A Fortunate Blizzard

by L. C. Chase

  “I can’t . . .” His voice cracked. “There can’t be more. I’m sorry.”

  Marc was still for a long moment, his arms wrapped loosely around Trevor’s waist, and then he nodded. “I understand.” Those soft lips pressed lightly against the side of Trevor’s neck again, and then Marc let go and stepped back. Trevor fought the shiver that trembled under the surface of his skin from the loss. He was doing the right thing and he knew it, so why did it feel so wrong?

  Marc plodded through the deep, powdery snow, not really paying attention to his surroundings. Trevor walked beside him. Their conversion over breakfast still played in his mind. He hadn’t intended to ask for more, hadn’t known he even wanted that, but he couldn’t regret it now. Yes, he’d told Trevor he was on the same page, that this was just a one-night thing, albeit extended to a couple of days now, with good reason. Otherwise, Trevor would have been sitting alone in a hotel lobby or the crowded floors of the airport.

  He hadn’t been looking for anything nor had he wanted anything, but in the course of two days, the page had turned when he hadn’t been looking. He suddenly knew what Kate meant when she’d claimed there was more to life than work.

  And Marc knew the page had turned for Trevor, too. He had said he couldn’t let this be more, not that he didn’t want it to be. The signs were all there in his body language, in the light in his eyes, the inflections in his voice. Any trial attorney worth his salt could see it. So what held Trevor back? What made him say there couldn’t be more? Wasn’t Trevor the one who said you had to make the time for the important things?

  “There! That’s the one.”

  The shout snapped Marc from his ponderings, and he looked over to see Trevor pointing at a small ponderosa pine. The tiny tree was a little on the Charlie Brown side, maybe three feet tall with thinned-out branches, but Trevor’s infectious exuberance made it the best-looking tree Marc had ever seen. Not a chance was he going to risk dimming that light by not agreeing.

  “That one it is, then,” Marc said, laughing as Trevor trudged through the snow ahead of him.

  Marc caught up with him and stopped at Trevor’s side, his breath puffing out in gossamer clouds. Trevor met his eyes, smile stretching from cheek to cheek, and dug his shovel through fluffy snow and into hard ground.

  Marc frowned. “Tell me again why we aren’t just cutting it down?”

  “Catch and release,” Trevor said, his voice serious.

  “What?” Marc laughed. “It’s not a fish!”

  “No, but it is alive. Why kill it for a few days’ enjoyment, when you can replant it and enjoy it for the rest of your life? In twenty years this bad boy will be a good thirty feet tall.”

  “I guess it makes sense,” Marc said, driving his shovel into the ground on the other side.

  “What’s that?”

  “That an artist would be a tree hugger,” Marc teased, unable to keep the grin off of his face.

  Trevor tossed a shovel full of snow at him, laughing. “Get to work, you.”

  Marc dusted himself off, and then they both began digging up the tree as if they were digging for gold.

  With their tree freed from the frozen earth, they placed it on a larger burlap sack Trevor had found in Marc’s garage, and dragged it back to the house. Marc smiled the whole way, and for the first time in years, a joy and wonder that he thought he’d lost forever bubbled up inside him. He looked over the tip of the tree at Trevor, who turned to face him with a wide smile, and the world brightened another notch. He didn’t say anything and neither did Trevor. The moment didn’t need words because it was right there in eyes as blue as the sky above.

  Marc was still smiling when they carried the tree into the house and settled it into a planter near the fireplace in the great room, facing the Front Range. He stood back and put his hands on his hips. “There’s just one problem.”

  Standing beside him, Trevor mirrored his pose. “What’s that?”

  He looked over at his houseguest. “I don’t have anything to decorate it with.”

  Trevor bumped his shoulder against Marc’s. “You have paint downstairs. And you have popcorn and string, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll start with.” Trevor kissed his cheek and then gave him a playful shove toward the kitchen. “You put on some music and get the popcorn started. I’ll get the turkey in the oven, and then we’ll decorate the tree together.”

