by Roan Parrish
Even so, I’m pretty pleased about this year’s gifts, especially since I didn’t have the bar as a hunting ground. Luckily for me, Ginger loves the intersection of functionality and kitsch and, if I’ve learned anything since moving to Holiday, it’s that almost all Michigan souvenirs live in that intersection.
I hand Ginger the lumpy packages that I wrapped in extra handouts from my classes.
“Oh, thank god,” Ginger says, fanning herself as she accepts them. “I was getting seriously concerned that I wouldn’t know how to structure my conclusion!”
“Don’t worry. The other one’s on thesis statements, so you’ll have a well-balanced essay.”
“The tart cherries!” Ginger examines the jar of tart cherry preserves topped with a square of red and white plaid cloth. “This does not look free, you cheater.”
“Oh, it was free. The lady who owns one of the touristy shops near campus gave it to me.” Ginger narrows her eyes. I suppose it’s justified: one year I did try and convince her that I’d gotten a sheet cake for free. To be fair, the week before, one of my friends had gotten a whole cake from a Trader Joe’s dumpster. Still, since this one said “Happy Chanukah, you animal,” with a picture of Animal from the Muppets done in frosting, it was a hard sell.
“She just handed it to you for no reason?”
“Um, well, no. Her daughter was in one of my classes and I, um, accidentally used the shop’s sign as an example when I went off on a rant about unnecessary apostrophes….”
“Oh, jeez. What was her sign?”
“She seemed like a Capricorn.”
Ginger swats me.
“It’s called Nifty Things, and the big sign is fine, but then in the window there are two signs and one says Nifty Thing apostrophe s and the other says Nifty Things apostrophe. Anyway, I guess my student told her mom and her mom got the signs fixed. Then, one day when I was walking past the shop, she just popped out of the front door like she’d seen me coming and gave me those preserves.”
“Creepy.”
“So creepy. Dude, seriously, half the shit that happens in Holiday would seem like something out of a horror movie if there was scary music playing in the background. Or a David Lynch movie.”
“If it had happened in Philly, that lady would’ve come out of her shop with a baseball bat.”
“Right? Rex says I’m pathologically negative because I’m afraid if I admit that things are good, then I have to be scared they’ll go away, so I just make myself expect the worst. Even if it’s a quaint old couple with chainsaws at a Christmas tree farm.”
“Uuuummm, that sounds… accurate? Wait, a quaint old couple with a chainsaw like in that fucked-up movie?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Ginger sighs and slumps onto the floor.
“I like him.”
“Who?”
“Duh, Rex. I think he’s great for you.”
“Well, I liked Christopher too.”
“Obviously.”
I slide onto the floor next to her and push the other gift into her lap.
“This one, I totally cheated on. It wasn’t free and I won’t pretend it was, but it’s awesome and I have a job now, so deal with it.”
“Ooh, babycakes, I love it when you’re so forceful. Oh crap, that’s awesome!” she says, tearing the paper off the novelty ice cube trays. “Let’s make some right now.”
In the kitchen, Ginger fills the little Michigans with water.
“Wait, I know what we have to do.”
Ginger pulls coffee ice cream out of the freezer, the only food she can always be counted on to have in the house. She scoops some into a bowl and mushes it up until it’s soft, then she packs it into the second ice cube tray, smoothing it into perfect little Michigan ice creams.
“Hang on,” she says, rifling through her cabinets. “Ah ha!” She pulls a dusty box of toothpicks from the back of a cabinet and sticks one in the center of each ice cube. “Do you think I should put one in the upper peninsulas too?” she asks. “So they don’t detach when we pop them out?”
“Um,” I say, staring between Ginger and the ice cube trays. “Who the fuck are you right now?”
Ginger drops her gaze to the floor for a second and when she looks back up her expression is sheepish.
“Okay, so maybe I saw Christopher do something like this once.” She rolls her eyes. “Okay, and maybe he’s teaching me to cook a little bit.”
