by Alex Kidwell
“Hey,” he replied, rubbing his nose lightly against mine. “So, I have been thinking about this for a while. And I know it’s going to be big and scary, and I’m well aware maybe this time it’s me jumping to the end. But I just… I want to ask you this. To see if you’re where I am. Because even if I’m jumping, maybe you’re jumping with me.”
“Brady….” I shook my head, confused. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking we should move in together.” When I didn’t answer right away, he gave me this smile, this heartbreaking, hopeful smile. “Here or my place or a new place or, I don’t know, in a car under a bridge. I don’t care. I just know I want to wake up next to you, and I want to come home to see you every night. I want your socks next to mine in the drawer.”
There was this lump in my throat that was making it hard to talk, this aching burn in my chest I couldn’t breathe past. But I knew. Yes, it scared me to death to think of packing up the last bits of my life with Aaron and finding a spot for Brady. Something bigger than a drawer, something so much more substantial than pushing back hangers for space in the closet.
It definitely was jumping. But I figured so long as Brady was next to me, the way down couldn’t be anything but great.
“Yeah,” I finally managed, and he grinned, relieved and beautiful. “Yeah, I think that’s exactly what we should do.”
Chapter 9
“HAVE yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light.”
Reaching forward, I turned down the radio. “You do realize this is our second straight hour of Christmas carols,” I told Brady, eyebrow raised. “If you’re trying to start a sing-a-long, you might have wanted to get me drunk first.”
“Oh, come on,” he teased, reaching out to take my hand, bringing my knuckles up for a kiss. “Get in the spirit, Scrooge. There’s snow, our trunk is full of presents, and we are now an hour and a half away from Mom’s eggnog and Dad’s famous mac and cheese. This is as Christmas-y as it gets.”
Winston, in his carrier in the backseat, grumbled at us. He’d spent the first twenty minutes bitching at us, meowing plaintively, and now he’d settled down and just occasionally was making his displeasure known. He would much rather be wandering around the car, but all we needed was a fat, fluffy cat deciding Brady’s driving hand was much better used for petting than steering.
“So, tell me what to expect.” I settled back in my seat, watching the fat, fluffy flakes of snow drift past our windows. “You said tonight we’d decorate the tree?”
“Oh, yeah. Mom insists we all have to be there. I think Beatrice and Dad were going out to the farm we’ve gone to since I was a kid to pick out the perfect tree. Britt and Belinda are getting there this afternoon, and we’ll be there in time for dinner, so after that we’ll crack open the Christmas boxes and string cranberries and popcorn, the whole thing.”
“I wanted a fresh tree this year,” I mused. “Aaron was allergic, and I thought the pine needles were too much work, but I thought it would be a nice change.”
“And, bonus, Winston will love to rub those chubby cheeks all over the branches.” Brady glanced back at the cat in the rearview mirror. “Won’t you, buddy?”
Winston growled at him. I laughed, twisting in my seat to wiggle my fingers through the bars of the carrier. After a moment, he was shoving his fuzzy face against them, purring rustily. “Oh, shush,” I cooed at him. “Big grumpy butt. You love your carrier. You get treats when you get out.”
He did love treats. Winston lay back down, plopping himself so his fur was spilling out the front of the carrier. I turned around again and, with a quick smile in Brady’s direction, switched the radio back up, just in time to catch another rendition of “White Christmas.” Brady held my hand lightly, pulling away from time to time to switch lanes, but he always came back to me, our joined fingers resting on his knee.
We pulled up outside his family’s house only slightly delayed by the snow. White lights glittered on the porch in the gradually creeping darkness. Cranberry-red bows were bound on each of the pillars, and a fresh green garland wound around the railing. With the snow drifting, it really did look like something out of a Christmas card. Brady paused, hand on the keys, looking up toward the house.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never brought anyone home. I’ve never wanted to. But this is… I mean, you met them. My family is kind of crazy. And loud. And messy. I just don’t want you to run screaming.”
I huffed out a quiet noise, tugging him in to kiss him lightly. “Brady? Shut up. I love them, I love you, and I’m not running anywhere. Now”—playfully, I shoved his shoulder—“get your ass out of the car, Banner. Someone promised me mac and cheese.”
Some of the tenseness that had crept into his expression eased, and he laughed, shaking his head. “Fine. That was your out, O’Malley. Now you’re stuck with me.”
“Promise?” I grinned over the top of the car at him as we got out, as we gathered our bags and got covered in snow. Winston batted through the front of the carrier at the snowflakes.
Beatrice flung open the door and threw herself at Brady in a giant hug; I was next, and I smiled at her enthusiasm. “Oh my God, we thought you’d never get here. Come on, Dad’s just pulling the pasta out of the oven, and Mom’s got carols on.” She took the carrier from me, holding it up to greet Winston. Hand in hand, Brady and I walked inside the house. It was warm and filled with lights and sound and music. Claire greeted us with hugs; Bruno shook my hand. There was a stocking over the fireplace with my name on it and tiny knitted paintbrushes.
We gathered around the table to eat and talk, to drink eggnog and laugh about old family stories. Claire pulled out the baby pictures, much to Brady’s dismay; Winston made friends with absolutely everyone and stole bites of the ham from people’s plates. It was perfect in an achy, shuddery way, like I wanted to just sit back and watch, to memorize everything and hold it close enough it would never quite fade. There was warmth there and a welcoming kindness that seemed almost overwhelming.
After wine and more eggnog and fifteen different kinds of cookies, we decorated the tree. The presents got laid out underneath it. Winston had claimed the back corner of the tree skirt for his new favorite napping spot, and it was just Brady and I left sitting in front of the fire. Everyone else had drifted off to sleep in ones and twos until we were there in front of the glittering tree and the dying embers. After George, the last holdout, had dragged himself upstairs, I’d migrated into Brady’s lap, his arms around my waist. We were just talking: about childhood Christmases, about favorite presents. About everything and nothing and the electric train set we’d both gotten when we were ten.
