Chapter One
All around the harbor, candy-colored Christmas lights shimmered over the masts of sleeping sailboats, on the branches of leafless trees, and in the windows of dark and dormant shops.
The drawn-up hood of Paul’s coat blocked all these lights, revealing only their zigzag reflection in the road before him, a road rippling with a downpour so cold it verged on sleet, so harsh it couldn’t dream of being snow.
A sudden gust blew back his hood and loosened his scarf in one fell swoop. He stopped beneath a shop awning to rewrap himself out of the rain.
The store in front of him called itself “an olive oil and vinegar taproom,” which totally fit the upscale profile of this waterfront area. A display of agrodolce bottles sat beneath a sign that read For the #Foodie in your life!
His heart gave a reflexive lurch, his mind bouncing from Ooh, perfect gift for him to He’s gone, you idiot.
Paul turned away, zipping and snapping his coat all the way up this time. Then he did one last scan of the harbor’s main square. Surely there’d be a single sign of life.
But despite the festive lights, not another soul was wandering these soggy streets. Every shop owner and restaurateur, being of sound mind, had gone home to snuggle their sweetheart, or tuck their tiny tots into bed so the final toys could be assembled.
Paul sighed. Annapolis was beautiful all decked out for the holidays, but he would’ve traded every inch of prettiness for one open bar.
He headed uphill, away from the waterfront. Just because the touristy places were closed didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a hole-in-the-wall joint catering to random strays and lost sheep.
A trilling flute noise came from his pocket, his sister’s signature ringtone.
He answered, maxing out the call volume to hear her over the downpour. “Hey, Care, what’s up?”
“Just the family falling apart on Christmas Eve,” she said with typical Carolyn overstatement. “No biggie.”
“What’s wrong?” Besides the obvious.
“Mom’s mad you left, and Dad’s mad that Mom’s mad, but he’s also mad at you for making Mom mad, and I’m trying to manage them.”
“You can’t manage—”
“Other people’s feelings, I know,” she said. “But I thought maybe, if you were not having a great time there, you’d consider coming home?”
“Care, it’s a fourteen-hour drive between here and Iowa, a fact with which I am painfully familiar, because I just did it yesterday.” The car version of jet lag still haunted his head, giving him that fuzzy, half-squeezed feeling around the eyes.
“I’ll pay for a flight,” she said, “a round-trip one so you can get back to Maryland next week to look for an apartment.”
He made a noncommittal grunt and kept walking uphill past cheerily painted turn-of-the-century row houses.
“How’s Annapolis?” Carolyn prompted.
“The weather sucks. But he’s not here, so overall a huge improvement over Cedar Rapids.”
“I get it,” she said. “I really do get why you left, but will you at least think about coming home? We’re all worried about you, Paul.”
“I promise to think about it.” He would probably overthink about it. “I’ll let you know by midnight.”
“Okay, buttface. Don’t get too drunk before then.”
“Hey, that’s a slanderous writer stereotype. I’m no Hemingway, as critics are constantly reminding me.”
She laughed. “I’m calling you at midnight if I haven’t heard from you.”
“I’m sure you will.” He stopped at the corner so he could focus on what to say. “Thanks for checking in, Care. It means a lot, even if it is annoying.”
“What are little sisters for? Bye!”
Paul stuffed his phone back in his pocket, smirking at their silly joke. At forty-four, she was seven years older; but at five-four, she was an entire foot shorter—which, she argued, made her the little sister forever.
He looked to his left, where a few blocks away the white dome of the Maryland State House gleamed against the dark sky, the rain making its silhouette shimmy like an old movie reel. If he walked in that direction, he’d be back at his bed and breakfast in no time. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon he’d be home with his family, who would greet him with hugs and pies and understanding.
Paul turned right and continued his search. Before going back, he had to make one last attempt at forward. He had no idea what forward looked like, only that it needed to be interesting enough to overwrite year-old memories.
The sidewalk changed from brick to concrete, potentially a good sign. Any neighborhood with a dive bar probably wouldn’t have fancy brick sidewalks.
As he trudged, the rain fell harder, pelting his hood so he heard nothing but its relentless rattle, like he was inside the world’s least soothing white-noise machine.
Finally he stopped beside an unassuming wooden church, where the figures of a life-sized nativity scene huddled beneath the eaves of their stable. It was tempting to evict a shepherd so he could squeeze in to escape the storm, but that would probably be a sin against Christmas or something.
He looked up and down the street again, stamping his feet to bring feeling back to his toes.
And there it was.
On the next corner sat a tavern with a blinking green sign that read Live Music. People-shaped figures moved about in the dim space within.
Halle-freaking-lujah.
Giving a tiny fist-pump, Paul stepped off the curb—straight into an ankle-deep puddle.
He drew back, yelping from the cold. “Jesus Motherfu—” He bit off the word and glanced at the nativity scene. “Sorry.” The Holy Family remained serene, though the donkey seemed to be giving him the stinkeye.
He hopped over the puddle and hurried across the street. The “live music” would probably feature Christmas carols, but right now he’d take a kazoo band playing a Cats medley just to see a fellow human in the wild.
Paul pulled open the tavern door. Toasty air swept over him, bearing the scents of clove and cinnamon. A bluesy piano riff came from his right, along with a wistful male voice singing The Eagles’ “Please Come Home for Christmas”—a song to remind Paul of what he needed to forget, for one last moment before he eradicated every brain cell housing those memories.
In other words, an excellent song to get drunk to.
He pushed back his hood and headed for the nearest corner of the square-shaped bar. A young bartender stood there drying a beer mug while watching the piano player. His face wore a crooked frown that matched the music’s mood.
