Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice)

by Avery Cockburn

  Garen gasped. “You’ve been falling at home?”

  “No! I get up after my floor exercises.”

  But Garen wasn’t listening. He was already pacing back and forth on the mat. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come today.”

  Here we go again. “Garen…”

  “Why am I such an eejit? Why do I never learn?”

  Simon heard voices out in the warm room. “Please stop yelling.” He hoisted himself up into his wheelchair and disengaged the brakes. “I’m going home.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes. I promised if I got tired, I’d call it a day.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Simon started rolling toward the men’s dressing room. “You’ve got too much to do here.”

  Garen followed him, hovering far too closely for Simon’s liking. “I can pop out long enough to see you home.”

  “You won’t make it back before the final. The big ceremony with the piping and the whisky and all.”

  “Gillian can do it. Hell, Willow can do it.” Garen grabbed one of the handles of Simon’s wheelchair. “I’ll just—”

  “What are you doing? You know not to touch my chair without asking.”

  Garen jerked his hand away and covered his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help.” He reached forward again.

  “I don’t need your help,” Simon snapped, humiliation burning his cheeks. “I don’t need you at all.”

  Garen stepped back, putting a hand to his chest as though Simon had just kicked him in the heart. His eyes grew suddenly wet.

  Simon wanted to reach out and undo his harsh words with a soft touch. But Garen was already too far away, so words were all Simon had.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Aye, you did. And it’s okay.” Garen’s face had turned to stone in the blink of an eye. “Turns out I don’t like being needed.” He stalked off through the dressing room.

  Simon’s hands shook from more than fatigue as he pulled out his phone and ordered a car. Then he wheeled himself through the dressing area and into the warm room.

  Garen and Luca were at the far end of the room with their backs to him, standing beside the draw sheet, which was posted on an easel near the door to the rink. They were the only ones in the warm room apart from Gillian, who was behind the bar, and Willow, who was lying on the couch playing a handheld video game. Simon moved forward as quietly as possible, needing to get his coat from his chair by the computer.

  “Here’s the problem,” Luca said as Simon came within earshot. “We Four Kings were meant to play Baby It’s Cold Inside in the one o’clock draw. They both lost their morning games, right?”

  “Right,” Garen said with dread in his voice.

  “But it looks like Four Kings accidentally got put into this slot.” Luca pointed to the top of the sheet. “So they’re playing Guard Rest Ye Merry Gentleman—”

  “Who should be playing Hard the Herald Angels Sing instead.” Garen pressed his hands to his temples. “Which means I’ve screwed over the Herald Angels. I sent them down to the B Side by mistake.”

  Simon had no idea what they were talking about. He picked up his jacket and started to turn his chair for the door.

  “I knew this would happen,” Garen said. “I knew I would make a state of it.”

  Simon paused, hearing the anguish in his boyfriend’s voice.

  “It happens all the time, mate,” Luca said.

  “No, it doesn’t!” Garen said. “And why not? Because it says right there on the template sheet who the winner and loser of each game are meant to play in the next draw.” He poked his fingertip hard against the easel. “Anyone with half a brain can follow those instructions.”

  “You’ve got a whole brain that works perfectly well,” Luca said in a serene tone suggesting he’d handled Garen’s self-flagellating outbursts many times. “You’re just doing too much at once. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because we can fix this.” He unpinned the draw sheet and gestured to the nearest table. “Let’s sort it right now, you and I.”

  Garen took a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks, mate.” He turned, but stopped when he saw Simon with his coat. “You’re really leaving?”

  “I’ve got a car coming in six minutes,” Simon said.

  “Oh.” Garen rubbed his throat. “That soon?”

  Luca looked between them. “If you two need a moment…”

  The door to the rink opened, and Oliver leaned in. “Luca, your team has a question for you.”

  “Sorry.” Luca handed Garen the draw sheet. “Be back as soon as I can.” He hurried off into the rink.

