by Liv Rancourt
“Oh.” Crushed, confused, Bo needed a minute before he could respond. “But… we’ll see each other again, right?”
Jon laid his palm against Bo’s cheek, the black leather cold and damp. “I hope so. What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Baking and shopping and, hey, maybe I could come over and you can help me make Christmas ornaments.” Idiot. He’s going to think you’re a grade-A geek.
But instead of running for the hills, Jon smiled. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but Dad sleeps a lot, and Mom and I could use a project.”
“Seriously?” Bo jammed his glasses on so he could get a better read on Jon’s expression.
“If you don’t mind all the black crepe paper hanging around.”
“What?”
Jon shook his head. “Bad joke. If you want to come over tomorrow, that would be great.”
“Okay.” Well, Bo’s dick wasn’t sure it agreed, but a promise of tomorrow was better than nothing. The light changed again. “I should—” Bo pointed at the street.
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved.
“Tomorrow?” Bo said, his voice little more than a whisper.
Jon lunged, grabbing him by the elbows and kissing him again. They broke apart, forehead against forehead.
“Tomorrow.” Jon squeezed his arms, then took a step back. Bo did too.
“On three,” Jon said, and Bo laughed. They both held up one finger and mouthed the words.
One. Two. Three.
Bo strode out into the crosswalk. Only when he reached the other side of the street did he look back. Jon had made it nearly as far as the next block. He shot a glance over his shoulder, and they both waved.
By the time Bo reached the door to his building, he had his phone out. There was already a text from Jon.
Tomorrow.
Grinning, Bo responded to the text. He didn’t so much climb the stairs to his apartment as float to the third floor. He let himself in and immediately set to work, pulling together the supplies he’d need to make ornaments and deciding which cookies to bring. If he kept himself busy enough, he wouldn’t get too caught up in the fantasy. The I-kissed-Jon-Cunningham fantasy and all that it entailed.
Because bottom line: the guy lived in New York, and Bo didn’t travel.
THE NEXT morning, he was still parading around in his sleep pants and bathrobe when his door buzzer rang. He lived in an older building, the kind with a narrow, rickety elevator that made the stairs his preferred route. There were two bedrooms—one for him and one for his craft and art supplies—plus hardwood floors, built-in bookshelves around the fireplace, and cove ceilings. He called the décor gay eclectic; he’d covered every inch of wall space with art and crammed the rooms with furniture and objects that intrigued him. The mix of wild color and eccentric detail made him feel cozy.
The door buzzed again, and he grabbed the old landline phone. “Good morning!”
“So you say.”
It was Rick, the owner of the fabric store. Bo hit the buzzer and invited him up. In the time it took Bo to pull on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, Rick had made it up the stairs. He gave the door a rat-a-tat knock.
“Happy day before Christmas Eve.” Bo bussed his cheek with a kiss and stood aside so Rick could come in. “Why aren’t you at the store?”
“Ruby is opening. I wanted to drop off the check for your last class.” He pulled an envelope out of the pocket of his double-breasted peacoat.
“You didn’t need to do that.” Bo swiped the envelope and waved him into the room. “But since you’re here, let me pour you some coffee.”
“I can’t stay, but I do have a question for you.” Rick’s angular grin turned sly. “Did anything come of Mr. Big & Bigger from the store the other day?”
Bo crossed his arms, giving Rick the prissiest scowl he could manage. “As a matter of fact, we had dinner last night, and I’m going to see him again today.”
“Ooh, sounds serious.”
“Hmph.” Bo rolled his eyes. “He’s only here for the holidays, so I don’t know how serious it can be.”
“You never know.”
“He lives in New York.”
“You never know.”
“I’m not that kind of—”
Rick was out the door before Bo could finish his sentence. I’m not that kind of… what?
Chapter Four
MOM HADN’T changed anything in Jon’s bedroom. The walls were still bare except for a single poster of an abstract piano framed by composers’ names in barely legible script. His twin bed was still made up with the same gray sheets and dark blue comforter. Everything had been dusted, even his old desktop computer, though who knew if the thing still worked.
