Simon picked up his blowtorch. He’d assumed the smell of smoke had been from an attempt at caramelization. “Why did you set the house on fire?”
“What’s it matter?” Garen shook open the bin bag. “It was broken from the start. We just couldn’t see the cracks.” He picked up a chunk of wall lined with icing and shook it at him. “See?”
“We could’ve fixed it.”
“You could’ve fixed it.” Garen hurled the piece of gingerbread into the bag. “Not me. Everything I touch turns to rubbish.”
Simon gritted his teeth, trying to stay calm in the face of Garen’s eruption. “You touched me, and I didn’t turn to rubbish.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Wasn’t it? What happened to this house was just an absurd accident, but you’re turning it into a metaphor for our relationship.”
“I’m not metaphor-ing.”
“So we’re not broken? We’re not doomed?”
Garen said nothing as he plucked more pieces of soggy gingerbread off the table and tossed them into the bag. Simon couldn’t see his face behind his veil of hair.
“Are we worth salvaging, Garen?” Simon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Am I worth it?”
Garen turned to him, eyes already overflowing. “You’re worth everything. It’s me that’s—”
“No.” Simon pointed his blow torch at the chair beside him. “I challenge you to get through this conversation without insulting yourself.”
Garen sat down on the edge of the seat, looking ready to run. “Which conversation are we having?”
“Which one do you think we’re having?”
Garen wiped his face, smearing a bit of gingerbread pulp over his cheek. “The one where we break up?”
Simon felt his own eyes burn at the thought. “Is that what you want?”
“I don’t know what else to do. I can’t stop—” Garen bit his lip, probably remembering the promise he’d just made not to slag himself off. “The way I’ve been the last week, it drives you bananas. And that’s the last thing you need just now.”
“You’re so wrong. You’re not the last thing I need.” Simon reached out a foot to touch Garen’s furry-slippered toe. “You’re the first thing I need.”
“But at the rink you said—”
“That I didn’t need you. I’m sorry. I was talking shite cos I was frustrated and humiliated. You think you’re the only one with issues?”
Garen shook his head. “You’re a proud man. That’s normal.”
“It’s more than pride. It’s fear.” Simon felt his breath quicken at the mere thought of this admission. “Needing you…needing anyone…it feels like annihilation. And I can’t escape it, because it’s reality. This body is my reality now.”
Garen’s face pinched. “How can I make it better?”
You can’t, Simon thought bitterly, then realized that was indeed part of the answer. “You could start by not trying to make it better.”
“So you do want me to leave you alone.”
“I want to be with you!” Simon also wanted to shake him with exasperation. He’d just confessed his greatest weakness, and Garen had immediately tried to make it about himself. “What I don’t want is you tying yourself in knots trying to fix things, then freaking out and pulling away when you realize you can’t.”
“Hm.” Garen pulled off a sheet of kitchen roll and focused on cleaning his hands for several seconds. “So you’re saying I should calm the fuck down and just be with you?”
“Yes,” Simon said, relief flooding his veins.
“That sounds simple. But it doesn’t sound like me.”
Garen was right; Simon couldn’t just wish him to be different. “We may have to agree to do our best and forgive each other when we fall short.”
“Will you?” Garen raised fearful eyes to meet his. “Forgive me, I mean.”
Simon suddenly understood. Like anyone else—though maybe more than most people—Garen needed to know he was accepted for who he was. “Yes. Even if you make the same silly mistakes again and again, I will forgive you again and again.” He stepped off the final cliff. “Because I love you.”
Garen’s entire face went slack. “What did you say?”
Simon’s breath sucked into his lungs, as though his body was trying to inhale the words he’d just spoken. “I love you, Garen.”
Garen jerked his head from side to side. “I can’t…I need to…” He leapt to his feet and headed for the door.
“Don’t walk away when you know I can’t follow. That’s not fair.”
Garen stopped. “Don’t use the fact you can’t follow to try and control me. That’s not fair.”
