Garen swiped a chunk of flour from his left eyebrow. “Go on, finish your sentence. You what? You can’t take it anymore?”
In one steady motion, Simon got to his feet and pulled Garen close, drenching himself in flour. “I can take it.”
Chapter 18
11 Days Until Christmas
“Careful, it’s raining!” Garen strained to hold the umbrella over Simon’s head as he rolled down the three wide stairs outside their block of flats.
“I know it’s raining,” Simon snapped. “I won’t melt, and my chair won’t rust. It’s stainless steel.”
Trying not to imagine Simon slipping and face-palming on the wet pavement, Garen yanked open the rear door of the waiting taxi. “Let me help you in.”
“You really don’t need to.” Simon moved up to the taxi, engaged his wheelchair’s brakes, and got himself into the car.
Garen hurried to fold the chair and place it into the taxi’s boot before it got too wet.
Once they were underway, Simon said, “I could’ve gone to the doctor on my own. You didn’t need to miss work.”
“It’s only for a couple of hours, and anyway, I’ve earned plenty of goodwill being the only employee not taking leave for Christmas.” There wasn’t much point—he wasn’t traveling, and the museum was closed Christmas Eve through Boxing Day anyway.
Simon peered out the window at the rain. “Good job we didn’t take the bus.”
“I cannae imagine waiting for one in this weather.”
“And there’s no direct route without transfers,” Simon said.
“Hm, yeah.” Garen set the wet umbrella on the floor of the taxi, then put his foot atop it so he probably wouldn’t forget it.
“But of course you already knew that, didn’t you? My doctor’s office is directly beside the hospital.”
Garen realized Simon was now looking straight at him. He reviewed the last two sentences. “Sorry?”
“When I was in hospital, you told me it was a single short bus trip to get there from home.”
Garen froze. “Did I?” he asked, his voice too high.
“When in fact, it’s a two-hour return trip, including transfers.”
“Interesting. Hey, what if we put a giant spider on the roof of our haunted gingerbread house? We could use a black gumdrop for the body and black licorice for the legs. And draw a big web with icing, of course.”
“Garen.” Simon reached forward and flipped on the taxi’s privacy switch. “Why did you pretend it was easy to visit me in hospital?”
“Erm…” Garen felt his cheeks flare as he searched for the right words. “I didn’t want you to worry or feel guilty. You had enough to deal with.” He lowered his chin so he could hide his face behind his hair. “And I didn’t want you to know how much I cared.”
“Why not?”
“It might’ve scared you away. I mean, not literally, since you couldn’t move, but…” He fidgeted with a loose button of his pine-green raincoat as he spoke. “You might’ve thought, och, this guy’s a bit of a creeper. But it wasn’t like that. I wasn’t trying to woo you or whatever. I just couldn’t stop thinking what it must be like, how scared and frustrated and bored you must have been lying in that hospital bed. I couldn’t switch off those thoughts. I tried, believe me. I tried to focus on myself, like usual. But it didn’t work.” He finally lifted his head to meet Simon’s eyes. “I couldn’t rest until I’d made your hell a wee bit less hellish.”
Simon’s entire face softened. “That’s exactly what you did. I’ll never forget it.”
Garen relaxed into his seat, relieved Simon hadn’t been dismayed by his declaration. “Isn’t it exhausting being with someone who blurts out so much rubbish?”
“Just the opposite. It saves me the energy of wondering what you’re thinking.”
They rode the rest of the way to the doctor’s office in companionable silence, and by the time they arrived, the rain had ceased. They checked in with the receptionist and retreated to a corner of the waiting room where there was space for Simon’s wheelchair.
Garen sifted through a pile of magazines beside him. “Let’s see…archaeology, gardening, multiple sclerosis. These are things I’d never normally think about. I don’t understand people in waiting rooms who just pull out their phones when they could be learning about all these new subjects.”
Simon glanced at him over his phone.
