Season's Greetings (4 page)

I did, too. I enjoyed choosing gifts for my family. I did my own shopping, sure, but I had a budget and did a lot of my shopping at the bookstore. I had a reputation as a librarian to uphold, after all. Dad, however, was always so desperate; he was willing to shell out big bucks for the best gift, partly because he felt guilty for waiting till the last minute, and partly because he enjoyed the smiles on Christmas morning.

She handed me one of the boxes of mixed cookies we’d made. “Here, don’t forget this!”

I looked at the box. What a stupid thing to bring tears to my eyes. “Mom, I can’t eat all those cookies.” I could if Cris were sitting with me though. We’d sit in front of the tree, drink hot cocoa, eat cookies, and watch the lights twinkle while our favorite holiday movies played in the background. We’d maybe nibble cookies through
It’s a Wonderful Life
, maybe through
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
. We might even get crumbs in the bed.

“You can take them,” she insisted. Dad honked the horn, growing impatient. I accepted the box reluctantly. “Freeze them until Cris gets home if you want, honey.”

That was an option. I gave her a light kiss on the brow and called goodbye to the rest of my family as Dad honked impatiently again, revving the engine of his little ‘64 Mustang.

Chapter Five

Ordinarily, I’d have been bouncing in my seat or teasing Dad to let me drive. He never would, though. This car was his pride and joy, taken out of the garage for special occasions only. Christmas shopping was one of those occasions. Why he felt brave enough to park it in the mall parking lot on the busiest shopping day of the year, I didn’t know. But since that first time when I was twelve, it was a treat I wouldn’t question. Driving to the mall in the classic car, listening to the engine purr, I wished each year I’d get the chance to drive it one day. That day had never actually come, but I still dreamed of it. This car was more than half the reason I’d bought my own Mustang. Didn’t look like I’d ever share the ride with a son of my own, but still.

This year I wasn’t bouncing. I was realizing that I hadn’t done much shopping for Cris either. I’d gotten the kids their graphic novels, my brother his Douglas Adams. In fact, I’d chosen perfect books for everyone else. I hadn’t picked up anything for Cris. I knew why, too. I couldn’t stare at his gifts under the tree, knowing they’d still be there, wrapped in shiny paper and tied with silly bows, when all the others were gone on Christmas morning.

It was our tradition, his and mine. My family always opened gifts after Santa’s visit, in the early hours of Christmas morning. Cris’s family had the same tradition. We never spent Christmas morning together as a result. We always had Christmas Eve. We celebrated
Our
Christmas the night before and went to our respective families the next day.

I trailed Dad around the mall, pointing out new game systems, smart phones, tablet computers, and diamonds. He nodded, bought pretzels and soda, cookies—even though I reminded him that Mom was baking more as we shopped. He compared sweaters, and videos, and collected bags and boxes.

I watched. Frowning people hurried to and fro, whispering furiously into cell phones and pushing their way into stores. Everyone was single-mindedly focused on getting in and getting out. No one looked like they were having much fun. They didn’t seem to have the holiday spirit any more than I did.

Except, in the DVD store, while Dad searched for the latest teen vampire flick, I found a little out of the way corner near the documentaries, leaned against the wall, and watched. It was crowded. The theme of the season seemed to be—when in doubt, buy a DVD. A little ways away, a young boy—maybe five or six—stood with his mom, clearly torn between a military movie and a kid’s cartoon.

“You only have ten dollars, Mason,” his mother said patiently. “Which one do you think Daddy will like?”

The boy looked reluctantly from
Platoon
to
GI Joe
. He put the cartoon back on the shelf and patted it gently, then handed the other to his mom with a smile. I watched them wander off to the checkout, where the woman spoke briefly to the clerk. A few minutes later, while I still thoughtfully pondered the little interaction, she came back and picked up the cartoon as the little boy paid for his father’s gift.

