As he closed the door, he glanced down at Sixty-Nine Santa. “I guess it’s you and me, dude.”
Monday was going to suck.
Chapter Seven
WHEN BRENT walked into the HubPilot office on Monday morning, Riki was lurking by the door and practically pounced on him.
“Where are your swants?”
“In my backpack. I wasn’t about to wear them on MAX this morning.”
“Why not?” She grinned and gestured around the commons. “A lot of other people did.”
Sure enough, everyone Brent could see was wearing their HubPilot T-shirts on top and swants on the bottom. Some of them, he noted, had the baggy-butt Baby Huey look going on. Guess not everybody had their own swants consultant.
Riki apparently had—or rather, she probably rocked the instructions, given that she was a serious crafter as well as an übertalented graphic designer. She looked cute, her swants dotted with their multitude of holiday icons. Of course, her legs were half the length of Brent’s, so there wasn’t as much real estate to cover or reveal.
“I’ll go change.” He pointed a long finger at her snub nose. “Don’t you dare laugh.”
She blinked innocently. “Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Right,” Brent muttered, and stalked off to the restroom. As he pulled on his swants, his thoughts returned to Jonathan—as they had pretty much every hour on the hour since Jonathan had walked out the door on Saturday night. He’d second-guessed himself into insomnia, wondering if he’d misread the situation, if Jonathan meant what he said, hoping against hope that Jonathan would change his mind and call or text or show up at the door. Nada. Brent had accomplished the square root of nothing all day Sunday and passed another restless night.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this strongly about someone. Even with Christopher, their connection had been more convenience than chemistry. This felt different. And the hollow in his chest and the burn behind his eyes wasn’t only the result of lack of sleep.
He glanced down at Sixty-Nine Santa. “Told you, dude. Today sucks already.” He pointed at Santa’s smirk. “And don’t get any ideas—it’s not that kind of sucking.”
He stuffed his jeans into his pack and strode back onto the main floor, where Riki was still waiting, arms crossed and toe—in combat boots—tapping.
“I was beginning to think you’d cower in there all day. What took….” Her eyebrows popped up. “Wow.”
“Not a word,” Brent growled. “Not. One. Word.”
She kept pace with him as he crossed to his office. “But I’m so impressed.”
“Impressed?”
“Yeah. I mean, your swants look amazing. They fit. They’re even long enough to reach your ankles. I had no idea you had such mad skills.”
“I don’t. I met somebody at Goodwill and he helped. Well, actually, he did all the work. I just… just….” Maybe ruined everything by moving too fast for once in my life.
Riki waggled her eyebrows. “Please tell me Santa wasn’t the only one getting some action.”
“Riki. I warned you. Not—”
“Sorry.” She patted his arm, for once actually looking as if she meant her apology. “You’re such a great guy, Brent. I know not everybody’s looking for love, or even sex—” She pointed to herself with both index fingers. “—me being a case in point. But that’s not you. You really want somebody to share your life with.”
“I tried it. Didn’t work out so well.”
“That’s because you picked the wrong person. You said so yourself.”
“Contrary to what romance novels would like us to believe, there’s not somebody out there for everyone, no matter how much we wish otherwise.”
“Maybe not. But I know that you’ll never find anybody if you don’t actually look.” With one final pat, she left him to get on with his work.
By noon, when the workday officially ended for the holiday, Brent had endured more snickers and side-eyes from his coworkers than he could count. But oddly, he’d also actually spoken to more of his coworkers than he ever had before. The conversation might start with a joke about Sixty-Nine Santa (although nobody ever called him that, and Brent certainly wasn’t about to volunteer), but then the conversation veered into a discussion about their difficulties with swants conversion in general. One guy, Jason from internal IT, was wearing the purple jingle bell sweater Brent had passed on.
“Good thing we’ve all got stand-up desks,” Jason muttered, “because sitting down on these things is murder.”
By the time the staff had decimated the lavish lunch buffet, Brent was beginning to think Madison might be onto something with her job-enrichment/team solidarity schemes, because he’d been drawn into conversations with coworkers he’d barely nodded to in the three months he’d been with the company. He had invitations to join two different gaming groups and had promised to meet the people from his project team for a drink the Friday after the holiday to discuss entering a coding challenge.