Simon bristled, but then realized he was guilty as charged. They had to learn to trust each other, now and moving forward. It might as well be him to start. “Go on, then, if you need space.”
Garen took a few more steps, then stopped again, his feet refusing to retreat farther.
You always do this, he told himself. You always walk away when things get hard.
“Not this time,” he whispered. Garen went to the couch and slumped down upon it, head in his hands, which still smelled of beer and gingerbread.
“I’m not the one who needs space,” he told Simon. “You are. You’ve been trying to tell me since the day we met.”
“And you’ve given it to me.”
“Not since we’ve been together. This last week I’ve hovered over you like a mother hen. I’ve made you feel powerless.” Garen curled his arms around his own waist as the full truth hit him. “I made you feel three years old.”
“No. Well, maybe. A bit. Sometimes.”
“So maybe that means I can’t…” He rubbed his palms over the knees of his jeans. “That I can’t love you the way you should be loved. Like we’re both functioning adults.”
Simon said nothing for a long moment. “But…you do love me?”
“Of course I love you. Who wouldn’t?”
“Loads of people.”
“Those people are stupid,” Garen said, “because you’re amazing. You’re too good for them, and you’re too good for me.”
There. He’d said it. Nothing had ever felt so true.
“That’s nonsense.” Simon emphasized both syllables, probably trying to convince himself. “My God, is that what all this has been about?”
“All what?”
“Looking after me. Making changes to the flat to accommodate my needs. Even this Christmas stuff. Was it all just to prove to yourself you were good enough?” When Garen couldn’t answer, Simon added, “You know you never had to prove it to me, right?”
Garen gave him the side-eye. “Really? So I was perfect when we first met, Mister Everything-in-Its-Place? You wouldn’t have changed a thing about me, Sir Cleaning-and-Disinfecting-is-a-Two-Step-Process?”
Simon looked away, shifting in his chair. “I’ve loosened up since then, haven’t I?”
“You didn’t have much choice, mate.”
“Neither did you. When I took ill, you had to step up, and you did. You went so far above and beyond the call of duty, and I know it was hard, but—”
“It was easy.” No, that wasn’t quite true. “Not exactly easy, just…automatic. I did those things without thinking twice, because I cared about you.”
“I know. You told me a few days ago that I take you out of yourself.”
“But I always come back to me, don’t I? Because I’m selfish.”
Simon aimed the blowtorch at him from across the room. “I thought you agreed not to run yourself down during this conversation.”
“I forgot. Of course.” Garen pressed his temples between his palms. “Why can’t things just stay inside my brain?”
“Right. I’m coming over.” Simon stood up and grasped his walking frame. “When I get to the couch, I’m going to sit beside you and hold your hand, maybe even kiss you.” He began his journey, wheels squeaking. “I’m giving you plenty of warning so you can run away.
”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” Simon kept coming, at a slow and steady pace. “Go if you want. I can’t stop you, and I can’t catch you.”
Garen shifted over on the couch, uncertain whether it was to make space for Simon or to put himself closer to the door.
“And now I’m going to keep talking,” Simon said, “to fill this awkward silence as I cross the room.” Squeak. Shuffle. Shuffle. Squeak. “You take me out of myself, too. I never know from one moment to the next what you’re gonna do or say.”
“Is that a good—”
“But I do know that it’ll make me laugh, or turn me on, or make me look at the world in a brand-new way—probably all three at once.” He was nearly at the couch now. “You’re exactly the person I need in my life, Garen. And yes, I fucking need you and I’m not afraid to admit it. Well, maybe a little bit afraid. Or a lot terrified. Anyway, you’re worth it.”
As Garen gazed up at Simon, his instinct to flee melted away. All he wanted now was to get closer, and closer still.