I picked up both the cartoon and
Platoon
. Cris and I enjoyed movies, and I remembered
GI Joe
fondly as a child. I hadn’t seen the movie, but it might be worth a laugh on a Saturday morning in bed. I felt better after that. I had gifts for Cris, ones I was sure would make him smile, and I had a smile of my own.

After the DVD store, Dad insisted on getting Chinese at the food court. I trailed along behind him, letting a clerk pile lo-mein noodles and fragrant rice on a tray. The spicy orange chicken was aromatic and tempted me. My stomach growled. I was actually hungry it seemed, for the first time in ages.

Dad refused to let me pay and dropped his tray on a nearby table distressingly close to a jazz ensemble playing Christmas tunes with halfhearted flair. I stuck a straw in my soda and eyed him over the food. I looked up from my plate to catch a wince on his face as the saxophonist hit a sour note and the cymbals clanged discordantly. He caught my glance and smiled broadly. It looked somewhat forced, but it was a valiant attempt.

Something wasn’t right about this shopping expedition. We’d been all over the mall, he had gifts for everyone on his list, I had a growing pile of gifts for Cris, the DVDs, a sweater, some cologne I particularly liked. And yet, Dad was ambling along leisurely, eating and listening to the band playing music near the food court, as though there were no urgency at all.

“Dad…” I slowly chewed a bite of noodles. “Is there something I should know?”

He looked startled for a moment, and then shook his head. He flushed a bit, and I ate more food, waiting. He was a terrible liar. I watched as he shifted restlessly, and then shoved a huge bite of rice in his mouth.

I couldn’t believe Dad was really hungry, what with the pretzels and cookies and all he’d already eaten. It hardly seemed possible that he was starving enough to forget his table manners. The more he ate, the more convinced I was that he was hiding bad news. What more could it be? “So, Dad, is someone sick, dying, knocked up, or getting married?”

I shouldn’t have been so blunt. He choked on his noodles and gulped his soda. “No one! Jesus! Ben, what kind of question is that?”

“Dad, you’re acting strangely. We shopped. We got something for everyone, twice over. We should be rushing home so you can wrap this stuff and catch Mom under the mistletoe. Instead, you’re stuffing me, eating food you can’t stand, listening to music that usually drives you mad, and showing every sign of staying here until they kick us out. What gives?”

Then the other shoe dropped. It was another of my family’s well-meaning plots. “Mom told you to do this, didn’t she?”

He looked desperately relieved, nodding furiously. “She did.”

“She’s afraid I’ll be lonely and sad if I go home alone.” Sweet, but hardly necessary.

“She means well, Ben,” Dad put in, shoving aside his half eaten plate of food.

“I know. But it doesn’t matter, Dad. You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll miss Cris, but I want to wrap his gifts and get them under the tree. I’ll call him and we’ll talk through
It’s a Wonderful Life
and I’ll be okay. He won’t be here tonight, but he will be here soon and I’m an adult. I’ll cope with it.”

My voice rose as I went on, and my dad turned startled eyes from the band to me. “I know. But you don’t have to cope alone. You have family. It’s what we’re here for.”

Company would be nice. I nodded. “Okay. Fine…but can we just go watch a movie or something? I can’t eat any more mall food and this is by far the worst jazz version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” that I’ve ever heard.”

Dad jumped gratefully to his feet and gathered his bags. “Suits me. Let’s run this stuff to the car and hit the theater.”

Chapter Six

The moon rode high in the sky by the time I got back to my own house, and I was pleasantly tired. Dad and I had watched a movie, then headed back home to wrap gifts in the garage. It hadn’t taken long to wrap Cris’s gifts, but I think Dad was regretting his generosity once the eggnog pitcher ran dry and he was still fumbling with ribbon and wrap.

Wrapping is an inherited talent; I guess I inherited it from my mom, because Dad sure didn’t have the gift. Eventually we’d managed to get it all done and under the tree. I kissed my mom and thanked her, ignoring her faked look of surprise as I left.