As the caterers started circulating with plastic flutes of sparkling wine, Riki popped up at his side. “If I didn’t know you better,” she said as she accepted a drink, “I’d say you were having a good time.”
Brent blinked. “I guess I am.”
“See? I told you that hiding out in your coding burrow wasn’t doing you any favors.”
“Maybe. But it helps deliver product to our customers.”
“Pish. You can work and have fun both. That’s what work-life balance means. I’m so glad you’ve started to put some weight on the life side of the scales.”
“Thanks, but—”
“May I have your attention, please?” Madison waved from the stage next to the windows. “Does everybody have their champagne-equivalent?”
Everybody dutifully raised their plastic cups, although Brent noticed that some of them were already almost empty.
“Excellent. In that case, let’s welcome Tommy, our esteemed CEO, to the stage.”
Tommy, looking ridiculously young—since he was ridiculously young—hopped up next to Madison, grinning hugely. Like everyone else, he was wearing his company T-shirt and swants. But his—featuring a pattern of multicolored light strings—fit at least as well as Brent’s. “Happy holidays, everybody! I hope we’re all ready for a week off to celebrate in whatever way you choose.”
Although it was impossible to applaud while holding a plastic champagne flute, everybody, including Brent, whistled or cheered.
“Before we all start peeling off for our holiday break, though, I’d like to offer a toast. HubPilot couldn’t be the success it is today without all of you.” He raised his glass. “To you. The best staff anybody could ever wish for. Thank you.”
Brent sipped his wine along with everybody else.
“You’ll all find a little something tucked into your paycheck as a bonus too, so the thanks aren’t limited to lunch and a toast.” This time the cheers were louder. Tommy grinned. “Yeah, I thought that would put everyone into the holiday spirit. And speaking of spirit, here’s Madison again to hand out the prizes for this year’s ugly sweater contest—or should I say, our Ugly Swants Soiree?”
Madison bounced onto the stage again as Tommy stepped off the side to speak to a man whose back was to the room. Because of everyone clustered around the stage, Brent couldn’t get a clear view of the guy, but since Brent’s height put his eye level at least half a head above everyone else, he could see the guy’s smooth, light brown hair and the back of his neck. Something about the angle of his head pinged Brent’s memory circuits, and he tried to edge through the crowd to get a better look, ignoring the applause and groans as Madison announced the prizes and the winners made their way to the stage to stand behind her.
He darted into a gap, almost close enough for a full back view, just as Madison said, “And for the most suggestive swants—Brent Levine!”
Brent jerked as somebody pounded him on the back. The crowd hooted as they pushed him toward the
stage. By the time he climbed up next to the other winners, his face was burning, but he shook Madison’s hand and accepted his award—a palm-sized wooden plaque with an embedded bronze plate featuring the company logo and HubPilot Uglies etched in swoopy calligraphy.
“Let’s give our winners a big hand.” Madison turned to the line of winners and motioned them to squeeze together. “We need a picture for our company newsletter.”
Brent almost refused. A picture of him, towering over the other winners with Sixty-Nine Santa smirking at his crotch? But it dawned on him that he didn’t want to bail. He was finally a part of something—a fulfilling job, a group of coworkers who respected and even liked him when he gave them the chance. Maybe flying solo wasn’t his best—or only—option anymore.
As he was about to step down, he caught sight of the man Tommy had been talking to.
Jonathan.
He was smiling up at Brent as the crowd started to sing Eclipse 6’s Hamildolph parody.
Why is he here? Why was he talking to Tommy? God, if he’s seeing Tommy, why on earth would he be interested in someone like me?
Jonathan said something, but Brent couldn’t hear him over the singing, so he hopped off the stage. Jonathan stood on his toes to half shout into Brent’s ear. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Um… I’m surprised to see you here.”
Jonathan’s eyebrows quirked up. “You are? Oh. Didn’t I mention—”
“That you’re seeing Tommy?”
“I’m what?” Jonathan glanced over his shoulder at Tommy. “No. God, no. He’s my kid stepbrother.”
“Your stepbrother?”
