something on it.” West sighed dramatically. “I actually am not done with mine, so I excuse you from clearing my plate. Lang’s done, but he’s always been a fast eater.”
“That’s because you helped yourself to whatever was on my plate while we were growing up.” He snorted as he handed Zig his dish and utensils. “Your uncle West also would say we’d split a tray of sushi fifty-fifty, and then he’d eat all of the fish and leave me the rice.”
“Technically fifty-fifty,” West drawled. “You only fell for that once. Sadly, unlike our other siblings, you were a quick study. You never bit at the same thing twice.”
“You two hanging out here at the table? Or heading into the study?” Deacon stood and picked up the king cake. “Angel’s got an idea on how to turn this into bread pudding.”
“Won’t that violate the sanctity of the cake tradition?” Lang bent forward to see if he could catch a glimpse of Zig and Rome. “What does she think about it?”
“She’s game. Because, you know, bread pudding is her jam.” Deacon threw up one hand to ward off Lang’s scorn. “Her words, not mine.”
“Well, contribute this to the pudding bonanza.” West offered up his plate. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings but… this might need a priest to either resurrect it or give it last rites.”
“Thanks.” Deacon sneered. “I’m the one who made it.”
“I live with an incredible baker,” West shot back. He reached out for Angel’s hand to squeeze his fingers. “Your cake, my dear brother-in-law, is sadly lacking the magic my husband can bring to a baked good.”
“I’d ask bugs to nest on your dick, but I l
ike Angel, so I’ll just settle for a ‘fuck you’ and take the cake,” Deacon grumbled and leaned over to kiss Lang. “And mostly because I agree with you. Go squat in another room and we’ll find you in a bit.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Angel whispered into West’s ear loudly enough for everyone to hear. “And quit picking on Deacon or we’re going to have to find someone else to keep Rome overnight when we want to have a weekend away. Although, after the last time, Marzo’s never doing it again.”
“THE CAKE kind of sucked. The almond stuff was good, but the cake part bit,” Zig mumbled, wrapped in a patchwork quilt with only her nose poking out. She was tucked under Deacon’s arm, her legs sprawled over Lang’s lap, and strands of her springy curls peeked out from under her makeshift cowl. “I think we should knock that off the list.”
“Or come up with something that tastes better,” Lang suggested. “Nobody said we can’t have a different kind of cake that we forget to shove a baby into before serving.”
“That’ll be the tradition,” Deacon announced, his rumbling voice thickened from a hint of sleepiness. “We’ll bring out that damned baby in its plastic bag every year so it can watch us make a cake for dinner.”
Fafhrd either grumbled his support from his perch on Zig’s thigh or was growling his displeasure as Lang picked a bit of glitter out of his fur. Gray snoozed on the back of the couch, his sharp triangular head resting on Deacon’s shoulder. His tail twitched, and he kneaded at the air with his paws as he chased something in his sleep. The sparkling lights of the tree waltzed minute white dots around the dimmed room and battled with the roaring fireplace to illuminate the area. The shadows behind the couch were deep, barely lifted out of an inky black by the streetlight-softened blue of the night sky that was visible through the tall windows that wrapped around the wall of the great room.
It was a lull in the chaos of their days since Thanksgiving break, a stressful week of the hurried rush of fixing broken cars to go on long rides to visit family and customers buying the bookstore out, leaving with its inventory wrapped in festive foils and bright bows, destined for a place on someone’s shelf. Zig’s schedule was a whirl of finals and double-checking her holiday reading list against the books she’d already devoured.
“The tree smells nice.” Sighing, Zig let her head flop back against Deacon. “Like the stuff we use to clean the garage, but it’s nice.”
“You’re a weird kid, honey.” Deacon kissed the back of her head. His hazel gaze drifted over to Lang, and his smile warmed Lang’s soul. “How much do we have left on the traditions list?”
“We’ve done a lot of them, and a few that aren’t really holiday ones but stuff you wanted to try, sweetheart.” Lang shifted and unhooked Fafhrd’s paws from Zig’s leggings. “Isn’t your presentation due at the end of this week? If you want to do more, we probably can only squeeze in another one or two.”
“I think I’m good.” Zig drawled out her words and stroked the cat in her lap. “And I don’t think I’m going to do my presentation about traditions. Or maybe not all of it.”
“So, what are you going to pick?” Deacon asked as he tweaked her nose. “I’m on board for the gingerbread houses and the cake thing but not so much the jellied fish.”
“I liked the fish.” She pushed away his hand. “Stop that. It tickles.”
“I liked doing the ornaments, but I think after a while you’d have too many,” Lang offered up. “We chopped down our own trees for our rooms last year, and doing that again was fun.”
“Said the two people who didn’t carry them down the mountain,” Deacon grumbled. “So what’s it going to be? And when’s this thing due again?”
“Friday, and I’m going to talk about Mom,” Zig proclaimed. Then she tilted her head back to look at Deacon. “Because it’s how it was. Mom was crappy. Christmas was crappy, but now it’s better. That’s what I’m going to talk about—about how Dad knows what it’s like and how we both had to learn what to do for Christmas when we married my other dad.