At the sight of Paul, the bartender flashed a broad grin, his Hollywood-white teeth contrasting with his dark skin. A set of raggedy reindeer antlers waved limply atop a crown of shoulder-length dreadlocks.
“Welcome! What can I get you? And before you answer, can I interest you in our drink special? One night only.” The barman jazz-handed toward a chalkboard that read Mulled Wine - $5 in pale-green chalk. Beneath the 5 lay a poorly erased 10.
Paul could never resist a clearance sale. “I’ll take a large.”
“Fantastic.” The bartender pointed both index fingers at him. “I knew it the second I saw you. I said to myself, ‘Jackie, my man, that is an adventurous drinker.’” He pulled an Irish-coffee glass from under the bar. “Back in a blink.”
As Jackie disappeared through a swinging door, Paul took off his gloves and used them to wipe rivulets of rain from the front of his coat. He needed to hit the men’s room to wring out his soaking sock, but first he’d stake out the best people-watching spot.
To Paul’s left, at one corner of the bar, a man around his age with close-cropped sandy hair sat alone, holding an empty lowball tumbler by the rim and slowly rotating it on its bottom edge. His jaw, square as a window pane, shifted from side to side.
To his right, a man and a woman sat near the bar’s other corner, each holding but not drinking a half-full glass of red wine. They perched close enough to be a couple, but their bodies angled away from each other as they stared at their phones. With screen lights paling their impassive faces, they sat motionless, disconnected, as if trapped in an Edward Hopper painting.
A recessed ceiling light shone upon the piano man, picking out silver hairs among the black. At a two-top beside the piano, an old man sipped what might have been a gin and tonic through a fat green straw. He swallowed, then smacked his lips and nodded at his drink like it was the best one—or maybe the last one—of his life.
The song ended on a familiar trickle of melancholy notes. Paul clapped, along with the gin-drinking guy. Without acknowledging the applause, the piano player took a sip of amber beer from the pint glass beside him on his bench. Then he readied himself, fingers poised over the keys like the claws of a swooping falcon.
Semi-sweet chords drifted from the instrument, but Paul couldn’t place the song from this intro. Then the melody began—no vocals this time, just subdued piano tones.
He blinked away the wave of heat threatening his eyes. Of course it would be Wham!’s “Last Christmas.” The absolute last song he needed to hear tonight.
A deep groan came from his left. The guy with the sandy hair was shaking his head hard, palms clamped over his face like a basketball player who’d just blown an easy dunk. Then he lightly pounded his fists against the sides of his head, eyes squeezed shut.
What was going on there? Did the song also remind Sandy Hair of a lost love? Did it loop endlessly in the soundtrack of his memories, the way it did Paul’s?
His brain shifted into writer mode, as it always did when too much pain pressed upon it. Maybe if Paul observed him long enough, this guy could unknowingly star in his next book—whatever the hell that was. Paul could construct any narrative he wanted, fuel his imagination with a few details and a quart of mulled wine.
Or…he could walk over there and discover the real story. It was Christmas Eve, after all. If ever there was a time to help someone, to ease the ache of a quietly desperate life, tonight was the night.
Paul approached slowly, surfing his palm over the red vinyl–upholstered barstools as he passed, noting a few holes from ancient cigarette burns. “Hey, are you okay?”
Sandy Hair opened his eyes. Wow, they were blue. Like, blow-your-mind blue. “What?”
“You looked distraught, so I figured—”
“Who are you?” the man snapped.
“Nobody. I was standing over there and saw you angsting out.” Paul took a single squishy step back, slipping his hands into his coat pockets to look more at ease than he felt. “Never mind. It’s cool.”
“Wait.” The guy glared into his empty glass. “What happened to the bartender?”
“Jackie? He went to get my mulled—”
“How do you know his name?”
“He told me.”
“You’ve been in this bar less than two minutes and you’re already on a first-name basis?”
Maybe this was a bad idea. Or maybe it was a good idea that just needed a skosh more time to reach its potential.
Paul shrugged. “I guess I have that kind of face.”
Sandy Hair tilted his head to examine him. Then his expression softened a fraction, like butter over low heat. “Yeah. You do have that kind of face.” He nodded to the empty barstool beside him.
Paul sat quickly, whipping off his coat and scarf and tossing them over the next stool to dry. “I’m Paul, by the way.”
The guy hesitated, a wisp of uncertainty shadowing his face. “David.”
“Hi, David. So what just happened that got you so vexed?”
He made a dismissive wave. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t care if it’s stupid. And you don’t know me, so why would you care if I know something stupid about you?”
David opened his mouth, clearly taken aback by Paul’s forwardness but maybe just tipsy enough not to care. “I’ve lost Whamageddon.” He looked at his watch. “With two hours and eleven minutes to go.”
“Sorry, what-ageddon?”
“Whamageddon. It’s an internet thing. Starts December first, and the goal is to make it to Christmas without hearing this goddamn song.” David made a chopping gesture toward the piano. “Supposedly cover versions don’t count, but I think that’s a copout. Go big or go fuck yourself, as my grandma used to say.”
That last sentence sounded like a story all its own. “What happens if you hear the song before Christmas?”
David lifted his empty glass in a mock toast. “You join your fellow fallen warriors in Wham-halla.”
“You’re right, that is stupid. But in a good way.”
“Told you.”
The fact they were both sitting on the corner of the bar—rather than side by side—meant Paul could check him out without looking overly intense. Now that they were closer, it became clear that David’s eyes weren’t pure blue but rather had a green undertone, like the ocean far from shore. The same blue and green colored his flannel shirt, which, despite its coziness, looked as though it had been carefully ironed.
