Unwrapping Hank

by Eli Easton

  “I know!” I falsely enthused right back. “It’s amazing! I gotta go.”

  “Je t’aime, mon fils! Adieu!”

  I hung up the phone and lay there, staring up at the white ceiling. It reminded me of my prospects for the holidays—a flat, uninteresting, blank canvas. With cracks. And mysterious stains.

  Hot, unhappy emotions roiled around in my gut like overly spicy food. I just wanted to get the fuck out of here. But not only was I not going to Greece, I had no one to be with over the holidays. I was angry at my parents, but I knew I’d never express it. Trying to make them understand that it wasn’t okay to ditch our plans at the last minute because something more exciting came along was pointless. They’d invited me to go along, after all, and that was their Get Out Of Jail Free card. I’d be cast as the one who being unreasonable if I bitched about it.

  If they’d let me know a month ago, I might have been able to make other plans. But now… now I was looking at being alone in the frat house over Christmas, me and probably the other five losers on campus who had no one to go home to.

  Fuck this. I needed coffee.

  I walked into the kitchen, feeling pathetically sorry for myself.

  “’s up, Gregore?” Micah asked. It looked like he’d just brewed a mega batch in the ginormous coffeemaker on the counter. He was in his flannel pj bottoms and a ratty old T-shirt and still looked painfully hip. And he’d made coffee.

  “I love you so much,” I said, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.

  Micah smirked. “I figured there’d be a lot of hangovers today.”

  He watched as I doctored my coffee. Micah brewed it strong, which was good, but no matter how much milk I added, it never tasted like the Parisian cafe au lait I loved. I felt a pang of homesickness. I’d asked my parents for an espresso maker for Christmas. It’d probably show up in the mail sometime in January. I sighed.

  “Why the long face?” Micah noted. “Finals are over, man. Life is good.”

  “Just had a sucky phone call,” I muttered.

  “What is it?” Micah stepped closer and leaned against the counter.

  I looked into Micah’s eyes, trying to decide if I should keep my mouth shut. But Micah’s brown orbs were the type that sucked confessions right out of you. Besides, I needed to bitch out loud to somebody.

  “My trip to Greece just got canceled.”

  “What? How come?”

  I leaned against the counter next to Micah. We were so close I could have rested my head on his shoulder and cried, which was a nice thought but was never, ever going to happen. I huffed. “My parents got a last minute invite to a wedding in Israel. They wanted me to go along but… I don’t know the people very well and, yeah, not my idea of a relaxing vacation.”

  “Oh my God, that sucks, bro.” Micah put his arm around my shoulder. “What a way to fuck up Christmas.”

  “Tell me about it.” I felt vindicated that Micah sympathized.

  “So what are you going to do if you’re not going to Greece? You can’t just hang here.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll take the train to New York or something.”

  “By yourself? Dude!” Micah squeezed my shoulder. “Come home with us. We’re only a few hours away. My parents have a big old farmhouse and plenty of extra rooms. They even considered doing a B&B at one point, but they’re too, well, weird.”

  I felt a tingle of hope, but I knew it was a bad idea. “I can’t just impose on your parents like that at the last minute.”

  “You don’t know my folks. They’re way laid-back. They won’t mind.” Micah insisted.

  “And Hank? Hank would mind. I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s Christmas just because mine is hosed.”

  “Hank? Hank would… love it.” Even Micah could hear how unconvincing his halting words were. We looked at each other and cracked up.

  “Wow, way to lie. You should go into politics.”

  Micah snickered. “Okay, look, I know for a fact Hank wouldn’t want you to spend Christmas alone. Besides, he hangs out with his friends when we go home. He’s hardly around. As for me, I could use the company. Most of my friends are married or moved away by now, so I’m stuck just sitting around with the ‘rents.”

  I studied Micah doubtfully. I really wanted to believe what he was saying, but I was still worried I’d be in the way. Besides, I was supposed to be getting away from Hank Springfield, so this was pretty much the last thing I should be doing for Christmas.