  “Okay…” Garen stared after his friend, looking like a puppy left on the side of the road.

  “Can I help you with the draw or whatever it is?” Simon asked him.

  “Erm…” Garen yanked his hair back from his face and held it atop his head as he squinted down at the sheet in his hand. “I dunno. By the time I explain it to you—”

  “Beer’s fobbing again!” Gillian called out from behind the bar. “Look at all this foam. Garen, how did you fix it before?”

  He sighed. “You’ve got to lower the pressure on the secondary regulator.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Just give me a minute,” he told her, his eyes on Simon.

  “Found it!” she said. “I’ll just—oh!” There was a loud clatter, then the sound of splattering liquid. “Got bigger problems now.”

  “Sorry,” Garen told Simon as he backed away toward the bar. “I’ll see you at home, okay?”

  Simon’s ride-hailing app beeped with an update. His car was now two minutes away.

  His finger hovered over the Edit Ride button as he considered canceling the trip. But he didn’t know how long it would take to get another wheelchair-friendly driver.

  Besides, what could he and Garen say to each other right now that wouldn’t make things worse?

  Too tired to think straight, Simon pushed his wheelchair to the front door and left the rink.

  Chapter 22

  It was nearly midnight by the time Garen arrived home. Simon’s bedroom door was shut, and no light shone through the crack beneath. Garen knew he was here, thanks to their terse text message exchange:

  Simon: Home

  Garen: ok

  He wobbled as he walked down the dark hallway, still slightly blootered after a long broomstacking. The bonspiel had been a smash, despite the puddles of spilled lager and his absolute balls-up of the draw—which he’d fixed without Luca’s help—and it seemed as though every curler had bought Garen a drink to celebrate the success.

  Now that the pretend-happy drinking was over, it was time to start the genuine-sad drinking.

  Garen went into the kitchen and found a series of sticky notes on the worktop, comprising a letter from Simon:

  G,

  I’ve decided to go home tomorrow so I can see my parents

  He picked up the next sticky note, where Simon’s shaky handwriting was even harder to read:

  before they fly to Greece. Will stay in L’pool for 2 wks to spend hols w/friends & other family there. If you could

  Garen read the third note, the final words crammed against the bottom margin:

  look after Poppy, I’d be ever so grateful. We can talk in the a.m. if you like, but tonight I think it’s best we give each other space. - S.

  His heart racing, Garen reread the notes, hoping he’d misunderstood. Simon was to be gone for two weeks, so there’d be no Christmas with him…no kissing under the mistletoe at the Christmas Eve–Eve party, no cuddling in front of the fake Christmas fireplace, no Greek Christmas bread or melomakarona Christmas cookies…

  Was this the end of them? He scanned the sticky-note letter a third time, trying to read between the lines. If they were still together, why would Simon want to spend the holiday away from him?

  His phone buzzed in his poc
ket. He yanked it out, hoping it was Simon inviting him into his room.

  Karen: Home yet?

  “Shit.” He’d totally forgotten she’d wanted to Skype.

  Garen: Can it wait until tomorrow?

  Karen: It’s about Christmas

  Garen: Just a sec

  He grabbed a beer and headed back to his room.

  “You okay?” Karen asked when their connection went through. “You look tired.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Long day at the charity event. Now what’s so important you canceled your glamorous Saturday night plans to video-chat your brother?”

  “I wanted to let you know…” She tapped her palms together. “Nikolaj said he’d love to come home with me for Christmas. Isn’t that great? It’ll be the four of us.”

  “Oh. Wow. Yeah, great.”

  “To be honest, I’d been thinking about it for weeks. But I figured it’d be weird, just the three of us. I didn’t want you to feel like a third wheel. And then when you said you and Simon were together, it just all seemed to fit into place.” She tilted her head. “Except for when you jumped the gun and invited Nikolaj yourself.”