“So is Whamageddon like fantasy football?” Paul asked. “Did you have money riding on it?”
“God, no. I would never sully Whamageddon with a bet. It’s a matter of pride between me and my friends in the neighborhood. You can’t put a price on bragging rights.”
“Well...” Paul leaned closer and spoke behind his hand. “I won’t tell your pals if you won’t.”
David gave a theatrical gasp of mock shock. “Do I look like a man without honor?”
“I don’t know.” He threw a glance down David’s frame, then back up to meet his eyes. “What does an honorable man look like?”
There. Signal sent. If David was strictly straight, his body language would blare No thanks or maybe even Fuck off. These days, a little low-key flirtation usually wouldn’t bring on a punch, but Paul readied himself to dodge one, just in case.
David’s eyes narrowed but stayed locked with his.
“Aaaand here’s your mulled wine, my friend.” Jackie placed Paul’s drink on a green bar napkin. “Sorry it took so long. I had to strain it, then…” he twirled his finger above the glass mug “…add all the magic.” He turned to David. “Another for you, or did you still want to close out your tab?”
“Another, please, Jackie.” David pushed his empty glass toward the bartender, then offered Paul an inscrutable look. “I’m sticking around.”
* * *
Eight years after the end of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, David still found it hard not to greet a come-on with alarm. For half his career, a single chance encounter on a lonely night of liberty could cost him everything.
These days, it was safe to be out. Safe to find short- or even long-term companionship. Yet here he was, drinking himself numb on another Christmas Eve, as carefully, cautiously alone as ever.
Thank God Jackie had interrupted them just now, since David had no good comeback to Paul’s line. His flirting skills had gone rusty—not that they’d ever been well-oiled in the first place.
Paul peered down into his mulled wine, a sardonic smile visible through dark facial hair that lingered halfway between stubble and beard. “There’s a lot going on in this glass.” He stirred the ruby-red liquid using its cinnamon stick garnish, pushing around an orange slice, a lemon wedge, and a piece of star anise. The citrus-y scent stung David’s nostrils.
Paul set down the cinnamon stick. “Here goes.”
“Godspeed.” David kept a straight face. This guy was about to find out why no one ordered seconds of Jackie’s liquid concoctions.
Paul blew on the wine, sending forth a cloud of steam, then took a big swill. His eyes widened as he touched his throat. “I think I just scorched a hole in my esophagus.” He coughed hard, clasping the front of his gray V-neck sweater. “I’ve always wondered how it felt to drink battery acid.”
“Trust me, Jackie’s eggnog is even sketchier.” He saw the man in question approaching with his drink. “Can you make that a double?”
“Absolutely.” The bartender looked at Paul. “How’s the mulled wine?”
“It’s…” Paul nodded vigorously. “Yeah.”
“Great, let me know when you’re ready for another.”
“Sure thing!” Paul raised his mug to his lips, then set it down without drinking as Jackie walked away. “Is there someplace I can dump this?” he whispered, peering around at the near-empty tavern. “Where’s a potted plant when you need it?”
“All the bar’s flora already gave their lives to save ours.” Not top-notch banter, but it got a smile out of Paul. “You know,” David added, “you’re not legally obliged to drink the whole thing.”
Paul’s shoulders sagged. “But he was so happy when I ordered it. When I walked in, his face was as long as...” He seemed to search for words, then gestured to the bar around them. “Everyone else’s here. Including yours.”
“Nah, I was chock-full of comfort and joy until I got Wham’d.”
“Of course you were.” Paul smirked, but the benevolence in his hazel-brown eyes softened the sarcasm.
Jackie arrived with the double bourbon and placed the napkin over the usual knot in the bar’s wooden surface. “Watch out, Davy. The McSaltys’ Cold War is heating up.”
David looked at the couple at the other end of the bar. The Kendricks weren’t always here when he stopped in after work, but when they did appear, they made a show of ignoring each other. Now they were actively bickering. “What is it this time?” he asked Jackie.
“Typical Christmas kerfuffle stuff—whose parents’ house they’re having dinner at tomorrow, who was supposed to buy a gift for the nephew, who’s having the more objectionable affair…”
Paul sat up straighter. “Wait, really?” He peered at the Kendricks, as if he wished he were sitting close to them instead of David. Maybe he was merely seeking entertainment.
“Don’t worry, they’ll never break up,” Jackie said with a flip of his hand. “They enjoy each other’s misery too much. Hey, whatever floats their boat, right?” he added over his shoulder as he breezed away.
David slid his tumbler toward Paul. “Not passing judgment on your masochism, but if you’d like an alternative…”
Paul did a double-take. “You ordered that for me?”
“For us to share.”
“Well, cheers, then.” Paul took a tentative sip. His eyes widened again as he swallowed. “That is crazy good. Probably even better if I hadn’t just burned off half my taste buds.”
“It’s ocean-aged.” Explaining Whamageddon had no doubt made David look absurd, but this topic could help him save face. “The barrels were put aboard a ship as an experiment, to see how the bourbon would react to being at sea—the salt air, the temperature fluctuations, the rocking of the vessel. And this was the result.” He shut up before he could add how the bourbon took on a briny taste from breathing the sea air, or how the sugars in the barrel caramelized to make it taste a bit like rum. No need to veer into pompous-ass territory.
“Hooray for science.” Paul held up the tumbler and studied the dark-sepia liquid. “How long does this stuff stay on the boat?”