The room hadn’t changed. Had he?
He lay in bed, his back protesting another night spent in the well of his worn old mattress. The knots in his shoulders distracted him from reliving The Kiss.
The First Kiss.
The first of many, he hoped.
Bo Barone. Spending time with Bo had been like coming in from the cold. For years, critics had said Jon played with technical brilliance but lacked passion. Bo was nothing but passion. Kissing Bo reminded him of those moments, so rare, when his analytical mind shut up and he could just feel.
And he’d gone and invited Bo over for an afternoon of ornament-making. The knowledge sat in his gut like a medicine ball from the gym. What the hell had he been thinking?
The answer to that last question was obvious, as proved by the sudden insistence of his morning wood. He wanted to see Bo again. That was it. Period. Full stop. And besides, spending time with the family had been Bo’s idea.
Jon reached down and wrapped his fingers around his cock. Bo was a little fussy, a little femme, but his heart was as big as the Pacific Ocean.
And his laugh lit up the corners of Jon’s soul.
He gave himself a tug, his dick jerking. This wasn’t going to take long.
“I don’t know, Anthony. The doctor said that if the first one didn’t work, you could have another one.”
Mom’s voice carried up the stairs. Shit. He groaned, his body giving up without a fight. He probably should have checked with her before inviting Bo over, but damn it, the whole house needed a dose of his friend’s energy. Dad slept most afternoons, so he could have Bo come over around two, and he’d promise Mom they’d be quiet.
Because unless she gave him a hard no, Bo was coming over.
Jon’s open suitcase sat on a trunk at the foot of his bed, and he’d hung his shirts and jackets in the closet. He didn’t want to wear any of it.
New York casual and Seattle casual were different things. He drew in a deep breath and let it go with a sigh. Time to get up, to get dressed, to fix things so Bo could come over.
He ended up choosing a pair of jeans, the kind with a pretentious label Willy loved, a plain white undershirt, and an old sweatshirt he’d found in the trunk. It carried the logo of the high school he would have gone to if he hadn’t gone off to be a classical pianist.
For the first time, he felt something like doubt, a subtle nudge, as if some subterranean emotion was working its way to the surface.
What fourteen-year-old knows enough to make that kind of decision? If he hadn’t done an online program, if he hadn’t spent most of his waking hours at the piano keyboard, would he be better at relationships in general?
Would he and Bo have hooked up in high school, maybe gone to prom together?
Raking a comb through his hair, Jon snorted, mentally stomping on that little flicker of excitement. Yeah, we’d have been the king and king of the prom. Before he could drum up any other bullshit fantasies, he jogged downstairs.
Mom was in the kitchen, her back toward the door, a dozen or so pill bottles in front of her on the counter. Jon tapped on the doorjamb before walking in, and Mom jumped as if he’d startled her.
“Sorry,” he said. He might as well have been twelve, scurrying across the room to ma
ke sure Mom wasn’t angry. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and for once she leaned against him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder.
He scanned the labels on the pill bottles. “Hydra… what? None of these drugs look remotely familiar.”
Her shoulders sagged. “I wish.” She picked up a random bottle. “This is to keep his blood pressure down, and this one”—another random grab—“helps prevent blood clots. The rest are for pain and to lower his cholesterol, and I don’t know what all else.”
“How’s he doing this morning?”
She shifted her weight, sliding half a step away from him. “Not too bad.”
“Because my friend Bo has to make a bunch of ornaments, and I told him we’d help.”
“What?”
Her yelp startled him. Her eyes were wide, but more like she was surprised rather than angry.
“Bo Barone, uh, the guy I had dinner with last night. He wanted to get together today, but I thought I should stay here with you and Dad, and he needs help with stuff, so….”
She picked up another bottle, holding it so she could read the label, and he waited to see if she’d respond. After a long moment, she set the bottle down with a sigh.