I fake gasp and put my hand to my heart.
“Ginger Marie, as I live and breathe!” She flips me off. “Um, well, Rex may be trying to teach me to cook, too….”
“Oh god, what’s to become of us? Domesticated!”
“It’s just ice cream in an ice cube tray, Ginge, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Oh? And what culinary masterpieces have you achieved?”
“Uh. None. I made eggs that actually tasted like what I would imagine it feels like to die. Though I did somehow manage to infuse normal toast with such a strong scent of fire that I think it might be considered molecular gastronomy.”
“Molecular what now?”
“Molecular gastronomy. I saw it on one of Rex’s cooking shows. It’s kind of awesome. It’s like, they use dry ice and a bunch of other chemicals to make one food taste like or look like another. So, like, they could make something that looked like coffee ice cream, but then when you taste it, it’s actually meat loaf or something.”
“That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever heard. Why would anyone want meat loaf when they could have coffee ice cream?”
“Um, I don’t think I explained it well.”
We put the ice cube trays in the freezer and drop back on the couch as Jack Skellington’s minions are abducting Santa.
“God, Oogie Boogie has the sexiest voice,” Ginger says, and I nod.
“Oh, hey, Rex wanted to get you a Chanukah present, but when I told him about the whole free thing—”
“Which you cheated on.”
“Which I cheated on. Anyway, he says that if you want, he’ll build you new shelves in the back of the shop if he’s in Philly again. He says he noticed that yours were uneven.”
“He was only downstairs for, like, two minutes.”
“Dude, he’s creepy observant. It’s….” I shake my head, remembering how I reaped the benefits of Rex’s incredible powers of observation last night. How he held me down and explored every inch of my body, watching my reactions and zeroing in on all the places that had me squirming until, after what felt like hours, I was trembling in his arms, every touch electrifying, begging for him to be inside me. I shiver and shake it off, but Ginger is watching me like she can see the film reel playing in my head. I clear my throat.
“Well, that’s nice of him. Tell him I’ll give him any tattoo he wants in exchange.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“What? Why?”
Because Rex is perfect as he is. Flawless. Because he’s already a work of art. Because I don’t want anyone touching him but me. Not even Ginger.
“Um, I just… like him as he is….”
“Wait, what do you mean if he’s in Philly again? Why wouldn’t he be?”
“His words. I think he just didn’t want to assume.”
“Why shouldn’t he assume?”
“No, I mean, he should. I just. I don’t know. Who knows what’ll happen. If I’ll get the Temple job; if Rex would actually move if I did get it.”
“Didn’t he say he would?”
“Yeah.”
Ginger pulls out her phone and clicks around, giving me a very Ginger look.
“Hey, Rex,” she says.
“What the hell, Ginge?”
“I’m going to need confirmation on something. Did you or did you not tell Daniel that you would move to Philadelphia with him if he gets the job at Temple?”
“Ginger!” I hiss.
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. And did he or did he not agree to move in with you, whether or not that h
appens?”
“Ginger, give me the goddamn phone.”
“Excellent. I’m so happy for you both.”
“Ginger!”
“Hey, are my shelves really so crooked that you—”
I grab the phone from her and glare.
“Hi,” I say. “Sorry. She just, um, called.”
“Hi,” Rex says, his warm voice growly over the phone.
“Um, what are you up to?” I ask. I can picture him, drinking a beer in front of the Food Network, Marilyn curled by the fire, our Christmas tree lit up. God, I already miss him and I haven’t even been gone for twelve hours.
“And what are you wearing?” Ginger yells from the kitchen.
Rex chuckles softly.
“Actually,” he says, and he sounds a little shy all of a sudden, “I was using your computer. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, sure. What for?”
“I was looking at a slideshow of stuff to do in Philadelphia.”
“Yeah?” There’s a warm flutter behind my ribs.