“Long enough to visit five continents and cross the equator four times.”
“Hm. If it didn’t taste like heaven, I would say that’s a marketing gimmick.” He offered the glass, its bottom nestled in his palm. “Your turn.”
David took the drink, letting his littlest finger brush Paul’s thumb in the exchange. Their eyes met again, barely a glance, but enough to confirm the previous spark wasn’t a fluke.
His next sip was small, since he was already 1.75 sheets to the wind. There was a fine line between being charmingly relaxed and stupidly sloshed. “So what brought you here tonight?” Christ, that was barely a half-step above Do you come here often?
Paul gestured to the shelves of gleaming bottles behind the bar. “What else would bring me here?”
Right. Stupid question. Might as well bravado it out. “You tell me. Why aren’t you at home in front of a fireplace reading ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’ to a crowd of adoring children?”
“I don’t have kids.”
“No wife, either?”
Paul rolled his eyes as he took back the tumbler. “Oddly enough, I never found time to marry the girl next door.” He rubbed his ear, which stuck out slightly from beneath his wind-mussed, rain-splattered brown curls. Those protruding ears, along with his freckled nose, gave him an aura of impishness that his wry smile only enhanced. Though not conventionally handsome, Paul was hard to look away from.
“I’m here in Annapolis tonight,” Paul continued, “because I need to find an apartment ASAP. I’m a visiting professor at St. John’s College next semester.” He held up crossed fingers. “Hoping it’ll turn into a permanent position.”
That didn’t explain why Paul was in a bar on Christmas Eve, but David was in no position to judge. “St. John’s, huh? I hear they’re good at croquet and, uh...” He squinted up at the wood-beam ceiling in pretend thought.
“Reading the classics.”
David snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Two skills that today’s employers are clamoring for.”
Paul laughed. “St. John’s is a bit of a throwback, but that’s part of what drew me there. It’ll be an adventure for sure.” He sipped the bourbon and mmm’d again. “The dean told me they have this intense cross-town croquet rivalry with the Naval Academy. I mean, how bonkers is that sentence I just uttered?”
“Croquet gives the Johnnies one thing to feel superior about. But I’ll tell you a secret.” David leaned closer as he reached for the glass. “We let them win.”
“We?” Paul drew back a few inches, hopefully in surprise rather than dismay. “Okay, that explains the high-and-tight cut.”
“It’s shorter than Navy regs require.” David ruffled his own hair. “But I like it.”
“No, it looks great on you. For my own head I prefer hair that keeps me warm on nights like this.” Paul picked up the cinnamon stick and twirled it through his mulled wine. “A sailor, huh? How long are you on dry land? So to speak, I mean, because the land is, um, pretty wet tonight and…yeah, never mind.” He gave a sheepish grimace.
Maybe David wasn’t the only nervous one.
“Officially I’m ashore forever. I’m what the Academy calls a Permanent Military Professor. I’ll keep teaching until I leave active duty.”
“And when will that be?”
“About a millisecond after I die.” Yikes. “Sorry, that sounded less melodramatic in my head.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. You’re allowed.” Paul took a smaller sip of the mulled wine. He winced again. “Ugh, why am I doing this to myself?”
Because you’re a nice guy. Was it too soon to say that out loud? It might not even be true.
Paul lifted his hands and applauded in the direction of Martin, the bar’s most talented performer, who had just finished his extended remix of “Last Christmas.” It had been months since David had seen the woman who used to accompany Martin on stand-up bass. Perhaps their breakup was the cause of the piano man’s recent run of sorrowful tunes.
As usual, sweet old gin-loving Eduardo clapped and hooted extra loudly. He’d probably forgotten his hearing aid again, which would explain why he was sitting only a few feet from the piano.
A new song began, its melody equally familiar but ten times as haunting.
Coldplay had released “Christmas Lights” in December 2010, the same month Congress had finally pried open Uncle Sam’s padlocked closet so gays and lesbians could serve openly in the military. It should have been the happiest holiday of David’s life.
But after fifteen Christmases of pushing away anything and anyone that threatened his career, after fifteen Christmases of Sorry, I told my family we’re just friends…there had been no one left to celebrate with. After so many sacrifices on the twin altars of fear and ambition, sacrifice itself had become a hard habit to break.
Even here and now he was blowing it, drifting into memory and regret instead of connecting with the real person beside him, this bedraggled puppy of a man who would risk an ulcer just to make a bartender happy.
David turned back to Paul.
“So what do you teach?” they asked each other in unison. Then they laughed and said, “You first”—also in unison, which made them laugh harder. God, this was awkward.
“In my family,” David said, “house rules state the youngest goes first, which is probably you.”
“Maybe not. I just turned thirty-seven.”
“Forty-two.”
“You’re older than you look. Must be the hair.” Paul jutted his thumb at himself. “I teach literature. You?”
“Nuclear engineering.”
Paul coughed. “Wow, I was expecting something jarhead-y like Artillery 101 or Advanced War-Crime Rationalization.”
David would have bristled if not for the twinkle in Paul’s eye and the warmth of booze in his own veins. “I’m more of an egghead than a jarhead. Jarheads are Marines, by the way. That’s my dad and big brother.” Was his dad and big brother. “I’ve spent most of my career on submarines.”
“No way! What kind? Assuming there’s more than one kind of submarine. I have no idea.”
“There are three types, basically: attack subs, guided-missile subs, and ballistic missile subs. I was on the last kind.”
“Ballistic like…” Paul used his hands to form the head of an expanding mushroom cloud.
David nodded. “That’s why we call those subs ‘boomers.’”