Simon sank down onto the couch, slightly out of breath. “Just one thing.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve been afraid to ask, but…sometimes I prefer to sleep alone in my bed. It’s nothing personal, I just—”
“Oh my God, me too!” Garen put a hand to his own chest. “That’s such a relief.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Garen sighed, his pulse still pounding from their near-breakup. “I guess we’re not total opposites.”
Simon reached for the jotter and pen on the side table. “Shall we make a schedule, then? Maybe alternate nights in your bed, then my bed, then each of us sleeps in our own on the third night?”
Garen stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
Simon looked at the pen in his hand. “Erm…”
“I mean, we could do that if you want. Or maybe one week we could have a schedule, and the next week we could play each night by ear and be spontaneous.”
“Right. Or…whatever.”
Garen lifted his hand. “You mentioned something about holding this?”
Simon did.
“And kissing me?” Garen added.
Simon did.
Garen molded his body against Simon’s, craving his warmth. He curled a leg up over Simon’s lap, so that when their mouths finally parted, the rest of them stayed securely connected.
“Does this mean you’ll be staying in Glasgow for Christmas?” Garen asked, afraid to assume.
“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” Simon tucked Garen’s hair behind his ear. “I won’t abandon you the way your parents did.”
“Which parents?”
“All of them.”
“Thanks.” Garen ran his hand down Simon’s bare forearm. “And I’ll try not to make you feel helpless the way this illness did, twice. But if I do, and you get angry, I’ll try not to take it personally.”
“Ta.”
Garen tucked his face into the warm crook of Simon’s neck. “It’s kind of scary to think we can be so messed up by things we can’t even remember.”
Simon nodded, rubbing his chin against Garen’s hair. “But maybe recognizing it is half the battle. It’s one thing to say, ‘This is the way I am,’ but it’s a whole other step to say, ‘This is the way I am because this horrible thing happened to me—this thing that was never my fault.’”
“I know, but it feels like I’m making excuses.” Garen put on an Oliver Twist-y London accent. “Like, ‘Oh, I’m a rotten boyfriend cos I was in an orphanage.’”
“Am I making excuses if I say, ‘Oh, I’m a rotten boyfriend cos I was paralyzed as a toddler’?” he asked, using the same bad accent.
“No. But you’re not a rotten boyfriend.”
“Neither are you,” Simon said. “And I am a control freak, which makes me a difficult boyfriend sometimes.”
Garen couldn’t deny this fact. “Sometimes.”
“We can’t promise to sort ourselves out overnight—maybe not ever. But we can promise not to give up on each other.”
It seemed so simple and so complicated at the same time. The only thing Garen could do was follow his instinct, which insisted he stay by Simon’s side even when things got difficult.
And maybe get some therapy while he was at it.
He lifted his head to meet Simon’s gaze. “Deal.”
As they moved to kiss again, a squelching noise came from near the window as another piece of gingerbread house oozed onto the floor.
Garen reluctantly rose from the couch. “I should see to this cyclone before it leaves a permanent stain.”
“I’ll help you.”
“No, I created the mess, so I should—” He stopped himself and held out a hand. “Okay. We’ll do it together.”
They went to the table, where Garen handed Simon the bin bag to hold open so he could toss pieces of the house into it.
“What actually happened here?” Simon asked. “It looks like Godzilla stomped on the house, then pissed on it out of spite.”
Garen related the saga of the wall and the roof and why he’d needed the blowtorch, embellishing a bit for entertainment’s sake. “Then I guess the roof was too dry, because it caught fire. I had to make an extinguisher by shaking my bottle of beer and spraying it all over the blaze.”
“Clever. We’re lucky you weren’t drinking Bacardi 151.”
Garen shuddered at the thought of the flames climbing even higher. “Anyway, then I was out of beer, but the house was still smoldering. So I had to Hulk-smash the rest of the fire.” He formed a fist to demonstrate. “That made one of the bottles fall and shatter on the floor.”
Simon took his hands. “Did you burn yourself?”
