by Jackie North
"You like those?" asked Kyle, as he served them each one last pancake. "They've got buckwheat in them, which makes them taste kind of nutty."
"They are delicious," said Clayton, doing his best to talk through a mouthful of pancake. "But really, they are just a mechanism to get more butter in my mouth."
Kyle laughed at that, mouth open, head tilted back, and Clayton looked and watched and knew he wanted more of that laugh, more of that expression in Kyle's eyes, more of all of it.
Only he didn't really know how to say any of that, let alone work his way through what he was feeling to get to actual words, and so when the meal was over, he silently followed Kyle to the sink and helped with the dishes. Then, mostly silently, he joined Kyle in putting on boots and coats, and donned his new red wool scarf, wrapping it around his neck with his bare hands before putting on his gloves.
They went out into the sun-streamed world, the white and yellow light bouncing off the smooth layer of snow that covered everything. Their breath puffed in ragged clouds in the air in front of their mouths while they shoveled the front steps, dug out Clayton's car, and gritted every bit of walking surface.
When they got cold, they went inside, stomping the snow from their boots, and Kyle made hot cocoa from scratch, of course, and after they had drunk it, filled with sugar and warmth, they went outside again to make a snowman in the yard. Which wasn't easy, as the snow was up to their knees and wasn't the kind that stuck very well together, so they made a small snowman, and decorated his face with larger bits of grit, which gave him a very lopsided expression.
Each moment, blazoned with white and blue and cold, was etched in Clayton's brain, traced by Kyle's smile, and the arc of the sun in the sky as it made its way westward. He'd be glad to get to Sarah's to share presents and food and company, more so than he'd ever thought possible, but he'd miss this. Didn't know how to make it slow down so it might feel like he could keep it.
Chapter 11
In the afternoon, when the sun was getting closer to the horizon, they went inside, shucked their outdoor things, and played Scrabble with a football game on the TV with the sound turned low. Then, after they'd each won a game and declared the third one a tie, Kyle rubbed his belly and announced that he was hungry.
"I make a mean grilled cheese," said Clayton, offering up one of his few cooking skills.
Kyle's smile in response was one of those sweet ones, with one corner of his mouth turned up and the other one turned down.
"That sounds perfect," he said. "Shall we drink some of your French wine with it?" he asked.
"I thought about taking it down to my sister's," said Clayton, too late realizing that what he should have said was, yes, great idea. Only he wasn't sure why what he'd said was wrong.
"Oh," said Kyle. He got up and went into the kitchen.
While Clayton saw him going to the fridge, Kyle's face was hidden by the door, and the echo of his response to Clayton was tinged with something that he couldn't identify. Not easily, at any rate. He put away the Scrabble game, changed the football game to something else, something innocuous, and went into the kitchen to make grilled cheese.
There, he found Kyle leaning against the counter by the stove, arms crossed over his chest, one foot crossed over his ankle. Clayton could still see the hole in the heel of his sock, and wondered why he didn't just race into Kyle's room to get him a new pair from the drawer, one without a hole in it.
But he didn't. Instead, he went to the stove and started assembling the bread, layering each slice on the outside with mayonnaise while a little bit of butter bubbled in the frying pan. He placed two slices of bread mayo-side down and then layered them with cheese, and topped each one with another slice of bread, mayo-side up. After which he placed a lid on the pan, and nodded.
"You need to leave those alone so they can melt nice and slow," said Clayton. He stood there with the metal spatula in his hand, pretending he was a guard at the castle gates: none shall pass!
"I'll remember," said Kyle, smiling. He said it in such a way that Clayton wondered whether, like himself, Kyle would ever be able to not remember that moment, the two of them standing in the kitchen, cooking together. Or was that only in Clayton's head?
When the grilled cheese sandwiches were ready, Clayton sliced them diagonally, the way they were meant to be sliced, and they sat at the table to eat them, not with French wine, but with tall, cool glasses of goat milk from the fridge. Having food to focus on instead of his own thoughts made it easier for Clayton to make sure that when Kyle bit into his grilled cheese, he was enjoying it.