“So you were just scooting around under the ocean, ready to end the world at a moment’s notice?”
“Pretty much.”
“Holy shit, that is so goth.”
David laughed out loud. That was a new one. “Yeah, back in the nineties we used to dress as Grim Reapers, but our scythes kept getting caught on the bulkheads.”
Paul grinned. “I can see how that might ruin the whole vibe. Still…my God, I’ve never met anyone with a job like that before. What kind of life was it?”
David took a moment to find the right word. “Busy.”
Paul pointed his cinnamon stick at him. “Not the answer I was expecting. Busy doing what? Besides driving the sub and getting ready to unleash holy hell on the planet.”
“Running drills. Studying for the next qualifications. Watching out for other subs. Cleaning.”
“Cleaning?”
“Constantly. Even us officers. Even the captain. With a hundred and fifty crew members in a confined space, it starts to stink pretty fast if you let it go. Not to mention the potential damage to equipment.”
“That makes sense.” Paul did an actual eyelash-flutter. “So did you wear one of those cute sailor outfits with the smooshy hat and the carefree blue tie?”
This man had a unique way of describing things. “You mean the crackerjacks? Those are for enlisted members, and not for everyday work.”
“So what do officers wear underwater? I’m picturing the Beatles’ outfits in Yellow Submarine.”
“Nothing so flashy. Tan shirts, khakis, sometimes coveralls if we’re getting our hands dirty. Between the drab clothes and fluorescent lights, a sub is a pretty unsexy place.”
“I bet you wore it well, though.”
David tugged at his shirt collar and shifted on the wobbly barstool. Was it getting hot in here? Was he letting down his guard too much? Christmas Eve wasn’t meant to be spent alone, according to all the songs. But solitude was safe, right? Solitude was sound. And with a top-secret security clearance, solitude meant never having to say you’re sorry.
But every detail David had offered was available via Wikipedia or SubmarineSailor.com. If Paul started poking deeper, inquiring about exact specs or schedules, this conversation would end.
“Sorry.” Paul held up a hand. “I can be too much sometimes.”
“You’re fine.” It was true as soon as he said it. Sometimes—tonight, at least—too much was just right.
Jackie arrived then, with two glasses of the ocean-aged bourbon and a basket of homemade spicy holiday Chex Mix. He set a tumbler in front of each of them and gave Paul a knowing smile as he picked up their empty shared glass. Then he walked off, this time without a word.
“Dude was paying attention,” Paul said.
“Jackie’s uncanny.” David lifted his napkin. “See this little knot in the wood? For some odd reason, I always put my drink there to cover it. Eventually Jackie noticed, and now he leaves it right on this spot.”
Paul raised his new glass, making the bar’s little white Christmas lights dance on the surface of the dark liquid. “Shall we drink to observant bartenders or to your secret disdain for wood knots?”
“Both.” David touched his tumbler to Paul’s, took a sip, then pulled the Chex Mix basket between them. “Have some. Jackie’s snacks are as good as his mulled wine is bad.”
Paul scooped out a handful onto his bar napkin. “I’m gonna need something to soak up this very special bourbon.”
David reached for the mix himself, his stomach growling. With the Academy on winter break and his normal schedule disrupted, he sometimes forgot to eat three meals a day. But being around Paul made him hungry. “So, have you always been a teacher?”
Paul shook his head as he crunched a red tortilla chip. “It took a while to figure out it’s the only job with benefits that I’m halfway decent at. Wow, cayenne pepper.” He gaped at the rest of the tortilla chip before popping it in his mouth. “Plus, a university position allows space for my real work, the only thing I have talent for.”
“Chatting up strangers in bars?”
Paul pointed at David. “Close. I am a professional bullshitter, i.e., novelist.”
“Well, now we’re even, because I’ve never met one of those. Have you written anything—”
“That you’ve heard of? Doubtful. I make a half-decent living, but I’m not famous.”
“I’ve read a lot of books by non-famous people.”
Paul looked down at the brass bar railing, sliding his fingers back and forth over it as he spoke. “See, this is how it goes: I tell you my novel titles, then you make a pity face and say you don’t know them. Then I feel bad, even though I know ahead of time that you don’t know them. And then you feel bad for making me feel bad, and soon we’re looking at our watches and finding an excuse to exit via different doorways.”
David took off his watch and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Does that help?”
Paul swiped a hand over his face, which might have been blushing, then rested his cheek on his fist and regarded David. “Seriously, though.”
“Seriously, though, what?”
“That’s the name of my first novel: Seriously, Though. It’s about a comedian who falls in love with someone who, as a result of a traumatic brain injury, has zero sense of humor.”
David laughed, then covered his mouth. “Sorry, that’s hilarious. But also tragic.”
“As is the book. Then there was Marriage of Inconvenience. The In has parentheses around it, just so people are aware of the irony. I argued with my publisher for weeks about those fucking parentheses.”
“Were you arguing for or against?”
“I’ll never tell. Then I took a more solemn turn, hoping to be taken seriously. But Songs of Innocent Experience was a sales flop. It’s still my favorite, though.”
“A William Blake riff. I like it.” When Paul made an impressed face, David added, “Just because I’m an engineer doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy literature.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t assume you only read tech manuals and magazines like Nuclear Fuckery Weekly.” Paul tapped his ring finger, still counting off. “My last novel fell smack dab in the middle of the comedy-tragedy scale, which turned out to be the sweet spot, commercially speaking.”
“And it was called…”
“Taxi Dancer. I wanted to call it Hold Me Closer, Taxi Dancer, but that would’ve been anachronistic.”