  “We live on a farm. It’s scenic. Amish county.” Micah wheedled, waggling his eyebrows. “Christmas tree. Snow. Dogs. Lots of dogs. Come on, that beats Greece any day.”

  I laughed at his raging insincerity, but honestly, a nice cozy family home did sound appealing.

  “Anyway, I can promise it’ll be more fun than sitting here by yourself. Come on, Sloane. I’ll even wear a Santa hat for you.” He hugged my shoulder tighter and gave me an expression that would have been a pleading pout if Micah didn’t look way too scruffy to pull that off.

  I felt a touch weirded out, honestly. Micah absolutely wasn’t flirting with me, because Micah was straight. But I was getting that vibe.

  What was it with the Springfield boys anyway? Was being cryptic and indecipherable in their genes? Apparently I was a sucker for indecipherable.

  “Check with your parents and make sure it’s okay. Seriously okay. I don’t want to put them out.”

  “No problem, I’ll call this morning. But I’m telling you, they’ll be totally cool with it.”

  “And Hank. It has to be cool with Hank.”

  Micah winked. “You leave my bad-ass baby brother to me.”

  * * *

  Hank

  “No way, man! Not Sloane!”

  Micah gave me his most exasperated glare. “Why? What’s the big deal? I thought you two made peace.”

  “We made ‘I don’t want to hit him when I see him in the halls peace.’ Not ‘I want to take him home for Christmas peace’. Christ!”

  Micah looked at me blankly, waiting for me to make sense. I tried to find the words. “Come on, Micah. He’s from Paris. What do you think he’s gonna make of our farm, huh? It’s embarrassing.”

  “Our home is embarrassing to you?” Micah asked with a frown.

  “No! Not to, like, normal people.” I knew that wasn’t really the problem. But I couldn’t even put into words why this was so wrong. I tried a different tack. “Look, Christmas is our downtime. I want it to be relaxed, just us. I don’t want the frat house shit there.”

  “Hank, Sloane is just a guy. No one says you have to be all uptight around him except you. You put that on yourself.”

  “What are you trying to do anyway, Micah? I mean, seriously? You’ve been pushing this guy down my throat for months. You said if I did the Christmas party, I’d be off the hook for the year. Now this?”

  Micah folded his arms, his face getting pink at the temples the way it did when he was angry, which was almost never. “Hank, believe it or not, and I know this is a news flash, but not everything is about you. Sloane was upset because he was dumped at the last minute by his parents, and he didn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas, so I invited him. I would have done the same with anyone in the house.”

  “Right,” I muttered.

  “Seriously. How would you feel if Mom and Dad called up today and said ‘Sorry but Christmas is off. We have something else we want to do instead.’”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “And he’s a freshman and not from around here. He has no family, and everyone else already has plans. I don’t want him spending his first Christmas away from home all by himself on a deserted campus.”

  “Yeah, poor Sloane,” I muttered. “Doesn’t get to fly to Greece for the break. Boohoo.”

  Even as I said it, I wished I could take it back. I sounded like an ass. Micah looked at me with his you-just-really-disappointed-me look. I hated that look.

  “Sometimes, I don’t recognize you,” Micah sai
d softly. “Where’s the little kid who used to invite people in the grocery store to come home with us because they looked ‘hungry’ or ‘sad’? Man, where is your compassion?”

  Oh fuck me. I supposed it really would suck for Sloane to hang out on campus by himself over Christmas. And there was no way I could tell Micah the real problem, that I was trying to avoid Sloane because… because he made me feel confused and out of control, and I didn’t need that shit.

  “Besides, you always hang with Stan, so you won’t even be around that much,” Micah added.

  That was true. I didn’t have to spend much time at the house. “Fine. Ho ho ho! Just… he’s your invite. He’s your responsibility.”

  “No problem,” Micah said with a cocky tone.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I have absolutely no problem hanging around with Sloane. Your loss.” Micah patted my shoulder and walked away.

  For some reason, that didn’t make me feel any better.

  ~7~

  Sloane

  MICAH and Hank were driving home that same afternoon, so there was no time for me to suss Hank out or investigate other options. Micah said he’d called his parents and they were happy to have me and furthermore, Hank was cool with it. I didn’t exactly believe him, but it wasn’t like I had a better option.