“Mmhmm. And as for what I’m wearing, well. I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
I groan, Rex’s words turning the warm flutter in my chest to a heat that dips considerably lower.
“Ooh, they’re perfect!” Ginger calls from the kitchen.
“What are you guys up to?” Rex asks.
“Making Michigan-shaped ice cream thingies.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your Chanukah,” Rex says seriously. I love that he respects how important my traditions with Ginger are.
“Okay. I… I miss you.” My voice is almost a whisper. I don’t know why I’m so self-conscious that Ginger might hear me.
“Hey, Daniel.” Rex’s voice is liquid heat. “I love you. I miss you too.”
I can feel myself flushing. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to hearing those words in Rex’s deep voice. They’re like a brand, marking me, claiming me.
“I love you too,” I say softly, hunching around the phone like I can direct the words more precisely to him.
“I’ll see you in a few days, baby.” I can practically see Rex’s smile, tender and satisfied.
“Bye.”
When I turn around, Ginger’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her expression soft. She’s licking an upper peninsula thoughtfully.
“So, what’s your pleasure this year?” Her expression turns mischievous. “Maybe Rex’s name on your ass? Ooh, or the cabin? I do a really good wood grain.”
I flip her off and she grins, but I can’t help but wonder how Rex would react if he pulled my pants down and saw his name scrawled across my ass in Ginger’s gorgeous script.
I fumble through my jacket pockets and pull out my keys.
“I want this.” I hand Ginger the wooden keychain in the shape of Michigan that Rex put the key to the cabin on. “And a little heart here.” I point to where Holiday would be.
“Oh crap, babycakes, that’s so good.” She sounds awed. “Let me grab the stuff from downstairs.”
It’s a small piece, but it turns out beautifully. In the end, Ginger convinced me that we should add the chain and the key. It’s so detailed and realistic that it looks like Rex just dropped the key on my chest.
“You’re sure it’s not too sappy that we put it over my heart?” I ask her, gazing down at it in awe.
“Too late, sucker,” she says, but she’s looking at the piece with satisfaction. She takes a picture with her phone. “No, I think it’s perfect.”
“It is perfect.”
“Should I send Rex the picture?”
“No. I want to surprise him.”
I stroke lightly over the key, glad that I’ll take the slight ache of the needle with me tomorrow when I try and confront Colin.
I lean back and let my eyes go unfocused as I look at the Chanukah tree. It’s a beautiful blur of green and blues. It’s almost like I’m looking through the window at Rex’s cabin—our cabin. Like it’s early in the morning and I’m still half-asleep, Rex’s warmth behind me, his face buried in my neck, and I’m looking out at the pine trees and blue sky. I can almost feel his arms around me, smell that mixture of cedar and pine and wood smoke that is Rex’s alone.
I close my eyes and let my hand rest on my chest.
I’m not sure what’s going to happen in the next year. Whether I’ll get the Temple job or not. Whether I’ll stay in Holiday or move back to Philly. But, for the first time, the uncertainty isn’t freaking me out. Because I know that Rex will be there—wherever there is. And now I can look down at this key anytime I want and see my connection to him.
See my way home.
THE END
Something Mortifying
A Middle of Somewhere Bonus Story
This story was originally prompted by the wonderful J.C. Lillis, who asked me the following question: If it was Daniel’s birthday and all the waiters came out and stuck a funny hat on his head and sang a loud birthday song, how would he react?
Ginger’s telling a story about a customer at the shop who wanted a tattoo of his childhood teddy bear but I’ve stopped listening because some poor sucker is about to be humiliated in front of the whole restaurant. And, as there are only, like, six restaurants in all of Holiday (not counting the diner, which is more like . . . a town hall) that means someone’s about to be humiliated in front of about ten percent of the whole town. Look, what do you want from me—I teach English, not math.