“What’s a taxi dancer?”
“About a hundred years ago there were these women who would dance with guys for a dime—in dance halls, not on the street. Anyway, I wrote the gay version of that, a little historical romantic fiction.”
“And people bought this?”
“Hey, don’t be shocked,” Paul said. “Some readers are tired of the same old boy-meets-girl routine. And why should straight people hog all the happy endings?”
If only David had asked himself that question twenty-five years ago—or five years ago, for that matter. He pulled out his phone. “I can order this online?”
“Anywhere good books are sold, as they say.”
David brought up a browser with his favorite indie bookstore’s website already open in one of the half-dozen tabs. A quick search on Paul’s latest title brought up the novel. The cover was bright red, but David couldn’t make out details without his reading glasses, which he never bothered bringing to a bar.
He tapped on Paul McCafferty, revealing all the books he’d mentioned, complete with a big-name publisher and starred reviews from Kirkus and Library Journal. “Wow, you weren’t kidding.”
“Why would I make that up? Other than to impress you.”
“Writers are naturally curious.” He added Taxi Dancer and Songs of Innocent Experience to his cart. “That’s why being a novelist makes good cover for asking lots of questions about my job.”
“Cover?” Paul furrowed his brow, then his eyes popped wide. “You thought I might be a spy?”
“It’s happened before.”
Paul gasped. “You spilled state secrets to a fake author?” he asked, his voice dipping to a whisper.
“No.” David pressed the order button. “But she tried.”
“Ah—she. That’s why you weren’t taken in.”
“It didn’t help.” David scanned the room, unable to simultaneously look at Paul and talk about his own sexuality.
The Kendricks—or the McSaltys, as Jackie called them—were speaking over their shoulders to each other in hisses, their faces pinched and their words drowned by the music. Near the piano, Eduardo cradled a fresh drink in both hands.
Jackie stood beside the cash register, frowning at his antlers. He tried to straighten them by pinching the cloth to even out the filling. Still they flopped over like beagle ears.
In this grim scene, on this loneliest of nights, had Paul gravitated toward David out of desperation? If they spent the night together, would it be only that—one night, or even just a few hours’ escape from the crushing void of yet another solitary Christmas?
Paul’s knee pressed against his. David looked down.
“Oh God, was that you?” Paul shifted on his seat, moving his leg away. “Sorry, my knees are everywhere. I thought I was nudging part of the bar.”
Sure he did. “No worries,” David said. “In fact…you can leave it there if it’s more comfortable.”
“You know, I think it might be.” The side of his knee brushed David’s, then came to rest, unobtrusively, against it. “Yep. I definitely feel more relaxed.”
“Good.” David smiled down into his glass as the outside of his knee became the warmest part of his entire body, maybe the warmest any part of his body had been for a long time.
So what if this turned into a casual Christmas hookup? Such things could no longer destroy his life. It would be a relief to spend one night—especially this night—in the arms of someone as cute and kind as Paul.
Maybe that would be enough.
1
ROWAN
“Are you sure you want me to drop you off…here?” The kindly middle-aged beta woman asked me, her expression pained. It was dark on Main because of the hour of night, and I didn’t quite recognize all the buildings, but I knew where I was. Back home after a really long time.
I smiled sweetly. “I’m fine from here.”
“Are you sure?” She looked down at my middle. Even though I had on a big coat to ward off the cold, it was still obvious I was very pregnant.
I was not sure, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “I don’t have far to go. Thank you so much, I appreciate it.”
She wasn’t convinced, but she nodded anyway. “Take care of yourself.” I stepped out onto the sidewalk, she pulled off, and I was alone.
Hitchhiking had been stupid, but I had exactly zero dollars to my name, so I had to take the chance. I took it as a good sign that someone so kind had brought me the rest of the way from Vegas. Maybe an early Christmas miracle?
I stumbled as I trudged through the light dusting of snow. I blinked at it, glittering under the streetlight, vaguely aware that we almost never got snow in Seven Corners. Have things changed so much since I’ve been gone? In the time it took me to have that thought, I lost my balance and weaved to my right, falling up against the brick facade of one of Main Street’s buildings. Had this always been here? I wasn’t sure. I cupped my belly, now so huge even using my arm barely helped me hold it up.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the babies inside me. “I’m doing my best. I’m gonna figure this out. Somehow.” For only the millionth time, I regretted my decision to bond with he-who-shall-not-be-named. I knew he was bad news, but I let my insecurities and lack of self-esteem keep me from seeing I deserved better. Well, my self-esteem certainly hadn’t improved very much, considering my situation. I was away from him, though, and that was an improvement. I just needed to find my way again, that was all.
There was almost no one on the street at this hour. I was afraid to ask a stranger for help this time of night, and almost even more afraid of running into somebody I knew, lest their judgement and scorn finish me off.
Tyce. He popped into my head out of nowhere. I was back in town, so would I run into him? It had been years, almost a couple of decades. He wouldn’t even recognize me and if he did, what would it matter? No way an alpha like him didn’t have some gorgeous omega who’d popped him out a half-dozen puppies by now. I wish it had been me, but it wasn’t. Time to put away childhood fantasies and face reality. I had babies to care for. Twins, for sure. I could do this.
I took another step. Then another, then another. I rested my hand on the wall when I came to a door with light glowing through it. I was cold and needed to be indoors, just for a minute to think, to figure out my next move. My belly moved, my children active within me. Not very active, though, and it scared the daylights out of me. I let my head fall against the wall, overwhelmed. I’d go inside, just for a moment to think and warm my fingers and toes. I leaned my head back to look up at the sign. It read “Carlos’ General.”
