“Not much. Which is a bummer. She doesn’t hate my guts like my dad does, but she also won’t stand up to him. So fuck them, I guess.”
I nod vigorously. It feels rude to say fuck them, since they’re adults I don’t know. Instead, I find myself saying, “My mom died of cancer the spring of my sophomore year of high school and then my dad died in a car accident three months later. Now my sister’s off on some round-the-world vacation and didn’t even call to wish me a merry Christmas.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this. Maybe confessions are contagious.
“Now you went and made my thing look stupid.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid. I think it sucks.”
“Yours, too.”
Finn pulls out two plates and serves up the pancakes, five for each of us, in heaping stacks. He ducks into the refrigerator and holds up a can of whipped cream, giving me a questioning look.
“Obviously!” I’m offended he has to ask. He doesn’t know me very well. Yet, I think.
On the way to the dining room, we swipe silverware and load our pockets with syrup packets. “Where would you like to sit?” he asks. We stand at the head of the dining room surveying rows and rows of empty tables.
“Over there.” I point to a round booth in the far back corner that’s occupied at all hours, crowded with groups of friends studying over coffee or hanging out for long stretches. For once, I want to feel like I belong. Even if no one else is here to see it.
two
Finn
Christmas #6, 2013
My phone vibrates on the nightstand.
Who is calling this early? I don’t actually know if it’s early, but it feels like it is, and I don’t have the strength to open my eyes and check. I wait for the call to ring out and go to voicemail.
The phone starts ringing again. I groan. I am so fucking hungover. My mouth feels like I slurped down a decent portion of the Sahara Desert last night.
“Should you get that?” someone with a posh British accent asks from behind me.
Oh, crap. I brought someone home from the bar last night.
I never do that.
I rewind my memories to see if I have any recollection of who the man in my bed is, his name, or if anything happened between us. Nope. Nothing.
I lift the sheet and peek down to see if I’m clothed. Also nothing.
“Don’t worry, I was a perfect gentleman. We only made out a bit,” he offers. “Well, quite a lot, if I’m honest.”
I’m only relieved for a few seconds, then I’m offended. Wait, I’m a catch. I don’t go home with just anyone. Why wouldn’t he want to sleep with me? Also, why am I buck naked if we were only making out?
“You fell asleep,” the man continues.
Well, that isn’t super attractive. But if I fell asleep, why did he stay? That’s creepy, right?
“On my arm,” he adds.
Okay . . . not such a catch.
Before I turn over to get a look at Mystery Man, I dash off a prayer to the patron saint of one-night stands: Please don’t be ugly, please don’t be ugly.
He is definitely not ugly. Mystery Man is lying on his side with both hands tucked under his cheek. There’s a wry smile on his lips like he’s enjoying this. One rogue curl of almost-black hair droops onto his forehead and he reaches up to push it out of his eye. When he does, I clock a well-defined bicep.
Heat zips down through my stomach at the thought of him pushing me down on a bed. Did that happen? Or do I just want it to?
The next problem is that I have no idea what his name is, and both my roommates are gone for Christmas, so I have no one to introduce to him so I can lure him into introducing himself in return. Although maybe that’s a good thing. Evan and Bryce are fine living with a gay man in theory, but I’m not sure how cool they’d be about meeting a half-naked overnight guest in our kitchen.
My phone starts buzzing again.
“In my experience, when someone calls three times in a row, it either means they’re very angry at you or someone is dead.” Mystery Man props himself up on his elbow, interested to find out which it is.
I turn onto my back and stretch to grab the phone off the nightstand. Hannah. I said I’d be at her place by ten. I must already be late.
“Hello,” I croak out.
“Are you on your way?”
“What do you think?”
“Get up and get over here. It’s Christmas!” Clearly Hannah did not spend last night chugging vodka sodas at the Toolbox. She sounds positively chipper. I’m going to need about a gallon of coffee to match her level of enthusiasm.
“Okay, okay. I’m getting up. Give me an hour.” It’s a blatant lie. I’ve made the trip dozens of times, maybe hundreds—walk four blocks to the 6 at 116th, ride fifteen stops to Bleecker, switch trains to the F at Broadway–Lafayette, two stops to Essex, then a four-minute walk to Hannah’s—and it takes forty-five minutes on a good day. That’s when all the trains are running on schedule, which they won’t be on Christmas Day. This only gives me fifteen minutes to shower, get dressed, and deal with the man in my bed.
“An hour in Finn time means three hours,” she whines. She knows me well.
“It’ll be even longer if you don’t let me go shower. I’ll text you when I’m on my way,” I tell her, and end the call.
“Was that your mum?” Mystery Man asks, looking down at me from his vantage point propped up on his side. I’m afraid to lift my head and discover the full extent of my hangover.
“My best friend.”
“Ahh,” he muses.
This guy is in no rush to leave. “You must have somewhere to be. It is Christmas, after all.”
“Nope. No plans.”
Fuck. What are the odds? Well, pretty decent. You wouldn’t be getting obliterated at a gay bar on Christmas Eve if you had a loving family expecting you bright and early to open gifts. Or maybe you would, what do I know?
“Not spending the day with your family?” I press.
“They’re abroad.”
“So your friends, then?”
“With their families.” He has a mischievous glint in his eye that I do not like. He’s full of himself and doesn’t know how to take a hint. God, I just want him to leave so I can drink water directly from the bathroom faucet and crawl into a scalding-hot shower.
You can’t leave him alone on Christmas, says a voice in the back of my head. This is a massively inconvenient time to find a conscience. But I know the voice is right. I know how difficult it is to be without family on Christmas. I can’t believe I’m about to do this . . .
“You could join me and my friends if you want.”
“Splendid, I’d love to!” He beams at me with a smile fit for a toothpaste commercial. Definitely veneers. “You already invited me last night, but it felt rude to assume the invite stood given you don’t seem to remember the conversation.”
I groan and pull the covers over my head. Is it possible to die of embarrassment? Because now would be the time. I wait a minute for death to come in case the universe decides to do me a solid, but nothing happens. So I push myself up to sit against the wall that serves as my headboard, letting the blankets pool around my waist.