  I got a text from Micah that said ‘rock n roll’ so I headed down to the car. I found myself in the passenger seat as we waited for Hank, who’d gone to turn in one last paper. My stuff and theirs was loaded in the trunk and brightly-wrapped packages were piled in the back window. I swear, Micah had gotten gifts from the entire frat house and half a dozen girls, and maybe they’d already shopped for their parents too. His Hyundai felt like a ecology-minded, twenty-first century equivalent of a sleigh laden down with packages—packages, suitcases, and three hormonal college guys.

  Well, two. Hank had yet to show up.

  “This is really generous of you,” I told Micah with wide eyes. “It’s a true reflection of the Christmas spirit. Like, I could be Tiny Tim and you could be Scrooge after the third ghost worked him over.”

  Micah laughed and flicked my ear. “You’re coming for entertainment value, Gregore. I can’t wait to see your face.”

  “My face? Why am I getting the feeling you left something out when pushing this Norman Rockwell vacation package?”

  Micah gave an evil laugh. “Too late now, victim mine.”

  I would have dug for details, but the back door opened.

  “Thank God this semester’s over!” Hank climbed in the backseat of the Hyundai, his bulk causing the already overburdened little car to sway precariously. “That paper was a bear. I think I have bleeding on the brain.”

  “How’d you think you did on your finals, Bro?” Micah asked.

  Hank shrugged. “Guess I passed.”

  Micah gave Hank a funny look in the rearview mirror, but didn’t say anything.

  “Hank, I was just keeping Micah company while we waited,” I said, turning around to look at him. “Let’s switch. I’ll ride in back.”

  “No, way. I’m gonna crash. I’ve been up studying all week. You have Micah duty. Make sure he doesn’t wreck the car.” Hank slouched down and let his baseball cap cover his eyes. Apparently that was as social as he was going to get on this trip. Please. Stop. No. I can’t take all the holiday cheer.

  Honestly, I was exhausted myself. I’d had four finals that required a lot of memorization of anatomical parts and pathogen names, and I’d had to crunch at the last minute thanks to the time I’d spent on the party. But I couldn’t leave Micah to drive alone.

  Once we were on the freeway, he gave my knee a pat. “Hey, I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am that your plans got screwed up. Are you really close to your parents?”

  I considered it. “I don’t know. I’m an only child. I always got the feeling my parents had me because they thought they should, and they love me and all that, but they’re not huge fans of little kids. They always treated me more like an adult.”

  “Hmm. It’s too bad they’re so far away. How’d they feel about you coming here for college?”

  They didn’t get it, was the short answer. I could still remember the long family discussions we’d had over ‘my future’. They didn’t get the vet thing, at all. And they couldn’t comprehend why I wouldn’t rather attend a school in a ‘real city’ like London or Paris or New York.

  “My parents are both therapists,” I said. “They don’t ever tell me I can’t do something. They only discuss it to death and point out my other options in a sincere hope that I’ll come to my senses and do what they would do.”

  “Which you don’t.”

  “Never,” I smirked.

  “Dude.” Micah took one hand off the wheel and held a fist out to me. We did our secret shake thing. “So what about dating? Is there anyone on campus you like?”

  “No one in particular,” I hedged. The truth was, I could have dated if I hadn’t been stuck on one particularly massive bundle of muscles.

  “Come on, man. You’re killing my illusions. I always thought it would be a lot easier to get laid if you were gay.”

  “What?” I laughed.

  “Yeah, I mean, with girls they always have to pretend they don’t want it, or hold out til date x or whatever. I figured with two guys it would be a lot more straightforward.”

  “It can be. If you both are openly gay and you’re both attracted to each other. Believe me, that doesn’t happen as often as you’d think.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Micah took his eyes off the road and gave me an undecipherable look.

  “Yeah. I mean, sex, yes, if you just want sex and you don’t care who with, you can find it. But I’m sure it’s the same for you. There are probably bars you could go to where you’d pretty much be guaranteed to get laid, if you didn’t care with whom.”