  “I’m glad it worked out.” He couldn’t bear to tell her Simon wouldn’t be here—it was too embarrassing, and she might feel like she couldn’t bring Nikolaj after all. Anyway, she’d find out soon enough. “If that’s all, I really need to sleep now.”

  “Aye, right—‘sleep,’” she said, making inverted commas with her fingers. “Have fun!”

  “Yep.” He shut the laptop lid to cut the connection. Then he stared across the room at the wall separating his room from Simon’s.

  They should talk now and sort things out. But Simon had specifically asked for a few hours’ peace from Garen. He was probably right: By morning they’d both have cooled down and cleared their heads.

  Besides, it would take more than words to fix the mess Garen had made.

  Knowing sleep would elude him for hours, he picked up his beer and went down the hall. As Garen entered the darkened living room, he used his phone to start a soft acoustic Christmas playlist, first ensuring it would play at a low volume—and only on this room’s speakers—so as not to wake Simon.

  Since he couldn’t sleep, Garen would make a new playlist for Simon right now. Even if it didn’t change his mind about leaving, it might make him think fondly of Garen while he was in Liverpool.

  He switched on the light above the dining table.

  “Oh my God.”

  Their gingerbread house was collapsing. One of the walls had fallen inward—the wall Garen had worked on, of course—so the entire structure sagged to one side.

  He drew close to examine it. Thus far, none of the pieces had broken. Carefully he reached into the house and extracted the fallen wall. The mortar along its edges was no longer sticky, but it could be shaved off and replaced.

  He could fix this.

  Returning to the kitchen, Garen went to the fridge and pulled out the small container of leftover royal icing. The mortar had hardened from the cold, so he put it in the microwave on low power to soften it. Then he brought it back to the living room, along with their tiny paring knife and one of the pastry bags.

  Using the knife’s blunt side, Garen scraped some of the old mortar off the fallen wall’s edges, enough to make room for the new icing but not so much it wouldn’t fit snugly against the roof and other walls.

  Just as he finished removing the last bit of mortar, the wall snapped in half in his hand.

  Garen set it down, then took a long, deep breath as he massaged the sides of his jaw, which had grown so tight, it was on the verge of giving him a killer tension headache.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I can fix this, too.” He picked up the pastry bag and drew a line of icing mortar along the broken edge, then held the two pieces of the wall together until it felt solidly glued. The line in the middle of the wall looked odd, but it enhanced the whole broken-down haunted-house aspect.

  Now it was time to put the wall back in place. Garen added icing mortar to all three edges, then carefully slipped the wall inside the house, tucking it under the roof. “Easy now,” he coached himself. “Slow slow slow slow…”

  He nestled the wall back into place. Each of its edges met its facing surface perfectly. “Yes!” he hissed. “Yes yes yes yes—”

  The roof collapsed down the middle.

  “Fuck me.” Garen pushed his chair back so hard, it banged against the wall beside the window. He froze, worried he’d woken Simon. If his flatmate came out here and saw this disaster, he’d be furious.

  Or maybe he’d just shake his head, unsurprised that Garen had screwed up again.

  Swallowing a howl of frustration, Garen examined the gingerbread house. It wasn’t totally unsalvageable. The roof had come apart at its top seam, but only one segment had fallen, the one he’d put pressure on trying to reinsert the wall. He just had to remove both parts of the roof, mortar the repaired wall to its companions, let the house sit for an hour to solidify, then replace the roof. Voilà: Christmas saved!

  He grasped the non-collapsed half of the roof and gave a gentle tug. It didn’t budge. He pulled harder, to no avail. Naturally, the side Simon had constructed was rock solid.

  Garen needed to soften the mortar holding the roof to the wall. Maybe he could put the house in the microwave? No, the heat might soften the gingerbread itself and weaken the entire foundation.

  He remembered Simon had a propane kitchen blowtorch as part of his baker’s kit. They’d not used it yet, due to Simon not trusting his own fine-motor skills and not trusting Garen with fire, full stop.