"Yes," said Kyle, his mouth full, nodding. "Very good, very good."
The goat milk was delicious, though that was something Clayton never thought he'd be saying. It was thick and creamy on his tongue, but he would probably never drink it again. Not with the memory of sitting across the table from Kyle, who was looking more glum as the evening sky grew dark outside the window. Time was racing forward with such dangerous speed that Clayton felt like he was again driving around a curve in the highway with the blizzard all around, and whiteout conditions that blurred his vision and made it hard to see where he was going.
"You know what I could do," said Kyle as he finished up his sandwich, and drained the last bit of goat milk from his glass.
"What's that?" asked Clayton, his attention focused on Kyle, which thankfully pulled him away from his memories of driving in the blizzard.
"I've got plenty of paper and ribbon," said Kyle. "I could wrap the knife and sheath for your nephew, so you don't have to do it in a hurry when you get there."
"Thanks," said Clayton. "I can wrap a present, sure enough, but it would have been awkward the second I got there to ask to borrow tape and scissors and stuff."
He had a thought in his head, and it was a little like a vision, soft-edged and sweet. Him and Kyle at the front door of Luke and Sarah's house, him slipping the present to Kyle to hold while his nephew Shawn leaped at him for a hug. Beyond the open door the house gleamed with the promise of a Christmas held back until Clayton could get there, white and gold, with blinking lights, and the glitter of garland and shiny wrapping paper where the presents were piled beneath the Christmas tree.
"Hey," said Clayton. He waited until Kyle's attention was on him, which didn't take long at all, before he spoke. "Here's an idea. Why don't you come with me tomorrow?"
"Come with you?" asked Kyle, his eyebrows drawing together as though Clayton was suddenly speaking Urdu.
"Tomorrow," said Clayton. "To my sister's house for Christmas." He let out a rush of air as he said it, nervous at Kyle's reaction, while at the same time feeling very, very glad he'd suggested it. "If the roads are clear, of course. And if not tomorrow, then the next day."
"I couldn't do that," said Kyle, his face flushed. He got up from the table and started clearing the plates, seeming to want something to do with his hands while he avoided catching Clayton's eye. "I couldn't intrude on your first Christmas with your sister and her new husband. Especially since you've not seen her in, what, two years? Three?"
Kyle shook his head and was busy at the sink, the water running hot and at full bore. Clayton stayed where he was, licking his forefinger and tapping it in the crumbs of fried bread on the table. He needed to move slow. He needed to make sure that Kyle knew one hundred percent that he was welcome.
And beneath that, was the warm, joyful desire to let Kyle know that a visit for Christmas at his sister's house wasn't all that Clayton wanted. But he couldn't just say, Hey, while I'm driving a truck back and forth across the western states, can I use your house as a stopping off point?
Can I wipe my boots on the mat before I open the door without knocking?
Can I holler for you and find you in the kitchen where you are laying out a strip of darkened leather and making sure it's just as it ought to be before you start stamping it with a design?
Can I draw you close and kiss you and tell you that honey, I'm home?
H
e couldn't go that fast, himself, couldn't rush through this or he'd mess it up. And he sure as hell wasn't going to rush Kyle through it. Yes, they'd talked and eaten meals together, and sheltered from the storm together, and spent Christmas morning together. But that didn't mean there was anything else to it but that.
Maybe it was just the magic of the season, and Clayton's head had been dazzled by tinsel and glitter and the scent of a pine tree in the warmth of an orange and gold fire. His belly had been fed, and he'd been warm, and maybe that was just it, that was all there was. A Christmas host and a Christmas guest, and tomorrow, they would part ways and it would be over.
But he didn't want it to be over. His throat grew thick as he thought of it being over and he was sure, quite sure, that he didn't want it to be.