“I don’t think so. They hurt a bit, but I think that’s from the punching.”
Simon brought Garen’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them. Then he looked at what was left of the house. “Wait.” He reached over the table and picked up a two-inch piece of gingerbread. “This bit hasn’t been burnt or beered.” He broke it in half and held one near Garen’s lips.
Garen took the piece in his mouth. “I like when you feed me.” He started chewing, then kept chewing, and chewing… “Mmm,” he said, trying to sound diplomatic. It was like eating pumpkin-spice concrete.
“Is it good?” Simon bit into the other half of the piece. “Oh.”
“Now we know why people don’t eat gingerbread houses. Shall we call this a practice run and start building another?”
Simon nodded as he spat his mouthful of gingerbread into a sheet of kitchen roll. “Hopefully we can learn from our mistakes and make the next house even better.”
“Och, now who’s metaphor-ing?”
Working together, it took but a few minutes to erase all evidence of the gingerbread disaster from everything but their memories. Then Garen carried the reeking bin bag outside to the rubbish skip.
The sky was clear and star-studded, but clouds were easing in from the west, and the crisp air smelled like snow. He took a moment to look up and down his quiet street, where even after midnight, most windows still glowed with Christmas lights.
In his own flat, the living room window had gone dark apart from Simon’s tasteful white electric candles, but their kitchen now shone brightly. Simon was probably making a list of ingredients for their next gingerbread project, which would no doubt be ten times as ambitious as the first.
Though the rising wind bit at his skin, Garen crossed the narrow lane to the wrought-iron fence bordering Kelvingrove Park. If he stood on his toes and leaned to the right, he could see the top of the Stewart Memorial Fountain, where he’d made a wish sixty-four days ago for a good flatmate who wasn’t a morning person.
The wish had only come half true, but as he’d told Simon the day they’d met, “Often what one prefers isn’t what one truly needs.”
The Lady of the Lake sta
tue glowed against the dark sky. Garen tipped an imaginary hat to her, whispered, “Cheers, lass,” then turned for home.
Chapter 23
2 Days Until Christmas
“How much time left?” Simon asked as he placed the eighth and final ghost-gray reindeer atop the roof of the haunted gingerbread house.
Nikolaj checked his watch. “Forty minutes, probably more.” Using a pair of sugar tongs, Karen’s partner adjusted one of the headstones in its chocolate digestive biscuit–crumb soil. “Karen said Garen’s friends know they should never arrive on time, because he’s never ready.”
“Wise.” Simon had convinced Garen to keep this party minimalist, rather than throwing in every possible food, drink, and game he could think of. As a result, they’d both kept their sanity thus far.
This second attempt at a gingerbread house was coming down to the wire, though, having taken all week to create. Karen and Nikolaj had helped them get over the finish line after arriving yesterday from Bulgaria.
The final product, encompassing half the dining table, stood about two feet high at the peak of its deliberately cracked chimney. Inside each of its eight windows stood a different monster, including tiny versions of Nightmare Before Christmas characters. Around the base of the house curled a black-and-yellow licorice replica of Poppy. Garen had put the licorice python in an elf costume, naturally.
The house wouldn’t win them a spot on Bake Off, due to Garen’s lack of patience and Simon’s lack of fine-motor skills, but it was bound to please their friends. More important, they’d had a laugh constructing it together, despite—or maybe because of—several mishaps involving load-bearing walls.
Simon tested Ghost Blitzen’s grip on the roof before letting go of it and sinking back into his chair. “That’s us done.” He shared a high-five with Nikolaj.
Just then the front door opened to the rustle of bags, stomping of boots, and the chatter of Garen and Karen.
“Yaldy!” Garen unwound a snow-soaked scarf from around his neck, nearly knocking off his be-jingled Santa hat. “Looks a white Christmas for sure this year.”
Nikolaj took the bags of booze from Karen’s arms. “Is it not always a white Christmas in Scotland?”
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 27
