by Kim Fielding
“Uh-huh.” Another swallow of wine, bigger this time. Atop the fake tree in the corner, an angel made of pinecones, lace, and glitter watched them, her pipe-cleaner halo slightly askew. The fire popped and crackled. Frank Sinatra promised to be home by Christmas.
“The column’s going okay,” he blurted at last.
“Which isn’t why you came here, but fine. We can go there for now. Yes, it’s going well. I’ve been getting a lot of emails over it.”
“Complimentary ones?”
“Uh, about 70 percent. Which isn’t bad. Your mother averaged about 80. Besides, even the complaining ones are good. It means people are reading.”
“What do you think of the column?” He popped another rum ball into his mouth.
“I like it. You’re more blunt than your mother, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Your advice is clear and logical. Compassionate too. I was especially pleased with the one the other day—the transgender girl.”
He’d been terrified about that one, actually. The girl was seventeen and not out to anyone in town. She wanted to know whether to tell her parents.
Alma continued. “I liked your emphasis on her safety being paramount and how she’s the best one to anticipate the outcome of her disclosure. You did a good job acknowledging that her feelings are genuine and that nobody has the right to define who she is. The list of websites and phone numbers was helpful too.”
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Bryce asked.
“I hope so.”
“Do you know who she is?” Not that he harbored fantasies of swooping in to rescue her, but….
“No idea,” Alma replied crisply. “It’s difficult in such a small town, but I try hard not to speculate about who writes the letters. It would be best if you did the same.”
“Okay.” He had burned his tongue on the hot chocolate but took another, more careful sip. It was good—made from scratch, not the powdered stuff.
“Have you reconsidered joining us for Christmas?” she asked.
“I told you. I have to—”
“And I told you. We can work around it.”
“I appreciate that, but this year I just want quiet.” Bryce leaned back into the couch cushions and closed his eyes. He’d spent a lot of time in this house. When he was a kid, his mother would bring him along and pass hours in inscrutable—and dreary—adult talk while Bryce played with the Bernard kids. They had a big video collection, which they were happy to share, or they’d all go out into the big backyard to play ball or run around with the family dogs.
Maybe he should get a dog.
“There’s this guy,” he said, eyes still closed as Nat King Cole proclaimed that Santa was on his way.
“And?”
“I… like him.” Jesus. He sounded like he was thirteen.
“Does he like you?”
Bryce opened his eyes to see a small smile playing around the corners of Alma’s mouth. “He’s straight.”
“That sounds like a really bad idea.” She tapped her chin. “Or a decent porno.”
“Alma!”
“What do you want me to tell you, honey?”
“Can I still be friends with him?”
She picked up her wineglass, downed the rest, and looked sorry there wasn’t more. “That’s up to him, I’d think.”
“But that’s the thing. I haven’t told him I have a thing for him. It would be… weird. So do I tell him and watch him back away, or do I keep my lips zipped and hope my libido changes its mind?”
“Wow.” She blew out a noisy burst of air. “That’s a tough one. If someone wrote a Dear Ruth letter with your problem, what would you tell him?”
He whimpered. “That honesty is the best policy.”
“Well, there you go.”
This time he moaned. Then he ate two more rum balls and guzzled cocoa. “It’s going to hurt when he backs away. Maybe I should make the preemptive strike and back away first. Just sort of… stop talking to him. I don’t have to tell him why.”
“If he’s your friend, won’t that hurt him? Or at least confuse him?”
Ugh. Of course it would. And why couldn’t Bryce face this issue like a mature, grown man instead of like a socially stunted adolescent? “I’m going to leave Bailey Springs,” he muttered. “I can go be a fireman in… what’s the opposite of Kansas?”
“Hawaii,” Alma responded immediately, as if it were a question she’d already considered.
“Hawaii. Palm trees. Ocean breezes. Mai tais. Dolphins. There are dolphins in Hawaii, right?”
“I believe so. And I’m sure there are fires that need putting out. But honey, Hawaii might be the opposite of Kansas, but you’d still be the same Bryce Reynolds. You can’t run away from yourself.”
“Can’t even take a vacation from the bastard.”
He had a second mug of chocolate and a glass of wine, then declined Alma’s offer to drive him home. Instead he walked slowly through the dark and the cold, a plastic container of rum balls clutched in his hands.
FIVE
Dear Ruth,
I don’t know what to do. I just finished my first semester at KU, where I’m majoring in chemistry. I like it okay, and Lawrence isn’t too bad. My parents are happy I’m not too far away. But I want to know what it’s like to live in a really big city. So I’m thinking of transferring to CUNY next year. I think it would be super exciting to live in New York City, but my parents are freaking out. What should I do?
—Wish I Wasn’t in Kansas Anymore
“EVERYONE WANTS to escape,” Bryce said to his laptop. Except Noah, who’d come to Bailey Springs knowingly and willingly.
He began to compose a reply:
Dear Wish I Wasn’t,
Run. Run away fast. Don’t look back, because
Shit. If he submitted that response, rioters would show up at the Gazette offices and demand his head. People in Bailey Springs were always worried about declining population, although things weren’t as bad here as in many other small towns. A meat processing plant had opened up a few years ago in nearby Lauper, and many of its employees elected to live in Bailey Springs because the schools were better. And although quite a few young people moved elsewhere, a lot of them—like Bryce—eventually moved back.