“I don’t mean you,” Garen hurried to add. “You’ve got work correspondence to catch up on.” He opened the archaeology magazine. “That’s one lovely thing about my job—I leave it behind each day when I walk out the door.”
He was halfway through an article about a new discovery at Orkney’s Ness of Brodgar when the nurse called Simon back to see the doctor. Garen instinctively stood to follow.
“You can stay here,” Simon told him.
“I don’t mind.”
“Stay.” Simon wheeled away through the door.
“Okay,” Garen whispered to a now-empty room. He sat down and reopened his magazine, but it took him nearly twenty minutes to finish the article. While his eyes followed the words on the page, his mind wondered what was happening back in the exam room. Was Simon’s progress satisfactory, or would his doctor urge him to move home with his parents or even back into the rehab unit—anywhere but their flat?
At last Simon reappeared, with a folded sheet of paper in his lap and an inscrutable expression on his face.
Garen stood quickly. “Well?”
“I’ve ordered a car already,” Simon said, “so we’d best hurry to the lobby to meet it.”
Once they were alone inside the lift, Garen asked, “What did she say? Was it good news? What’s that paper?”
“Good and bad news. It’s a new prescription. She’s lowering the dose of my gabapentin, since overall I’m in a lot less pain than I was before.”
“Brilliant, but what’s the bad news? Are you not recovering as fast as they thought you would do?”
“If you’ll let me finish…”
“Sorry.” Garen pressed his lips together hard.
“She’s pleased with my progress,” Simon said. “There’ll be a lot of ups and downs, she says. Some weeks I’ll make great strides, and other weeks will feel like I’m standing still or even backsliding a bit. But overall I’m on a typical recovery track for someone my age.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I should be able to walk without an aid within three months.”
“Gaun yersel!” Garen went to offer a high-five and realized he was still clutching the archaeology magazine. He tucked the purloined journal under his arm so he could give Simon an awkward semi-hug. “You’ll be running in the Glasgow Half-Marathon next October.”
“That’s the bad news. She said I could have fatigue for another year, maybe longer.” Simon rubbed his eyes. “I’m so fucking tired of being tired.”
The lift dinged, and the doors opened. Garen followed Simon out into the lobby, where they waited for the driver to arrive. The rain had returned in full force, battering the tarmac outside so hard, each drop seemed to bounce a meter off the ground.
Garen put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”
Simon just stared out into the downpour. “It feels like me life has been stolen. What did I do to deserve this?”
“Nothing. It’s just bad luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“It’s pretty much all I believe in.”
Simon squinted up at him. “Why is that?”
Garen started to say he’d only been joking, but Simon’s serious gaze prompted a more thorough consideration. “I don’t know, I guess because…my life?” When Simon cocked his head, Garen went on. “I was born into such a shit situation, but my mum and dad pulled me out of it. I didn’t do anything to deserve getting adopted.” He gestured at the sheets of rain. “A lot of life is like the weather—totally out of our control—and blaming unlucky people for the
ir misfortune isn’t just unproductive, it’s pretty fucking cruel. Even when that unlucky person is oneself.”
Simon swallowed hard, his eyes growing wet. But then he broke into a crooked smile. “Garen McLaren, how are you even real?”
“Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m a figment of your imagination.”
“But I know other people who know you.”
“I could be a mass hallucination,” Garen said.
“In that case, I’m the luckiest member of the masses, because I get to see you naked.” Simon looked out the door, then down at the ride-hailing app on his phone. “That’s our car.” He glanced at Garen’s hands. “Where’s the umbrella?”
Garen reached for it before realizing it was miles away by now. “In our taxi. Sorry.”
Twenty minutes later, they entered their flat, dripping wet.
As Simon shook the water from his coat, he said, “Before you go to work, you might want to check your Christmas stocking.”
“An early gift?” Garen dropped his own coat on the hallway floor and darted into the living room, where their stockings hung by the fake fireplace.