I pushed the door open and walked in, the ornaments on the little wreath jingling, the warm air brushing my face with a whoosh. I let out a sigh of relief, flexing and extending my fingers, letting them warm up.
The inside of the store was overflowing with everything you could imagine, in no discernible order. Looking to my left, there was a socket wrench set. To my right, there was a package of Christmas ornaments. Looking straight ahead, there were snacks. A whole sleeve of Oreos probably wasn’t the best idea right now, but it sure as heck sounded good. My stomach rumbled.
A few moments later, an older gentleman poked his head into the aisle. He smiled when he saw me, coming closer.
My inner bunny caught a whiff of him and wanted to run. Wolf. I steeled myself, patting my belly. This was an older alpha man with a very gentle aura, it was obvious from his smile. Besides, there was something familiar about his scent, something soothing and comforting. I needed all the comfort I could get right about then.
“How can I help you?”
“Oh, I’m just…I don’t have any money to buy anything. I just needed to get out of the cold for a minute, then I’ll move on and get out of your hair.” I tried for a smile.
The alpha man looked down at my belly. “That’s just fine. No need to rush. Why don’t you sit for a minute, get off your feet?”
Right now sitting sounded like the best thing in the world, even better than food, which was really saying something.
“Could I? Just for a second. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not, trust me. It’s been a quiet night, I could use the company.”
I followed him to the back of the store. The radio played softly, Los Reyes Del Norte. How did I know that?
Behind the back counter, the gentleman pulled out a chair for me. I had just gotten out of a car, but it still felt so good to be sitting I had to blink back tears. I was sicker and weaker than I originally thought, but I didn’t have money to seek any medical care. Moving slowly would have to do for now. Food and shelter, those were my main two goals at the moment.
“What brings you in this time of night?” Oh, no. He was asking me questions I didn’t want to answer. I wanted to, though. Wanted somebody to listen to me, to care about what I was going through.
“Just got back in town.” I tried to keep it short.
“From?”
“Vegas.”
He nodded sagely. “I see. There must have been trouble for you in Vegas.”
I tightened up. Was it that obvious? “What makes you say that?”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I can tell you have a baby or two on board.” He nodded toward my belly. “It’s late at night, you’re alone, with no alpha or even a friend. You’re cold, tired, and you were eyeing those Oreos like a shark eyes a wounded seal.”
I dropped my eyes, ashamed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“Please don’t be sorry, young man. All of us fall on hard times in our lives. Plus, it’s the holiday season.” He produced a pack of Oreos from his pocket. “Here. A little early Christmas present.”
I looked between him and the Oreos, already salivating. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. What’s one pack of Oreos when they’ll mean so much to you?” I ripped the package open and stuffed one in my mouth, embarrassed but ravenous. I nibbled, my bunny nose twitching as the rush of sugar and chocolate lit up my brain.
“Thank you so much, Mr…?”
“Ramirez. Carlos Ramirez.” I stopped chewing. That’s why he smelled so familiar. It was Tyce’s dad. What were the chances?
“Shit,” I spat under my breath. If there was anyone I didn’t want to see me, it was Mr. Ramirez. Well, technically, I didn’t want Mr. Ramirez to see me because I didn’t want his son to see me. A little smile came to my face when I thought about Tyce. It dropped off just as quick. He’d probably give me a look of disgust if he saw me. Or even worse, a look of pity, like I was a pathetic little thing. Not little, because I was much taller than him, but I would feel small. Tyce isn’t like that, my brain corrected. He never was. I got aroused just thinking about him. Did he still look the same? It didn’t really matter, he’d still be sexy to me no matter what.
“And your name is?”
“Rowan,” I answered.
“That’s a pretty name for a pretty omega. Very unique.” He tapped his chin. “It sounds familiar. You went to Seven Corners High, didn’t you? You know my son, Tyce.”
I looked left and right for someplace to hide. You’re being silly, Rowan.
“Yes, I knew him,” I admitted, sticking my fingers in my mouth to bite my nails. “It was a long time ago.”
“Time doesn’t erase happy memories.”
A little smile crossed my face, thinking of our interactions back in the day, and how special he made me feel. “No, they don’t.”
Luckily, Mr. Ramirez got distracted by the crinkling of my empty Oreo wrapper. “Dios mio. I think we ought to get you somewhere where you can get some proper food and rest.”
I looked at him with big, wide eyes. “Where’s that? Is there an omega shelter nearby?”
Mr. Ramirez shook his head. “You won’t be going there tonight.”
That raised my spirits. “Then where, Mr. Ramirez?”
“Call me Carlos.” He slapped his thighs and stood up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
I stood up, too. I was slow and careful, because I had no choice with my bulging belly, but I still got light-headed. I swayed a bit before dropping back down on the chair.
“Rowan, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just food and a bed, like you mentioned, and I’ll be as good as new.” I wasn’t sure if that was the case, the way my health had been declining since I left Vegas, but I didn’t want to be any more of a burden than I already was.
Mr. Ramirez- Carlos- went to flip his sign to “closed” and turn off the shop’s lights, then he came and offered me his arm. I took it and I followed him out to his car, wondering where he was taking me.
We ended up just inside what I remembered to be Bolder territory. I tried hard not to stare at Carlos as I wondered if what I’d heard about what happened to both the Bolder and Ramirez families was true. If so, it broke my heart. I wasn’t gonna ask, because even after all this time, it probably hurt like hell to talk about it.