Swallowing, Clayton thought of getting up and going to Kyle's side, where Kyle was standing at the counter wrapping the bread and the cheese, putting things in the fridge. Kyle shouldn't be doing that with his hands, not if he wanted to be a craftsman, making beautiful articles that would stand the test of time. Clayton would do the dishes forever and a day, if it meant that Kyle didn't have to—
Forever and a day. Christmas lasted a day, but forever was forever. And the memories beneath both of those entwined the two together, like a red ribbon, or a Christmas scarf.
The least Clayton could do was say what was on his mind. He didn't have to drop all of it on Kyle at once, like a hot and unwanted potato. But if he walked away from this encounter without saying what he felt, what warm feelings were inside of him, then he was a liar and a coward. And Clayton knew he was neither.
"Kyle—"
"I can't intrude," said Kyle, firmly. "It wouldn't be right."
Kyle turned away from the sink and the fridge and the after-dinner chores, finally, and leaned back in that way he had. With his one foot crossed over an ankle, and his hands behind him, bracing himself against the kitchen counter.
"It would be," said Clayton. "If you'll let me explain."
"Fine," said Kyle, in a short way that let Clayton know, or at least he thought he knew, that Kyle did want to go with him, only he couldn't think of a reason why he should intrude on some other family's Christmas. "How would it be okay?"
"My Uncle Bill says—you remember Uncle Bill, right?" Clayton raised his eyebrows and ducked his chin to let Kyle know he was joking around. And maybe Kyle knew he wanted a smile, because Clayton got one. A little one, but it was there, quirking at the corners of Kyle's mouth. "He says that what Luke wants is a table full of family at holiday time with a big, golden turkey in the middle."
"I'm not family, though," said Kyle.
"There's different ways to define family," said Clayton. "And you and I both know how true that is. Besides, are you going to call my Uncle Bill a liar? If he says that Luke wants as many people around that table as can possibly fit, then that's what he means."
For a moment, Kyle was quiet, his head tipped down as he studied his own feet. He must have seen the hole in his sock then, for he tsk tsked at himself, and lifted his heel at to poke at the hole and then put his foot down, both literally and figuratively.
"Only if you call and ask your sister, first," said Kyle, his voice warbling as though he was trying to stop it from shaking. He raised his head to look at Clayton, and his russet hair fell across his eyes, shading the blue, as if Kyle was trying to shield how he felt, deep inside. "That's the deal."
"That's the deal," said Clayton, nodding his agreement. "But here's the other deal, and I want to make it plain, so you can back out if you want before I call her."
"What other deal?" asked Kyle. He scrunched up his mouth. "Is this about the reward? I really don't want it, you know, so there's no point insisting on it."
"No," said Clayton, quite slowly and carefully, his heart starting to race. "It's about you and me. It's about you and me when it's not Christmas any more. It's about you finding someone you can apprentice with to learn leather and bead work. It's about me maybe not driving a truck for a delivery company anymore, but maybe I can drive an F-150 and haul a sweet, silver Airstream around from fair to fair while you—"
Clayton groaned, and buried his head in his hands, his fingers gripping his hair. He'd started out slow but then the words had escaped him so fast it was like they'd slipped on a long stretch of ice, at one end him and his stupid mouth and at the other, a dark unknown.
He had just screwed everything up, and now Kyle would back out of the trip to Sarah's house, and there Clayton would be. He'd be reconciled with Sarah and he'd be able to be with Shawn again, too, but other than that, he'd have only the memories of this Christmas behind him and a bleak white wasteland of a future ahead of him.
"Did you just say what I thought you said?" asked Kyle. "Did you really just say that?"
Kyle didn't sound angry, so Clayton risked it, let go of his own head, and looked up.
Kyle's expression was that of a man who could see a great deal of the way down a road he wasn't sure he was allowed to go on. His mouth was open, and his eyes were wide, eyebrows raised just a fraction, as if he was on the verge of asking for what he wanted, asking his future self: Is this the way I should go?
"I meant to take it much slower than that," said Clayton, hurrying to get the words out. "It was like while I meant to tap the gas pedal I gunned it instead—but I meant every word. And if it makes you uncomfortable at all, I'm sure I can make it to the interstate and find a motel."