  This was something he could do for Marc. It wasn’t much, and he might not even catch on to Trevor’s motive, but it could be that little spark Marc needed to rediscover his passion for art, regardless.

  After making sure the small turkey was on track for dinner in a few hours, he went to retrieve his sketchbook, and graphite and colored pencils. It’d be easy to make ornaments out of his supplies. Marc was dumping the popcorn into a bowl when he returned to the kitchen, and a small ball of tricolored string sat on the counter next to it. He looked up from his task and smiled.

  “Want to do this downstairs?” Trevor asked, and Marc’s smile slipped. “Your studio space is perfect. No need to risk getting paint on your nice furniture up here.”

  Marc didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked downright uncomfortable. “What are we doing exactly?”

  “Decorating your tree.”

  “The tree is up here.”

  “Just trust me.” Trevor grinned and motioned toward the stairs with a tilt of his head. “Grab the popcorn and let’s go.”

  Marc sighed but didn’t argue. Doing as bid—even though he clearly didn’t like the idea—he followed Trevor down to the neglected art studio. Unease radiated off the man in thick waves, and a well of anger rose in Trevor’s chest, startling him by how fast it came to the surface and how intensely. He’d never been one to have a quick temper, but maybe helplessness at his own situation had been brewing ignored and now he had a focus for it that didn’t involve the Should I stop dialysis and when? questions. In that moment he turned all his impotent fury on Marc’s mother. What kind of parent crushed her son’s dreams, his soul, like that? Or rejected any part of him for any reason and made him feel so insignificant? How a person could do something like that wasn’t even within his grasp of reasoning.

  If Trevor’s mom could have adopted Marc, she would have in a heartbeat. She would have loved him, encouraged him to follow his every dream, and been right beside him the whole way. An overwhelming urge to take Marc home to meet his mom engulfed him. He tried to tamp it down.

  If only he had time.

  But Marc wouldn’t ever be meeting his mom. There would never be more than these couple of days with him. Worse than that, now that he’d met the man, spent time with him, he would always know what his fucking kidneys and his damn blood type had cost him.

  Trevor pointed to the chairs and table at the end of the room. “Let’s set up over there,” he said, needing to get away from the dark path his thoughts were taking, and focus on reintroducing Marc to the joys of creating. Even if it was only to make Christmas decorations.

  Marc remained quiet as Trevor spread out his art supplies before gathering a mix of watercolor and acrylic paint from the shelves. He hadn’t noticed the day before that there was a small powder room discretely set behind the shelving unit, complete with paint-cleaning supplies, water containers, and various palettes. He shook his head, again marveling at how someone could make a point of building the perfect art studio, yet never set foot inside it.

  Satisfied they had everything they needed, Trevor sat down across from Marc. “Ready?”

  But Marc clearly wasn’t. He sat there looking at Trevor, his expression so vulnerable, so lost, that a need to fill all his empty spaces with light and happiness and belonging tugged at Trevor’s chest.

  “What do you want to start with?” Trevor whispered. He needed Marc to choose, needed to coax his artist’s soul out from the dungeon he’d locked it in.

  Marc looked down at the table, a frown curving his mouth.
He reached out and ran a shaky finger over the handle of a brush, then a graphite pencil, and on to the colored-pencil set, fingertips touching every color as if they held secret messages. He moved back to the paintbrushes and selected a filbert tip, holding it in his hand as though he’d just discovered a lost treasure. Which, as far as Trevor was concerned, he had.

  Trevor smiled when their gazes reconnected. “Let’s paint. Then we’ll string popcorn.”

  Marc nodded, and together they began painting festive designs on the paper from Trevor’s sketchbook in companionable silence. Marc’s first attempt was . . . abstract. Splashes and splatters of greens, reds, blues, and umbers, and it was beautiful. Slowly, Marc’s mood seemed to lift. Instead of his earlier frown, the hint of a smile now tipped the corners of his mouth. He chewed on his lower lip as he concentrated, and the abstract designs became tiny winter scenes. The last was a laughing snowman with deep-blue skies and swirling snow spinning around the plump little man with a long carrot nose, his hat tipped to the side with a daisy in the band. Marc leaned back and laughed. “There. Kate will be thrilled when I tell her I actually made a snowman.”