All the lights were out when we got there, but a bit of insistent knocking brought a lady to the door, dark-skinned and regal with a crown of microlocs piled on top of her head.
The scowl on her face when she opened the door was quickly replaced by a smile when she saw who it was. “Oh, Carlos. How are you? Is everything alright?”
“Got somebody I’d like you to meet.” He ushered me forward and I stepped into the light of the doorway, my head bowed and my hands folded in front of me, under my belly.
The lady looked me up and down. “Oh, my. Y’all better get in here.”
After quick introductions, Carlos held out a hand, indicating I should go in before him. I took a slow step into the cozy house. The heat was inviting. Even more so was the smell of food. My nose shifted to its soft, pink bunny form and wiggled like mad.
Miss Sadie caught my nose wiggle. “Hungry?” I dropped my chin and nodded, embarrassed that I couldn’t hide it. She showed me to the couch. “I’ll heat you up a plate.”
I sat down on the couch and let out an involuntary moan. I felt good to be off my feet, in a place that was warm and welcoming, on a comfy, cushy sofa.
A scent caught my nose, and as I looked at the sofa I noticed a few stray cat hairs. Miss Sadie was a cat shifter. Looking at the back of the couch, I noticed the slight indentation, right under the window, that must be the spot where she liked to loaf. As I took a few more sniffs, my inner bunny grew more alarmed.
The scent of an animal that could hunt a bunny, even a small one like a cat, made me extra wary in the late stages of my pregnancy. There were also slight traces of puma scent, multiple pumas, and they were alphas, too. Her sons, maybe? They were probably good, upstanding guys, if my first impression of Miss Sadie was anything to go by, but it still made the bunny in me want to hide. My stomach soured with nausea, and the room swam a little. My instincts were to get to my alpha so he could protect me, but I didn’t have one anymore. A picture of Tyce jumped into my mind. I smoothed a hand over my belly. I wish I had made them with him.
Miss Sadie picked up on my discomfort immediately. “Scent a little too much for you?”
I nodded, my eyes wide with nervousness, my bunny nose wiggling. She patted my shoulder. “I’ll light a few neutralizing candles to calm it down a bit. Plus, they’ll look nice for dinner.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. You deserve to be comfortable, this time of year, in your condition.” She peered at me for a moment, clearly, having an inner debate. “I’m guessing I already have the answer to this question, but I’ll check anyway. Is there somebody I can call for you?”
“Please don’t tell anybody I’m here.” I was ready to beg.
“But, Baby, I’m sure you have family or somebody who’d want to know that you’re safe. I think…” She let her words trail off when she saw the look in my eyes, the desperation, fear, and sadness. “Let’s just get you warmed up and fed, how about that?”
“Yes, Ma’am, please and thank you.” She lit the candles, which helped calm the nausea, and disappeared into the kitchen, humming as she fixed me a plate of leftovers. A few minutes later she put a steaming plate down in front of me.
“Great timing. I just made a pot roast, and you could use something that’ll stick to your bones.” My eyes went as big as the dinner plate, looking at the mountain of beef, potatoes, and carrots. Not a moment too soon. I swear, I would have died from hunger if I had to wait another minute to eat. At least, that what my kits seemed to believe. I tucked in while Miss Sadie grinned, satisfied.
“Good?”
I could barely manage to say, “Mm hmm,” before I stuffed more into my mouth.
“Good. You enjoy, I’m gonna have a lil’ chat with Carlos.”
Miss Sadie and Carlos had a private conversation while I ate. I pumped my heel up and down, nervous about what they might be discussing. I just hoped they weren’t going to tell anybody I used to know, and for heaven’s sake, that they weren’t going to involve Tyce. Why would they, though? He had less than nothing to do with my situation. If they could give me some time to rest and eat, then point me in the direction of a shelter for omegas and children, I’d be on my way. I wasn’t looking forward to it, and even more of my health was draining from me just thinking about it, but I’d do what I had to do and figure the rest out later.
I ate until I couldn’t fit another bite in my stomach, which was smashed by the weight of my babies, then I ate some more.
“Not quite full yet?” Miss Sadie teased, walking back into the room.
I snickered. “There has to be some more room in here somewhere.”
Miss Sadie took my plate into the kitchen and dished more food onto it. “Those babies are gonna get it all for themselves anyway. Don’t worry, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Thank you a million times.” Well, whaddya know, there was more room. I ate until my stomach hurt. My head started nodding immediately after. I was more than exhausted, I was fatigued. Each of my limbs suddenly weighed a hundred pounds.
“Up to bed, then.”
“Huh?” I was confused.
“You’re staying here tonight. With me. I have a guest room all ready to go, no bookings tonight.”
“Oh. So you run a bed and breakfast sort of deal?”
“Just for fun. All of my needs are taken care of, and if they weren’t I have my sons.” Ah. That was her way of telling me not to worry about imposing on her financially tonight. That was kind of her to say, and alleviated a bit of my guilt and shame at taking up her resources. Thank goodness there were good people out there who helped where they could.
Miss Sadie helped me upstairs to the bedroom, after a stop at the bathroom first, of course. She pushed the door open for me and let me go in first. “It’s pretty cozy in here, but hopefully it’ll do until we find an alternative.” I hugged my belly. The full-sized bed looked like everything in the world right about now.
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you, Miss Sadie.”
“You can repay me by getting better, and taking care of those babies. Go’on lay down, now. Get.” She shooed me into the room. She didn’t have to tell me twice.
I peeled off my clothes, climbed under the covers, and was out the moment my head hit the pillow. In the moment, I didn’t even have time to worry about what was next for me. That would come soon enough.