Garen’s stocking bore a tiny bulge at the toe. “I’ve got no idea what this is.” He reached deep inside, his fingers closing around a cylindrical metal object. He pulled it out to see a red pocket-size electric torch. “Thanks,” he said, a bit confused. “This’ll come in handy when it’s…dark.”
“The night we met,” Simon said, shuffling into the room with his walking frame, “you said we shouldn’t live together because you were carrying a torch for me. You said there wouldn’t be room for the three of us—you, me, and the torch. This proves you wrong.”
“I love being wrong.” He went to Simon and threw his arms around his neck—carefully, so as not to knock him over. “I’m glad we saw the error of my ways.”
Simon kissed him, the scent of rain creating a delicious mix with his aftershave. “By the way, my doctor said it would help to set fun goals. So I’ve decided that next year I’ll do the Santa Dash completely on my feet, even if it means only walking.”
“An excellent goal, but just one thing.” Garen ran his fingers over the shoulder seams of Simon’s pullover jumper. “Whether you’re walking or running, I insist on a piggyback ride as payment for pushing you this year.”
“Deal,” Simon said. “But only downhill.”
Garen kissed him once more, then hurried to his room to change into his work clothes. The museum had a school tour coming at noon, and he wanted to be the one to lead it.
As he dressed, Garen realized that if he and Simon were still together at next year’s Santa Dash, it would be by far the longest relationship of his life. Astoundingly, the thought neither shocked nor scared him. Simon seemed unfazed by the idea—but then again, his past relationships had been far fewer (three) and far longer (thirteen months on average, separated by significant spells of singlehood).
If this Christmas was to be merely their first and not also their last, then maybe Garen could ease up a wee bit and not try to cram every possible tradition into this year’s celebration. Better yet, he and Simon would even create new traditions they could repeat next year.
And maybe even the year after that.
“I’m so happy your checkup went well today,” Simon’s mother told him that night on the phone. “I just wish I could’ve been there.”
“It’s okay, Ma. Garen kept me company.” Standing at the kitchen table, Simon sprinkled flour atop a pair of silicone mats. “Not that he’s a substitute for you,” he hurried to add before she took offense. “So when you come up Friday, I thought I’d take you and Da to this Greek restaurant in Sauchiehall Street. It’s got five stars on Yelp.”
She clicked her tongue. “We can get Greek food at home. Glasgow is famous for its Italians. Like the man who plays The Doctor.”
“Okay, I’ll find a good Italian place.” He’d do whatever it took to make sure she was in a good mood Friday, when he planned to tell his parents that Garen was now his partner.
“Did I tell you we’re making a gingerbread house?” Simon eased himself into the kitchen chair and laid out the template pieces he’d downloaded. It had taken nearly an hour to cut them out with scissors, going a centimeter at a time to keep control of his unreliable hands. “We’re cutting the pieces and baking them as soon as Garen gets home from curling practice.”
“Ah, lovely,” Ma said. “Don’t tell your gran—she’d worry you’ll be eaten by mice by sunrise.”
“I’ve got Poppy to protect me from rodents.”
His mother laughed. “That poor sweet snake would hide for days if she ever saw a live mouse.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, then she handed the phone to Simon’s father, but not before signing off with “Give Garen my best!” for the first time. Simon wondered whether his mother had already guessed what was going on.
When he finally hung up, it was past nine o’clock. Simon was already exhausted, and they’d not even started tonight’s work on the gingerbread house. He pulled out his phone, switched the wireless sound system from the latest Bugzy Malone release to Garen’s soothing “Christmas Chillout” playlist, then slumped forward on the table, using his crossed arms as a pillow.
He woke to the sound of Garen crooning along with Low’s “Just Like Christmas” as he walked down the hall. Simon sat up straight, checking his chin for drool.
Garen stopped at the kitchen doorway, kit bag slung over his shoulder. “Hiya.”
“Hey.” Simon blinked hard to dispel the drowsiness. “How was the—” An irrepressible yawn interrupted his sentence.