  “Who’s Kate?”

  “My paralegal,” Marc said without looking up, all focus on his art project now. He added, “A friend from work.”

  “Oh?” he gently prodded for more, but when it seemed he wasn’t going to get the story behind the comment, he said, “That’s nice.”

  At that moment it really didn’t matter. Marc looked as if he’d found his heaven, his mood now cheerful, which was exactly what Trevor had hoped would happen. Maybe after he was gone, Marc would come down here on his own and put something on that big blank canvas sitting there like an elephant in the middle of the room.

  “Let’s string the popcorn while all this dries, then we’ll fold them into bows for the tree,” Trevor suggested. He grabbed the ball of string and unraveled three arm’s lengths of it. He snipped it off and handed one end to Marc. They threaded both ends through needles so they could work from the middle out.

  “Sure,” Marc said, but his gaze was still on the snowman. Trevor couldn’t get a read on what Marc might be thinking, but he got the impression Marc wanted to keep painting. If he was right, the door had been cracked, and Marc wanted to open it all the way. Good.

  “What do you do for fun?” Trevor asked, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

  Marc flicked his eyes up, meeting Trevor’s with brows raised, and said, “I’m having fun right now.”

  Trevor smiled and then nudged Marc’s knee with his. “I am too, but what else, aside from work?”

  Marc’s frown returned as he dropped his gaze back to his popcorn-stringing task. “I haven’t had time for much of anything beyond work.”

  “After you make partner, then. What do you want to do in your free time?”

  Marc shrugged. He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Maybe I’ll paint.”

  Music to Trevor’s ears. “I hope you do,” he said. “But I wouldn’t wait. Don’t let a day go by without doing something that makes you smile or satisfies your soul.”

  “Spoken like a true artist,” Marc said and grinned.

  No. Spoken like someone who knows the value of time.

  “Come enjoy this tree with me,” Marc called from the living room, where he was building a roaring fire in the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace.

  Trevor closed the dishwasher door and turned it on before taking one more look around the kitchen. Marc had said to leave the after-dinner cleanup until later, but his mom had raised him better than that. He couldn’t leave the kitchen a mess, and he wouldn’t let Marc help, either. The man had been gracious enough to offer him his home. Making sure he had a proper Christmas dinner was the least he could do to say thank you.

  He made his way toward the couch, but at the last minute decided to sit on one of the large leather chairs that flanked it. Not that he didn’t want to share the couch with Marc, but he knew he shouldn’t. Already after just one day, the place felt far too much like home for comfort. Ironic.

  Giving the fire one last stoke, Marc turned, a brief frown marring his handsome face, but he didn’t say anything as he sat on the couch—the end closest to the chair where Trevor sat.

  “The tree turned out beautifully,” Marc said, his gaze fixed on the fire, his voice soft and deep. Trevor felt the rumble of it as if they’d been sitting side by side.

  After they’d finished stringing the popcorn, they’d folded their paintings into bows, poked twisted paper clips into them, and hung them on the sparse branches. It was a total do-it-yourself job, but that was what made it the most beautiful Christmas tree he’d ever seen.

  “Not bad for a throw-together,” he said, suddenly missing his family. The kids would have done something similar, making their own decorations and popcorn strands, and he’d have been right in there with them. He’d called his parents earlier when Marc had been taking a shower before dinner, but it had only increased his homesickness.

  “Thank you,” Marc said in that faraway dreamy voice of his, the one Trevor was beginning to realize was Marc’s wistful if-things-were-different voice.

  “For?”

  “For wandering into the hotel the other day. For coming home with me yesterday. For everything today. This has been the best Christmas I’ve ever had.” Marc looked over at him, light from the fire flickering like gold in the warm depths of his eyes. “Because of you.”