“Sure.”
“Are you sure?” He snorted. “Wait. That came out wrong.” He tried a smile, and while she didn’t return it, her scowl softened. “I mean, I know this isn’t the best time, but Bo’s a good guy. If things get to be too much, he won’t be offended if we ask him to leave.”
He based that promise on fifteen-year-old memories and the knowledge that Bo taught first grade in a Catholic school. It was kind of a stretch, but he felt pretty confident that Bo would be gracious if the afternoon went sideways.
“I look forward to meeting him.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
His mother finally returned his smile. “You know, it sounds like fun. I wonder if he could help me with the stockings.”
“Sure. He helped me find the supplies you wanted in the first place. Do you remember Bo from school? He and I were friends.” The sizzle down the center of his belly told him Bo was more than just an old friend. Bo was worth risking a little awkwardness for. “And he said he’s bringing cookies.”
She rolled her eyes. “How could I turn down cookies?”
And I might have him bring a string of Christmas lights or two.
He ended up not asking for lights, but Bo must have read between the lines. At the appointed hour—2:00 p.m.—he tapped lightly at the door. Jon had posted a note outside, asking him not to use the doorbell in case Dad was sleeping. Bo showed up with a full backpack, a dish of frosted sugar cookies, and a giant poinsettia. He’d toned down the swoop in his hair and his jeans fit like magic. Jon was entranced.
Or he would have been, if he hadn’t felt so self-conscious about the way they were living. The lights were off in the hall, and the air smelled of harsh soap and an undefined note of sickness. The late-day sun didn’t make much of a dent in the gloom, but down the hall, the kitchen glowed.
Jon stood aside so Bo could come in. Would a kiss be too forward? He decided he didn’t care, leaning in to brush Bo’s cheek with his lips. Bo returned the favor, although the height difference got in the way and his kiss hit nearer Jon’s chin.
“Can, uh, I help you carry something?” Jon smoothed the hair out of his face, his voice pitched low so they wouldn’t disturb Dad.
Bo’s smile was brighter than anything else in the house. “Sure.” He handed over the poinsettia and glanced around. “Where are we setting up?”
“Come on.”
Mom was waiting for them in the kitchen, their three old Christmas stockings spread out on the counter. She’d closed the door to the dining room and put on a holiday sweater. She’d even touched up her lips with lipstick.
Bo set the cookies on the counter and extended his hand. “I’m Bo Barone.”
“Now I remember you.” They shook, and Jon’s mood swung toward optimism.
“It’s been a while,” Bo said.
“You must have been in Jon’s homeroom in the sixth grade.”
Both of them grinned. “Yup.”
“Because I remember a couple of times, I had to separate you two so you wouldn’t cause trouble.”
Bo’s laughter set off sparks in Jon’s belly. “Mom.”
“I hope you remember me for more than that,” Bo said.
Jon waved him off. “Don’t encourage her.”
The whole conversation, even the laughter, was subdued, dampened by the man asleep in the next room.
“Are these the—” Bo drew circles in the air over the stockings.
“They are.” Mom gave a sheepish shrug. “I was hoping you could help me with them.”
“Absolutely.” Bo hoisted the backpack off his shoulders.
“Thank you so much. And what else did you bring us to work on?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” Jon said. “Show us the ornaments.”
“So here’s the backstory. Ten years ago, my sister had a premature baby. They spent a good two months in the NICU, and every year since, she’s made ornaments for all the babies there. She ran out of time this year, though, and asked me to make them.”
Bo set the backpack on the counter and unzipped it. “I brought stuff to make teddy bears.” He pulled out a folded piece of brown felt. “I’ve got a cookie cutter to use as a pattern, and then there’s this stuff”—he brought out a plastic box with lots of little drawers, each filled with beads or sequins—“and some glitter. We cut out the teddies, decorate them, and give them hangers.”
While he talked, he pulled out another plastic box, this one with tubes of glitter, and a couple of other folded bits of felt in bright red, blue, and green.