They’re coming from the kitchen, three of them. One holding a plate of tiramisu with the kind of long, thin candles stuck in it that restaurants use on cakes like that makes it any classier to treat the normal adult occasion of having survived another year like a childish spectacle. They cross behind our table and Rex is looking at me with a strange expression. At first I don’t notice because, as often happens when I look at him, all I can think about is how stupid lucky I got that a guy like Rex wants anything to do with me. And thinking about Rex doing anything with me makes me think of this morning when I woke to Rex’s mouth sliding down my throat, his hands warm against my back as he—
Ginger’s snort drags my mind away from what Rex did to me this morning and toward . . .
No. No. The look on Ginger’s face is one I’ve only ever seen once before: when a woman came into her tattoo shop and said that she was looking to get two sleeves and Ginger could do whatever she wanted. It was a look like Christmas and Chanukah and her birthday and winning the lottery all rolled into one. It was predatory. Gleeful with the high of the impending kill.
And they’re stopping at our table. Next to . . . me. Ginger’s eyes have gone big and when I glance at Rex to make sure that this isn’t really happening he’s regarding me with some combination of pity, fondness, and desire that makes me think—just for a fraction of a second—that maybe this will be fine.
Then the youngest of the waiters whips a party hat out from behind his back and plops it on my head. Rex murmurs “Oh no” under his breath and Ginger mutters “Hell yes,” and I close my eyes and try to remember that Ginger is my best friend in the whole world. That I love her and she is like family—closer than, actually, given most of my family—and that human life has value, in order to avoid launching myself over the pressed white tablecloth that separates us and seeing how she fares in a knock-down, drag-out that isn’t against some wuss in a bar who tells her to smile.
“Looks great, Professor Mulligan,” the waiter says, and I slowly look up to find Greg, a student in one of my classes, smiling at me blandly. I close my eyes and count to three, thinking there’s a chance that when I open them again . . . but no. Still there.
Then the singing starts. I try to stop it—try to nod in that way that means, Oh, yes, we all know where this one ends so why waste the time? But they keep singing. Rex looks like he’s going to sink into the booth and Ginger is bouncing along delightedly. I close my eyes again.
“Um, professor?” I open one eye just enough to see the candle flames flickeri
ng level with my nose where Greg is holding the tiramisu. I can smell the coffee. Or whatever the hell is in tiramisu. Rex would know.
“Daniel,” Rex says, and I guess I’ve been staring at it a while because the candle’s melted down and started to drip red wax on the surface of the tiramisu, like blood spattered in the snow. But, no—Rex is trying to teach me not to be so negative, so I correct myself: like, um . . . roses on . . . on . . . snow. Screw it: it looks like blood and that’s disgusting.
“Uh, you okay, babycakes?” Ginger asks, her tone suggesting she knows she might have gone a bit too far.
I glare at her, then I pinch the candle flames out between my thumb and finger. Rex bites his lip.
Greg clears his throat and practically tosses the tiramisu onto the table. “Happy birthday,” he says, and they all scram, leaving me muttering.
“What?” Rex asks.
“Someday,” I say to Ginger, “I’m going to build a time machine. And then I’m going to go back to last week and not invite you to visit.”
“But!” and “Your birthday!” Ginger spits out. I say nothing. “I—er . . .” She laughs but it’s her nervous laugh. She smiles at me, but her eyes are darting to the middle of the table and she reaches out a hand toward the tiramisu. “I’ll just—”
“Mine,” I snarl at her and pull the tiramisu toward me.
“Oh—but—I—and—” She pouts.
I take one look at the tiramisu with red wax splattered on it and feel like heaving, but I’ll be damned if I give her the satisfaction. Her mouth is open like she can’t believe I won’t share.
Then Rex slides out of the booth and puts his hand on the back of my neck. He’s so tall he has to bend down to take my hand off the dish of tiramisu and pull me upright. Then he gathers me close and whispers, “I’m taking you home now. Leave the tiramisu.” And his eyes add several sentences that can’t be spoken aloud in public.