“This town grows on you,” his mother had said when he returned.
“Like mold.”
Yet here he was. Still.
Maybe he wasn’t in the right mindset for this particular letter. No problem; he had others to choose from.
Dear Ruth,
I’m really interested in a certain man. He’s sexy, smart, funny, brave, and sweet. I don’t know him all that well yet, but I love spending time with him. The problem is, I’m pretty sure he’s way out of my league, and I don’t know if he thinks of me in a romantic way at all. So I’m afraid to make the first move. What should I do?
—Lovelorn
“Oh, sweetheart. I feel your pain.” Although Bryce empathized with many of those who wrote to him, he related to this woman more than usual. He knew exactly how she must feel while hanging out with her guy friend—smitten, yet afraid to show it for fear of embarrassing herself or scaring him away. At least he could give advice that wasn’t likely to result in civil unrest.
Dear Lovelorn,
He sounds like a great guy. If he’s choosing to spend time with you, then at the very least he must enjoy your company. It’s possible he just wants to be friends, but maybe he shares your feelings and is too shy to do anything about it. Maybe he thinks you’re out of his league. Some men can be a lot more insecure than they let on.
Some men can also be blind to subtlety, so if you want this to go somewhere, you may need to take a more direct approach. With the holidays here, you have the perfect opportunity. Consider giving him a small gift that shows how you think of him, or maybe just invite him to dinner at your place. If he’s really not into you in a romantic way, either of these options would allow both of you to back away gracefully.
—Ruth
It was still a little weird to sign his mother’s pen name to these things, but he sent off the response to Alma with a satisfied smile. It was Friday, which meant the letter would appear in the Gazette’s weekend edition, and if Lovelorn wanted to take action, she had time before Christmas, which was on Monday.
The fact that it was Friday also meant Bryce had to work the next ten days in a row. His own choice, and far better than moping around the house, but still exhausting to contemplate. So what if it wasn’t even noon yet? He was going to take a nap.
Because he stripped as he walked, he was shivering by the time he reached his bed. He dove under the heavy comforter, thankful for the flannel sheets his mother had given him for his birthday in September. She’d seemed perfectly healthy then, a woman in her midsixties who ate sensibly and exercised regularly. She was, in fact, a font of energy—a person who could spend a day wrangling high school kids and then come home to make dinner, clean the house, grade papers, and write an advice column. She spent the summers bicycling in national parks. She sat on the library board, attended meetings of the tiny group of local Unitarians, and on occasion binge-watched 1980s sitcoms.
God, Bryce missed her.
When he tried, he could find some solace in the way she’d died. She’d been out with one of her friends, knocking on doors to persuade people to post yard signs for Democratic candidates. A challenge in these parts, but one she relished. On a lark, she and the friend had decided to cut through the cemetery near the center of town instead of walking around it. Halfway across she’d put her hand to her head and dropped like a felled log. Aneurysm and a massive stroke. She was dead long before the EMTs arrived. At least she didn’t suffer. And since Bryce wasn’t on duty that night, he hadn’t been forced to watch the first responders work on her lifeless body. The fact that she’d keeled over in a graveyard? She would have thought that was really funny.
So her death was a terrible thing that could have been worse. And he was slowly getting used to her absence in his life. But it was still a fresh wound, and it hurt like hell.
Naptime. He should be thinking peaceful thoughts. Although the bedroom lights were off, the weak winter sun snuck in around the edges of the curtains, and he could make out the details of his room. The crown molding he’d painstakingly installed, the pale blue paint that had taken him weeks to choose, the framed photos of mountains. He even had an original painting, a landscape by a local artist. Bryce liked his bedroom; it was an oasis. But his bed was so empty.
“I swear to God,” he said out loud, “if you don’t stop the pity party, I’m going to do something drastic.” He meant the threat seriously, although he wasn’t sure what the drastic thing would be. An extra mile tacked on to his usual run? A Grindr-fueled weekend in Kansas City? Trading in his dependable old pickup for something exotic and entirely unsuitable?
Out of desperation, he pulled out his phone, logged into his favorite porn site, and turned off his brain.
SIX
Dear Ruth,
I’m a part-time bookkeeper for a small family-owned business. My bosses—husband and wife—are fantastic and I love working for them. The pay’s not great, but I get decent benefits, and my hours are flexible so I can pick up my kids after school. But one of the other employees has been coming on to me lately. Nothing completely inappropriate, but he compliments me a lot and he’s asked me out a few times. I’ve told him I’m not interested, but he won’t leave me alone. He seems to think that since I’m divorced, I’m fair game. Normally I’d complain to my bosses—but he’s their son! How can I get this guy off my back without jeopardizing my job?
—Harassed
ON SUNDAY afternoon, Bryce sat in the firehouse, squinting at his laptop screen. A lunchtime feast had been arranged for firemen and cops who’d pulled Christmas Eve duty, and now he was full and drowsy. Too drowsy, probably, to give sensible advice to Harassed—who must surely realize that there was a good chance her employers would read her letter and recognize themselves. Not too many local situations fit the one she’d described. Well, maybe they would read it and the problem would solve itself. If that obnoxious man had been his kid, Bryce would have fired his ass.