  “You have a point,” Micah said. “There is the matter of quality versus quantity.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So… there’s no one at school? There’s gotta be some other hot gay guys.”

  Jesus, Micah was being persistent. And the use of the word other was another barely-audible ding on the strange bell. Was Micah saying I was hot? Was it merely an observation?

  “Not especially. Just getting my feet under me this past semester. Maybe after the New Year.”

  “Fair enough,” said Micah. “So I bet your parents were fun when you came out.”

  I barked a laugh and then turned to see if I’d woken Hank; I hadn’t. “Oh my God. You have no idea.”

  The mood lightened. With glee, I proceeded to tell Micah the story of my coming out to my parents at age sixteen. I told him about the Kinsey scale diagram that had sat propped up on the dining room table for a month, and the lecture on gay sex my parents had dragged me to at the Sorbonne. The enthusiastic Frenchman who’d given the talk had been flaming, and I’d wanted to die as he pontificated on the correct preparatory procedure and after care for anal sex, illustrated by explicit pictures he put up on a gigantic screen while I was trapped sitting between my parents. I told Micah about the offer my dad had made, at a dinner party with six of my parents’ nearest and dearest friends, to procure me a high-priced female ‘sex worker’ to help me determine whether I might not be ‘slightly bi or pansexual’. I had Micah laughing so hard, it was a miracle we didn’t wake up the dead. But Hank slept on.

  “Oh, Gregore,” Micah wiped his eyes. “You are in for such a culture shock.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him in a silent question, and he nodded out the window. I’d been so busy talking I hadn’t registered that we’d left the highway. We were now driving through a calendar-worthy landscape of snow dusted crop fields, rolling hills, quaint farmhouses, and old barns and silos. We passed a stone farmhouse with a black Amish buggy and horses out front. I stared out the window and rubbed my thumb over my lips.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

&nb
sp; “This place isn’t, like, Deliverance, though. Right?”

  Micah started mimicking that Dueling Banjo song. Dear dear DEAR dear dear dear DEAR dear dear. I joined in.

  Apparently, this was what it took to finally get through to Hank’s snoozing subconscious, because he sat up and yawned, bleary-eyed. “Man, I was having the weirdest dream about a pig.”

  Micah and I howled.

  * * *

  Micah and Hank’s house was just outside a little town called Mount Joy. The town was big enough to have a major chain supermarket and an old-fashioned main street, but it was still tiny as far as I was concerned. After passing through all six blocks of shops, we headed down a rural road and then pulled into a driveway.

  “This is it,” Micah said.

  The driveway was long, and the property hidden by trees, but they were bare this time of year. Through the gnarled limbs, I spotted a huge old farmhouse and barn. It reminded me of some of the French properties where we’d stayed on the weekends, houses hidden away and surrounded by fields and vineyards. But there was no doubt this was pure Americana, from the colonial-style house made from Pennsylvania fieldstone to the hex sign on the white barn and the big old silo.

  “My parents are into the homesteading thing,” Micah said. Before I could ask what he meant, two people and three dogs burst through the back door of the farmhouse.

  The Springfields were nothing like I expected. I guess I’d expected a conservative-looking middle-aged couple, with a mom like the ladies in the PSU admin department who wore their hair permed and their pink and blue cardigans extra-large, and a dad who’d look like one of my professors. The Springfields were not that. The woman, who had to be Hank and Micah’s mother, hugged Micah for a long moment with spontaneous ejections of holiday bon mots while their father all but pulled a slow-moving Hank from the backseat and hugged him just as tight and hard.

  It was weird to see the man who’d raised Hank Springfield show such affection, and to see Hank return it unabashedly. Hank’s father was lean and looked strong, like someone who worked hard with his hands. He had long auburn hair, tucked behind his ears and tinged here and there with gray. He also had a big, full beard, which was almost solid steel in color. He wore old faded jeans and a flannel shirt under a beat-up khaki coat. He was good-looking for his age, honestly. Now I knew where Hank and Micah had gotten their looks.