“I remember it had this button you could push for the whistle,” Brady mused, chin resting on my shoulder. “I’d put on this little striped engineer’s hat and plot out routes for the train to take. Every stop, I’d blow that whistle, all important-like. I bet it drove Mom crazy after the fifteenth time, but she never said a word.”
“I tried to make it go down the steps.” I smiled at him, my fingers absently combing through his messy waves. “Like it was a mountain.”
He laughed. “I bet that went well.”
“Total destruction,” I informed him, soberly. “No survivors.”
“Well, those mountains can be tricky.” He kissed my arm, smiling. “Lucky you didn’t grow up to be a railway builder.”
We watched the fire dwindle down to red-hot coals, the room lit now only by the tree. It was one of those moments of absolute contentment.
“I love you, Brady.” I whispered it into the near-dark, into the stockings and the garland, into the cranberry strings and the sweet skin just under his ear. He turned to find me, to kiss me softly, there in front of the fire.
“I love you too.”
We had the attic, like he’d promised. Stripping off clothes, panting kisses and hungry touches against bared skin, we fell into bed together. The snow fell against the w
indows, the old, rusty heater kicked on to pump out hot air, and we tangled together, Brady inside of me, my hands braced on his chest. I gasped his name as we thrust together, as I came in a roll and shout of bliss. He followed after me and we wound up sprawled out across a faded quilt, panting and grinning, falling asleep in each other’s arms.
The sun slipped across my face. Blinking, I batted in front of me with a groan, like that would magically make it dark again. Brady was curled up on top of me, hugging me close, head pillowed on my chest. I flopped backward, giving up the struggle to sit upright. Much better to laze about in bed with him.
“I smell cinnamon.” He mumbled the words against my skin in a slur.
“Good morning to you too.”
I could hear the house waking up somewhere below us; voices and the smell of coffee filtered up to our room. We didn’t move for a few minutes longer, enjoying the warmth of our bed and the sleepy, soft kisses. Finally, though, I managed to get up, Brady following after. We showered and got dressed, then headed downstairs to find Claire flipping French toast and Brittany adding icing to giant cinnamon rolls.
Clint passed me a cup of coffee, earning him a grateful grunt. We settled in around the table, passing platters of eggs and French toast and bacon. I had two cinnamon rolls and fought Brady over the last taste of frosting. Winston was more than happy to go from person to person, begging with huge eyes, because obviously his mean owners were starving him to death. Fat lump got more bacon than should be allowed just with that routine.
It really was a little bit like Norman Rockwell had organized our day. We went for a sleigh ride, sharing it with Belinda and George, laughing so hard I forgot all about the cold. There were games by the fire, and Brady even taught me how to bake the traditional Banner sugar cookies. Which is to say, I stirred things and then wandered off to sketch him while he did the hard part. It was still a great deal of fun.
That night, Christmas Eve, we sang carols around Claire’s piano. And when everyone else had gone to bed, Brady took me for a walk. There was a hill behind his house, a long sloping expanse of pure, crystalline white. The snow was powdery, crunching under every step. My nose was red and I was shivering by the time we got to the top.
The view was worth it, though.
“This was my favorite spot,” he explained, wrapping his arms around me as we looked out across the farmhouse, lit up and beautiful, across the fields dotted with points of light. And above us were the stars, pinpricks of flashing white against an endless velvet black. The moon hung ripe and low, bathing everything in silver. “When I was growing up, I’d come up here when I needed to think. All my big decisions happened up here. Realizing I was gay, deciding to come out, deciding to drop out of college, to open my own business….” He kissed my cheek, his lips cold against my skin. “This place is a part of me.”
I smiled a little, taking a deep breath. “Thank you,” I murmured. “For showing it to me.”
I could feel him shrug. “Well, you’re a part of me now too. I guess I thought it fit.”
Turning in his arms, I studied his face. I lifted gloved fingers to brush lightly across his cheek. “Did I ever tell you how glad I am I met you at that bar?”
Brady smiled, and suddenly it seemed like the moon itself wasn’t all that bright. Not in comparison. “Me too.”
Aaron would have loved this night. He would have loved the snow and the stars, the sense of standing still in a place where history moved all around us. He would have loved me, happy. I hoped he would, anyway.
It wouldn’t ever stop hurting. That was part of living, I thought. That was part of loving someone so deeply. They burrowed into your bones, and you couldn’t ever really get them out. You didn’t ever really want to. But I was bigger than one moment, than one loss. I could love the past and have a future. I could love Aaron every bit as deeply and still find new parts of me to give to Brady.
We had a lifetime, however long that was, however scary and unsure and wonderful. That was all anyone had. Only a lifetime. It was all we could do to fill it, to live every moment, to learn how to love better. Brady was showing me that.
And I really wanted to be there.
About the Author
ALEX KIDWELL, confirmed geek and bibliophile, lives in the Midwest with partner Robin Saxon. Alex relaxes by slaying dragons in MMOs, listening to music that can be sung along with in the shower, and enjoying BBC programming.
Other than writing, Alex enjoys knitting and is currently attempting to learn how to knit in the round. There are plans for a future of cat hats, which Alex is certain will go over well with household-running felines, Starsky and Hutch. Alex also indulges in too many cooking shows, while owning only one pan.
Visit Alex’s blog at http://saxonkidwell.blogspot.com/, Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100002270719608, and Twitter @kiddingalex, or e-mail Alex at alexkidwellwrites@ gmail.com.
From ALEX KIDWELL & ROBIN SAXON
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
From ALEX KIDWELL & ROBIN SAXON
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Also from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