“This’ll be fun!”
Jon blinked at his mother’s enthusiasm. So, it wasn’t only him. Bo had that effect on everyone.
Mom put the poinsettia in a prominent position on the corner where the counter formed an L, an overhead light shining down like a spotlight. Jon helped himself to a cookie and got scolded by Bo, and Mom offered them coffee or cola.
Once they had drinks and another cookie, they settled in to work. Jon took on drawing the teddies on the felt, using a cookie cutter as a guide, and then cutting them out. Mom and Bo spent a few minutes strategizing the repairs on the Christmas stockings, then turned to the ornaments, with Bo doing as much coaching as working.
“For a guy who works with his hands, Jon darling, that’s some pretty sloppy snipping.” Bo set his glue gun aside and held up a teddy with one arm cut shorter than the other.
Jon kept his expression deadpan. “He moved.”
Bo shot him a glittering grin. “They do that sometimes.”
Mom’s giggle tripped something in Jon’s heart. She’d been dealing with his father’s stroke on her own. Yeah, they had old friends and neighbors who were willing to help, but she was the one who’d had to drive to the hospital every morning.
That’s when she left at all.
The chalk pencil slipped out of Jon’s fingers, leaving a swath of white about an inch long on the felt. No one noticed. Mom was too busy asking Bo about his first graders. Jon rubbed at the swath with his thumb, torn between gratitude and self-reproach. His life spread out in front of him, a series of choices that had ended up in a Manhattan studio, a manager, an agent, and a decently busy concert schedule.
Willy had booked him a recording with the Philadelphia Philharmonic for two weeks in January. He had a concert series with a chamber ensemble in Denver in February. He had church dates in New York, and a spring event in Vermont. He made a decent living as a pianist, dammit. That’s what he’d worked so hard to do. He had a right to his life.
Didn’t he?
The answer wasn’t as clear-cut as he hoped.
“Okay. This little guy’s done.” Bo set the short-armed teddy bear in the line he’d started near the backsplash, making half a dozen finished. Glue gun in hand, he dragged another blank f
elt teddy to the workspace he’d staked out.
Mom had her own glue gun, though she worked slower, methodically arranging sequins and setting beads in their center. “How many of these do you want to make?”
“As many as we have fabric for. There are usually thirty or so babies in the unit when we bring the ornaments in, and I want to have enough for all of them.”
“Sounds good.” Jon set down his chalk pencil and picked up the scissors.
He dropped them in response to a knock. His father stood in the doorway to the dining room. He leaned against the jamb for support, his left hand curled in a loose fist, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “Dad?”
“What’s going on?” The words had a breathy quality, as if he needed most of his energy to stay upright.
“Hi, Mr. Cunningham. We were making ornaments.” Bo stepped into the space created by surprise. If he noticed Dad’s cadaverous appearance, he didn’t let on.
As if freed by Bo’s words, Mom rushed over. “Hey, you’re up.” She slipped her arm through Dad’s and half turned toward his bed. “I must not have heard you call. Can I bring you something?”
He shook her off. “I’m fine. Just wanted to see what was going on out here.”
Jon sat frozen, unsure of whether to be embarrassed or pleased. He hadn’t warned his father about Bo’s visit, and he didn’t want things to turn awkward.
“How about a chair, then?” Bo had apparently never met a stranger. The small kitchen table had two café chairs, and he slid one of them in Dad’s direction. Dad sank into it, and both Mom and Bo fussed over him, getting him settled and asking if he needed something to drink.
“Tea,” Dad said. “Tea would be good.” His words were slurred from the aftereffects of the stroke.
Mom had a grip on his shoulder like he might disappear if she let go. The specificity of the task helped free Jon from his state of shock, and he hopped off his stool.
“I brought cookies,” Bo said. Of all of them, he was the only one who sounded remotely normal. He lifted a green-frosted sugar cookie, its surface dusted with a soft golden sheen.