"You'll do no such thing," said Kyle, shaking his head.
Clayton could tell he meant it, so at least he wouldn't have to start a dark, cold drive to find a motel that might already be booked solid. But more importantly, if Kyle wasn't angry and didn't want him to go, did that also mean he wanted Clayton to stay? To come back? To be with him? Clayton needed to be sure.
"Okay about the motel and me staying here," said Clayton carefully as he pointed at the table. "But what about everything else? I went too fast, I know, but what about—"
He stopped, unable to go on. He'd spoken his piece anyhow, so there wasn't much point in going over it again. He needed to wait, to be patient, to hear what Kyle had to say.
Kyle amazed him by sitting at the table where he'd been sitting before. Not across from Clayton, but kitty-corner to him, their elbows brushing against each other on the table top.
"I didn't know," said Kyle slowly, as if letting his brain catch up to what his mouth was saying. "I mean, you've been so nice, so easy to be with, and I could see, well. I could see how nice it was to have the empty places in this house filled with someone besides myself. On the other hand—"
Kyle leaned his chin into his cupped hand, his fingers dappling against his flushed cheek.
"On the other hand, you could be the serial killer your sister is worried that I'll turn out to be, and people will say we were foolish. They'll say that we were stupid and blind and that we shouldn't have—"
Kyle stopped and looked up at Clayton with his eyes so blue, Clayton could see the sky in them, a sky full of dreams and hopes and hearts that wanted something they remembered wanting when they were younger and didn't know the world was full of danger and closed doors and broken promises.
"That we shouldn't," said Kyle. He swallowed hard, took his hand away from his face, and sat back, as if fully prepared for the moment when Clayton would agree with him and also say that they shouldn't.
"Nobody gets to tell you that you shouldn't but you," said Clayton, his throat thickening with anger at anyone who'd ever stood in Kyle's way of doing what he wanted.
He wanted to stand up and shout at those invisible, unknown people who'd turned into barriers to Kyle's dream of making things and traveling the country to sell them and see a little bit of the world. But he stayed seated where he was because he didn't want to startle Kyle into thinking that maybe his Christmas guest ought to take his heated opinion and go on down the road to the interstate motel. So he stayed seated, breath held.
"You say what Brent a
nd Richard are always saying," said Kyle. "They want to bankroll my little business, with proper papers through a bank so I won't refuse on account of I'd take it as charity."
"You should let them," said Clayton, firmly, almost fiercely. "You should sign those papers and take to the road."
"Would you come with me?" asked Kyle, his gaze quite level as he looked at Clayton, and for a moment, the world was in his eyes, blue as the sky, as open as a horizon on the high plains.
Clayton's heart soared with hope. Then, with a little shrug, Kyle laughed.
"Seems kind of sudden, you and me, talking about taking to the road together."
"Maybe a little," said Clayton. His heart was beating hard against his breastbone. "We could put on the brakes a bit, and take it slow for a while. I could stop by once in a while on my route, when it takes me this way—"
"More than once in a while," said Kyle, smiling, that sweet flush coming to his face. "Definitely more than once in a while."
Clayton had his answer. He had his answer, and it was the best Christmas present he could ever remember getting. They had a chance to be together.
His breath caught in his throat as he thought about all the Christmases to come, the future Clayton and Kyle decorating a real Christmas tree together, remembering together to make the Rice Krispies treats to leave out for Santa. The bottles of wine they would share, and the scarves they would wrap around each other's necks with gentle hands, leaving traces of warmth behind.
"Is this where we kiss for the first time?" asked Kyle, breaking in on Clayton's rambling thoughts.
"Maybe?" Clayton's eyebrows rose. "And after that, we take it nice and slow, because it's been a while since I—well, it's been a while."
"For me too," said Kyle. He looked up at Clayton through his lashes in the most flirty way that made Clayton's heart skip a beat. "Maybe we could cuddle on the couch after, but I'm not one of those guys you meet in bars who's ready for it, who's already bending over and ready for it—"