“Curling?” Garen looked away and nodded for a few seconds. “I’m really struggling.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Erm…” Garen shoved a hand through his hair and puffed out his cheeks as he considered. “Maybe while we roll out the dough. Let me change first.”
While Garen was in his room, Simon took the gingerbread dough from the fridge and unwrapped it on the table. Its sweet and spicy scent made his mouth water as he divided it in half.
“Okay!” Garen slid into the kitchen on feet covered in blue-and-white snowflake socks. “Ready for round two.”
Simon held the silicone mat steady on the table as Garen rolled out the first ball of dough.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Garen pressed the rolling pin over the gingerbread. “The last time I played well was in Edinburgh, just before I took ill with the flu. But I’ve totally recovered physically. I’m in the best shape of my life.”
Simon didn’t comment, though he agreed Garen’s body was in fabulous shape.
“I’ve got my draw weight back,” Garen continued, “but now other parts of my game are breaking down—like calling the sweep for Luca’s shots. I’ve totally lost confidence in my ability to judge where the stone will end up.”
Simon made a sympathetic noise. From what little he knew of curling, helping the skip’s stones succeed was one of the most important parts of Garen’s position as vice-skip.
“I just can’t get out of my head,” Garen said. “I never used to be that way. After a poor shot, I’d let it go and move on. Having a shit memory comes in handy sometimes—it helps you focus on the present.”
“That makes sense. The dough should be the same thickness all over, by the way.”
“Right. Thanks.” Garen adjusted his grip and pressed the rolling pin against the center of the dough to even it out. “Anyway, Luca suggested I meditate more to stop my thoughts spiraling. I told him I’ve been too busy to meditate, and he said it’s when we’re busiest that we most need meditation. He’s right, of course. That’s why he’s the skip.” Garen sighed. “I’m terrified of letting my team down. Those lads mean the world to me.”
“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.”
Garen nodded. “But it’s not like it was back at uni, when we were just four guys having a laugh. We’re professionals now—not moneywise, b
ut in terms of how seriously we take it.”
“It can’t be easy to juggle that with a day job.”
“Aye, but I love having my hands full. I’ve always managed the balance before.”
Before me, you mean. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Garen’s performance had dropped when Simon’s Guillain-Barré had struck. He’d spent every free night at the hospital instead of recovering from curling practice or league games. Sitting in those horrid visitor chairs at Simon’s bedside couldn’t have been healthy for muscles already stiff from exertion. And worrying about Simon’s condition had added stress at a time when Garen was already under a lot of pressure.
Simon knew he was taking up too much room in his partner’s life and mind, but he didn’t know how to pull back without hurting Garen’s feelings.
“So what’s your plan?” he asked.
“If I can’t improve soon,” Garen said, “I’ll quit.”
Simon gaped up at him. “What, quit curling?”
“No, just the team. I’d carry on curling as a hobby, join a less competitive league. That way if I’m rubbish, the consequences aren’t so dire.”
“You’d just abandon your mates like that?”
“Better than forcing them to chuck me off the team,” Garen said. “That’d make them feel worse.”
“You mean it’d make you feel worse.”
Garen shrugged. “That too.”
Once the dough was rolled out, they cut the pieces and baked them. As the warm, heady scent of gingerbread filled the flat, Garen said, “I’m not sure I can resist eating the whole house when it comes out of the oven. Just as a warning.”
“I made two extra pieces for us to eat,” Simon told him as he wiped the excess flour from the table.
“Ya dancer!” Garen grinned at him from the sink, where he was washing the dishes. His eyes looked tired, yet he still exuded his usual impish energy.
After the gingerbread came out of the oven, they ate their sample pieces, which Garen proclaimed “perfect” but Simon found a bit “over-clovey.” He’d definitely use more nutmeg next time.
“I’ll finish tidying up,” Garen said. “You should’ve been away to bed hours ago.”
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 21