“I think I mentioned him? The one who’s taller than me?”
“You mentioned his height, but you kinda left out his name. Don’t you think that was a bit of pertinent information? Especially once you found out I work for him?”
Jonathan bit his lip. “Don’t be mad, Brent. Please. It’s not something I like to bring up. I mean, he’s a wunderkind and I’m a guy who knows his way around a sewing machine.”
“Are you kidding? You’ve won awards.”
Jonathan wrinkled his nose. “A local costuming award doesn’t exactly measure up to the cover of Forbes, now, does it?”
“I think it’s pretty awesome.” Brent held up his Uglies award plaque. “And now you have another one to add to your impressive résumé.”
Jonathan barked a laugh. “So I do.” He peered up at Brent through his lashes. “But I couldn’t have managed it without the model who pulled off the look so very, very well. Although I have to confess….” He stood on his toes again, swore under his breath, then climbed onto the stage to put himself a few inches taller than Brent. He leaned forward and murmured, “I confess I’m quite jealous of Santa.”
Brent’s grin threatened to meet his ears. “Really? So when you left Saturday night—”
“It was because of an emergency call from Tommy. I had to make his swants for him. But there were perks. I got him to invite me to this party, although I couldn’t gain entry without my own swants.” He gestured to himself, to his red swants covered with mistletoe boughs.
Warmth pooled in Brent’s belly, and he started to grin. “You realize what you’ve done?”
“No. What?”
“You’ve just waved a shit-ton of mistletoe over Sixty-Nine Santa’s head.”
“So I have.” Jonathan’s smile turned wicked. “Whatever will he do about it?”
“He’d probably start with this.” His heart threatening to go supernova, Brent cradled Jonathan’s face and pressed a kiss to his lips—nothing too hot, because Sixty-Nine Santa didn’t need to get even more NSFW. “But next? I don’t know. If you come home with me, though, we’ve got a whole week to find out.”
Jonathan traced Brent’s jaw, a feather touch with one fingertip. “I don’t think a week will be nearly long enough. Do you?”
Supernova achieved. “No.” He kissed Jonathan again. “I most definitely do not. But promise me one thing.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Tell me I don’t have to wear swants again.”
“Oh, honey. You can wear whatever you want.” Jonathan chuckled, sending a zing down Brent’s spine. “Although if I’m very, very lucky….” He leaned closer and nibbled Brent’s ear. Double zing. “…you’ll opt for nothing at all.”
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU to the Dreamspinner team, particularly Tricia Kristufek for another fun holiday story prompt, and the editorial staff for making sure my story didn’t fall apart like Brent’s first attempt at swants.
As always, my family is a source of joy. Thank you, Jim, Hana, Nick, Ross, and Billy. Love you all.
Author’s Note
OVER THE winter break in my sons’ last year at NYU, Darling Son A announced that he intended to make something called swants and needed my help, to which I probably replied something like “WTF?”
But DS A pointed me to an online tutorial about how to turn a sweater into pants, as well as another video with a group clad in swants doing a kind of performance art piece to a song by Bjork. Sadly, the tutorial from West Knits is no longer available, but here’s a link to a brief news story about the swants trend (which more or less came and went in 2013, the year DS A fell prey to it):
“Hot New Internet Trend: Swants” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6sAPy7IdZk
The performance video is also still online:
“Swants Dance” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71c_7MLq1ms
DS A and I managed to complete his swants project before he returned to school that winter, although I’m not sure how often (if ever) he wore them afterward—and somehow I don’t think that any of us need worry about a swants craze sweeping the nation!
E.J. RUSSELL—certified geek, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is a multi-Rainbow Award winner, and her book, The Druid Next Door, was a 2018 RITA® finalist.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
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Website: ejrussell.com
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Twitter: @ej_russell
By E.J. Russell
An Everyday Hero
Mystic Man
The Probability of Mistletoe
A Swants Soiree
DREAMSPUN BEYOND
ENCHANTED OCCASIONS
#20 – Nudging Fate
#35 – Devouring Flame
Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Swants Soiree
© 2019 E.J. Russell
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Digital ISBN: 978-1-64405-764-3
Digital eBook published December 2019
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