  Trevor’s heart stuttered and then swelled in his chest as Marc burrowed a little deeper inside, taking up room and claiming a corner without permission. Why did he have to meet Marc now? Why did he have to meet him at all? As if the upcoming months weren’t going to be hard enough without meeting someone he could have had a life with.

  Marc leaned across the short distance between the chair and couch, bracing his elbows on the arm of the chair, and pressed his mouth to Trevor’s. Trevor meant to resist, but there were too many things bouncing around inside him—nostalgia and mourning and longing. Marc’s lips felt like fire and home and everything he’d ever dreamed of, and he gave in. Marc raised a hand and cradled the back of Trevor’s head, deepening the already-passionate kiss, and for this moment, he could pretend he was healthy, that there could be more, that his mom would get to wear her mother-of-the-groom high heels after all.

  They kissed until there was no more air left in his lungs and they had to pull apart, each gasping for breath. Reality rushed back in like a tidal wave, washing away the brief fantasy with it.

  “I’m just going to mention this one more time,” Marc started, “I promise. But when you get back from visiting your family in Connecticut, I’d like to see you again.” His eyes were dreamy and hopeful as he looked up at Trevor. “Say you would too . . . please.”

  Trevor tore his gaze away and fixed it on the crackling fire. He couldn’t bear to shatter that sanguine expression. Or the hope he knew had found a foothold in his own heart, but there was no other choice. “Marc, I . . .”

  Marc got up from the couch and kneeled before him, taking one of Trevor’s hands in his. “There’s something here, between us. I know you have to feel it too. It can’t all be in my head. Let’s see it through, see where it takes us.”

  Trevor squeezed his eyes shut, his heart aching for what he wanted but couldn’t have. Not for long anyway. He forced himself to meet Marc’s eyes. He owed Marc that much while he tried to explain his situation. “Marc, I can’t.”

  Marc opened his mouth, sucking in a breath, but Trevor held his free hand up to stall him. “Please, hear me out.”

  He nodded and leaned back on his heels, but his grip on Trevor’s hand tightened.

  “I do feel a connection with you, and I do feel there could be something there . . . if things were different . . . if time was on our side.”

  Marc cocked his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I . . .” He took a deep breath. Best to just rip the Band-Aid off and put it all out there. “
I have end-stage kidney disease. I’m on the waiting list for a transplant, but I’ve been on dialysis for seven years while waiting.”

  The color drained from Marc’s face and his Adam’s apple worked up and down, but he didn’t tear his eyes from Trevor’s.

  “These days people can live longer on dialysis, but less than ten years is still the norm. The day I met you? I saw my doctor that morning, and she told me my kidney function has dropped again. Meaning I’m on seriously borrowed time now.” A hollow laugh burst from his chest, and he had to look away. He focused on the fire, the way the flames danced and sang, reaching ever upward. “I’ve already been living on borrowed time since I started dialysis, but now it looks like my marker is coming due. If a transplant doesn’t come through soon, there’s a very real chance I won’t be alive to see next Christmas. I can’t go into a relationship knowing that. It’s not fair to anyone. Especially to you.”

  He risked a glance back at Marc, who hadn’t budged. Trevor wasn’t sure if he’d even blinked. His stare was so intense and transparent Trevor could practically see every word going into Marc’s brain as he processed what he’d just been told. No doubt using that intelligent mind to try to find a way around it, but there was no getting around this.

  “No one in your family can donate a kidney?” Marc’s voice was hoarse, like it took great effort for him to speak, and a piece of Trevor’s heart broke off, scraping painfully against his ribs as it tumbled away.

  Trevor shook his head. “Adopted, remember? None of us are a blood match.”

  “What about your biological parents? Did you try to track them down?”

  “Yes, for all the good it did.” Trevor had to look away again. The pain and fear and determination in Marc’s eyes was too much. “We found my mother, but she was a junkie who’d contracted HIV through sharing dirty needles. Even if we had been a blood match, she wouldn’t have been a suitable candidate. And my father was never listed, and she couldn’t remember who he was.” Once again he whispered a mute thank-you for the family who’d taken him in and called him their own.