  Garen went to the kitchen and fetched the blowtorch—as well as another beer to steady his nerves—then headed back to the living room.

  He wasn’t completely daft: He knew fixing the gingerbread house wouldn’t really save Christmas or his relationship with Simon. But in the dead darkness of a brokenhearted Saturday night, it was the one thing under his control.

  Simon woke to the sound of breaking glass. He jerked to a half-sitting position, up on one elbow. Maybe the noise had been a dream.

  A loud thud came from the living room, like one of the dining chairs falling over.

  “Garen?” he called out, then remembered his bedroom door was shut tight.

  Simon switched on the faerie lights and slid his legs out of bed. As he leaned over to put on his slippers, his pulse pounded at being woken from deep sleep. He rubbed his eyes to fight the grogginess, then got to his feet using the walking frame.

  He went to the door, opened it, and called Garen’s name again.

  “Everything’s fine!” Garen shouted from the living room, though his tone indicated otherwise. “Go back to bed!”

  Simon heard Christmas music. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Nothing. It’s under control. I’ve got it.” There was another thump. “Ow!”

  Simon headed down the hallway as fast as he could go. Though his head was still foggy, his legs felt surprisingly stable considering the long day at the curling rink.

  He reached the living room doorway and looked inside. “What the…”

  “Stay away!” Garen was pounding the tabletop with both fists. “There’s broken glass on the floor.”

  “I’ve got my slippers on.” Simon crossed the room, trying to comprehend what he was seeing—not to mention smelling. “What happened?”

  “Just a small fire.” Garen stood up straight and raised his hands, which were covered in brown goo. “It’s out now.”

  That was the scent Simon had detected: smoke. But also something like caramel. And…beer? None of it made sense.

  He neared the dining table, feeling like he was watching an aerial shot of a disaster film.

  Their gingerbread house was gone. In its place was a mass of soggy, smoldering brown-and-white muck oozing across the table and onto the floor.

  “I’m sorry.” Garen’s eyes were bloodshot and his hair was a disheve
led mop.

  Simon spied his kitchen blowtorch on the table. “What. Happened.”

  “My part fell to pieces.”

  “Your part?” Simon surveyed the carnage, wondering how Garen could be seeing something different. “The entire thing’s destroyed.”

  “I came in here to make you a playlist. I don’t know why I thought…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I found the house with my wall toppled over. I tried to fix it and broke the roof.”

  “And?”

  “And things went downhill from there. Let me fetch some cleaning stuff, and then I can explain.” Garen dodged the broken glass as he hurried for the living room door.

  Simon leaned over and picked up the fallen dining chair, checked the seat for beer and gingerbread, then sat down. On the speaker, a female folk singer crooned about wanting a river to skate away on.

  Had Garen done this in response to the note Simon had left him? Maybe the message had been a mistake. Maybe Simon should’ve waited until the morning and spoken to him face to face. But he’d feared he’d change his mind and stay here, spend a torturous Christmas in Glasgow just for the sake of being near Garen. He’d thought maybe “space” was what they really needed, though every instinct had told him the opposite.

  Besides, going home was safe. Going home was comforting. Going home meant he could watch the Merseyside Derby with his father tomorrow night, just like old times. He could forget all about this mess.

  Garen reappeared with a broom and dustpan in one hand and a plastic bin bag and kitchen roll in the other. He was now wearing his giant furry reindeer slippers, no doubt as protection against the bits of brown glass scattered across the floor.

  Watching Garen shuffle toward him in those ridiculous slippers, his face the portrait of earnestness, Simon knew in a rush that he wouldn’t be going home to the safety and comfort of his family and friends. He would stay here and work through this, no matter what it took.

  Unsure where to start, Simon went for the facts. “First question: Why did you pour beer on it?”

  “To put out the fire,” Garen said in a well-obviously tone as he swept the pieces of glass into the dustpan.