At home, I bent to place my shopping under the tree, and something that shouldn’t have been there caught my attention. There was a new box under the tree, neatly wrapped in the same paper the dildo had been wrapped in. It was obviously another gift from Cris. My mom must have let herself in and placed it there for me while I was out with my dad. I felt again that funny little melty sensation and my lips quirked into what I was sure was a dorky smile.

I picked up the box and shook it slightly, but other than a muffled sliding noise, I got no clues as to the contents. I sat cross-legged on the floor and considered my options. I could open the box and see what was in it, then call Cris to thank him, or I could call him and we could open it together, as it were.

I pulled out my phone and hit the speed dial button for Cris. He picked up immediately. I paused in my greeting as a muffled sound at the back of the house tried to distract me.

“Hello, baby,” he purred in my ear.

“Guess where I am.”

Silence. “Where are you?” He sounded cautious.

“Sitting under the Christmas tree. Guess what I have in my hand?”

“Are you holding my gift?” Can you hear a smile? I swear I could.

“Yes. I’m opening it now.” I made a show of rustling the paper loudly into the phone as I pulled it off to reveal the square box. I tossed the paper aside to clean up later. “There, the paper’s off, now let’s see…” My voice trailed off as I noticed for the first time that a bit of yarn had been threaded through a hole in the bottom of the box.

“Did you open it, Ben?”

“Yeah.” I tugged at the yarn, a rough bit of cheery red. It didn’t seem to end. I rose slowly, tucking the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “Cris? There’s yarn. What’s this all about?”

“Follow it.”

Follow it? Okay, I wound the yarn around my hand, following it through the living room to the kitchen, where it was wrapped around a tray of cookies and a pitcher of eggnog.”

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“In the kitchen, there’s cookies and eggnog. Mom must have been here.” I put the pitcher in the fridge and the cookies in the cabinet. The yarn trailed on. I wrapped it around my hand, telling Cris about my parents’ kindness. The trail led down the hall to my bedroom door. I was running out of ideas about what was on the other end of this yarn. All I could really think of was that Cris had gotten me a kitten. Probably a full grown cat someone had dumped at the local animal shelter. Knowing Cris, a full grown, moody cat who would as soon scratch out my eyes as cuddle. He liked spirited things, Cris did.

It was the perfect gift, really. “I love you, you know?” I said as I pushed the bedroom door open.

“I know,” he said, tossing his phone on the nightstand and opening his arms.

I gaped like a fish out of water. In the middle of my bed, naked as the day he was born, only a hell of a lot sexier, was Cris, a bit of red yarn tied around one toe, and a huge red Christmas bow on the golden skin over his heart.

I dropped my phone and jumped on the bed, throwing myself on top of him.

He managed an “oof” before I closed his mouth with my own, and things were hot and heavy in seconds.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I whispered, pulling away to gaze in awe, to run my hands over his body. Was I dreaming? Cris smiled and pulled me down again.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You succeeded.” In the haze of lust a conclusion pushed its way forward. “Dad and Mom were in on this? That’s why he kept me out at the mall all day?”

Cris nodded again and apparently gave up on kissing for the moment. I forgave him for that as he trailed his lips across my collarbone to that sensitive spot. He had a plan, I could tell. Every movement was fraught with intent, every touch magnified sensation. Hard hands closed around my hips, dragging me in tight against his erection. The red bow was briefly crushed between us before he inched back a bit.

Cris’s mouth trailed hotly from my ear to my chin, and up again to my temple, his warm breath stirring the tiny hairs there. My own hands were busy reclaiming territory I hadn’t felt for what seemed like ages. I licked and kissed every bit of skin I could reach, gasping as he flipped us over, shifting so that he knelt between my spread thighs.

I reached to straighten the bow; it looked kind of sad all crushed. Cris pushed my hand away, and with a grimace, ripped it off.

“Son of a…” He bit off the last words as I pressed my lips to the slightly red spot the bow had so recently adorned.

“Hurt?” I whispered into his warm skin.

“Not anymore.” He breathed deeply. “We need to slow this down. I have things I want to say…”