“Sometimes I don’t remember what Mom looked like, you know?” she continued. Her gaze was focused on Fafhrd’s head, but Lang could see the tremble in her lower lip as she spoke. “I mean, I’ve got the pictures and everything, but it gets all fuzzy. That’s not fair, right? I mean, forgetting her.”
“Kiddo, I can’t remember much of your grandma sometimes,” Deacon admitted softly. “And I lived with her for a really long time. Sometimes I think our brains wipe stuff out to help us get through some of the shitty things. Like you think you’ve just got to make it through one more day or one more week and stuff’ll get better.”
“It’s understandable that you would forget small details about your mom,” Lang reassured her as he moved in closer so he could loop his arm around her shoulders. The cat muttered a foul curse and slithered off Zig’s lap, his tail a stiff question mark when he stalked away. Gray remained in dreamland, chasing whatever he’d imagined, not even opening one eye as he was jostled about. “You were a little kid, and there were a lot of things happening to you at the time.”
“I remember when Dad showed up.” Zig slid closer. “The lady who had me told me he was coming to take me home, but then the CPS guy fought with him.”
“Got you on the bike, didn’t I?” Deacon’s low rumble finally woke Gray, who lifted his head long enough to look around the room and then tucked his paw over his face. “Fuck that guy. Court said I could have you, so I was taking you home.”
“We didn’t have a home. We were in motels,” she reminded them.
“Hey, we stopped at Disneyland,” he shot back. “I got you ears. You still have those ears.”
“See, that’s what I mean. That’s what Dad… Lang… told me. ’Cause stuff like fish sticks just happen, so they become what you do. Mom didn’t love me—”
“Babe, don’t say that.” Deacon’s protest wavered when Zig shook her head. “Your mom… she had issues, Zig.”
“Dad, we all have issues. Mom just liked hers.” Zig rolled her eyes and smirked at Lang when he chortled. “I think I need to talk about how it was before, because everyone in class has it really good, you know? That’s the stuff I’ve got to remember—not Mom, but how crappy it was before and how much better stuff is now. And I’m going to tell them about the traditions we tried and how we’re just making our own up right now. I don’t have a lot yet, but I will. So that’s what my presentation’s going to be about—we try out new stuff all the time, and that’s our tradition.
“But,” she drawled as she flashed a typical Reid grin at Lang, “I think we should have Chinese food for Christmas Eve. Because that sounds pretty freaking awesome.”
Six
THE LATE evening rain swept up the slight hill where the Reid-Harris house stood. December brought with it a bite of winter from the ocean, a crystalline salty kiss not unlike a snowflake striking warm skin. Deacon didn’t turn on the heater under the eaves. Instead he depended on Lang’s body heat and the thick quilts he dragged out to keep him warm. The small tumbler of whiskey in his hand went a long way to fight off a bit of the chill as well.
Zig had tumbled to sleep about an hour before, murmuring that the cats were taking up too much room in her bed despite it being the size of a small ocean. Fafhrd would stay with her throughout the night, but Gray would slip out about one in the morning and search out the relatively quiet comfort of Deacon and Lang’s bed. Zig still thrashed in her sleep, either dancing or fighting off fantastical creatures in her dreams. At least that’s what Deacon told himself, especially on the nights when he’d check on her before he turned in and found her bedclothes on the floor and Zig sprawled out across the mattress as though she were involved in a game of Twister with four octopi.
Half Moon Bay slumbered around them as some of the traffic lights blinked red and yellow, turned to a cautionary setting to stem late-night traffic. The houses around them were strung with twinkling lights and decked out with inflatable Santas and reindeer. Lang preferr
ed the old-fashioned bulbs, the large, ancient things Deacon was shocked to discover were only a few years old. They looked opaque until Lang flicked the switch by the front door, and then the oddly shaped bulbs splashed a rainbow of stars across the creamy exterior of the house.
“You know, you didn’t have to pay somebody to put those up for us,” Deacon said as he stroked Lang’s thigh beneath the quilt. His husband sat across of him, turned sideways so his legs were across Deacon’s thighs and he could lean back against the high side arm of the davenport. A twinge at the small of his back turned his words into a maybe-lie, but Deacon was determined to stand by them. “Might have taken me a bit, but I’d have done it.”
“I love you, but if you think I’m going to let you climb up on a ladder to hang lights on a two-and-a-half-story house, you’re insane.” Lang looked at him over the rim of his wineglass, his long black lashes swept partially down, but Deacon spotted the hint of a smile on his lips. “It’s like the gardener or plumber. People do this for a living. They can do it in a much shorter amount of time than it would take you and me to even drag the ladder out. We pay a bit of money and get to spend the time we would have spent in the ER with your broken arm or leg sitting on this porch drinking a very nice wine and relaxing.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Deacon conceded. “I can’t even begin to count how many times someone’s dragged their car in on the back of a tow truck because they thought they could change their own brakes or oil.”
Lang’s lean, long body draped over his was the best way to spend an hour before they headed to bed. The soft whisper of a passing night slid in through the angled posts of the front porch, carrying a hint of rain and the sweetness of a night-blooming flower. At times it was hard to believe that his evenings ended in a quiet interlude with a man he adored down to his bones, but there Deacon was, cradling Lang’s knees and sipping a sweet, musky whiskey.