Dear Harassed,
I’m sorry you have to deal with this situation. As you probably know, the law prohibits harassment that’s severe enough to create a hostile work environment—and it sounds as if your co-worker may have crossed that line. Talking to a lawyer is always an option. But you don’t have to begin there. Instead, you could sit down with your bosses and explain the situation to them, much as you did in your letter. Concrete examples might help. If they truly are fantastic employers, and if they value you as an employee, they will take appropriate actions. If they refuse to do anything or if they retaliate—
As Bryce hovered his fingers over the keyboard while he considered how to word the next part, one of the guys down in the bay called up to him. “Someone here to see you, Reynolds!”
With a sincere hope that Alma hadn’t followed through on her threats to bring Christmas celebrations to him, Bryce trotted down the stairs. Only to come to an abrupt halt when he spied Noah standing near the door, gnawing on his lip.
“Harper’s ready to clock in for her first shift?” Bryce asked, even though there was no sign of her.
Noah’s laughter sounded slightly forced. “Ah, no. I mean, she totally would. But right now she’s over at her bestie’s house, working on some kind of supersecret gift-creation project. I’m afraid it involves glitter.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah.” Noah glanced at the rest of the crew, who were watching this little interchange with great interest. “Um, do you have a couple of minutes?”
“Sure. Unless something starts burning. Um, c’mon up.” Bryce glared at his men, who looked disappointed to be missing out. Why, he had no idea. Boredom, maybe. It had been a very slow afternoon.
Up in the office, Bryce gestured at his extra chair, but Noah chose to remain standing. He’d unzipped his coat and stuffed his gloves in a pocket, but he still wore a scarf around his neck. He fidgeted with the tassels. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”
“You’re not. My choices so far have been eating or paperwork. I think I’ve done enough of both for one day.”
Noah, his boots loud on the old wooden floor, wandered over and stared at the photo of Bryce receiving that damn commendation. Everyone had made such a big deal out of it, but any of his colleagues would have done the same thing. Bryce just happened to be first on the scene.
“Harper is still going on about our visit here last week,” Noah said without turning to face him. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to be reliving the details for some time.”
“I’m glad we made an impression.”
Noah glanced over his shoulder. “You did.” His hair was sticking up from either static electricity or the jacket hood. Bryce was so tempted to smooth it down that he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. But that gesture didn’t change the fact that Noah was right here, right within reach, and when Noah spun around, Bryce jumped back a foot or two.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” Noah said.
“Yes.” Ooh, nice response, Reynolds. Very suave.
“Harper and I—it’s just the two of us. We’re used to that. But I always make this bigass ham anyway, with a killer pomegranate maple glaze. It’s one of my few star dishes. And Harper likes brussels sprouts because she’s a weird kid, so I make those too. And I have those frozen bread roll things, you know? So they taste kinda homemade.”
A heavy silence fell. Bryce frantically tried to figure out what Noah was getting at. Oh! Maybe he wanted to ask another favor but felt uncomfortable about it. “Did you want me to stop by to make sure your oven’s venting properly?”
Noah goggled at him. “What? No! I just thought—I mean, I’m sure you have Christmas plans already, but if you maybe wanted to stop by….”
Oh. “You don’t have to repay me fo
r the station tour, Noah. I was glad to do it.”
“That’s not….” Noah sighed noisily.
“Thanks so much, though. It’s really nice of you to offer. I have to work tomorrow.”
“Ah. Yeah, I guess firemen have to stay on duty even on holidays.”
“Especially then. Lots of fires this time of year, plus idiots driving drunk. And it’s starting to snow.”
Noah looked down for a minute, then up again. “Well, have a merry Christmas anyway.”
“Yeah. You too.”
Noah began to walk toward the stairs. But it was a small office, and he had to pass very close to Bryce. When he did, he stopped suddenly, grabbed Bryce’s shoulders, and pulled their bodies close.
Noah’s lips were surprisingly soft, and he tasted like spearmint gum. When he let go of Bryce’s shoulders, his hands felt strong and warm as they cupped Bryce’s cheeks. Then he spoke, his deep whisper felt as much as heard. “Uninterested, Bryce? Or blind to subtlety? For the life of me, I can’t tell, and it’s killing me.”
As soon as their bodies had touched, Bryce’s entire nervous system had gone into overload, sending his brain completely offline. He could barely process Noah’s words, let alone formulate a coherent response. Then his mouth kicked in without his brain’s assistance. “But you have a kid!”
“She’s not here. Anyway, she adores you. From what I understand, she spent a good chunk of her firetruck ride asking the crew whether you could marry me.”
“Oh God.” Not a single one of the men had mentioned that little tidbit, the bastards. That was a matter he’d deal with later. Right now he had a handsome man in his face.
“Are you gay?” Bryce asked. Wow. Good one.
“I can’t think of a good reason why I’d be kissing you if I wasn’t.”
“But… Harper.”
“She’s always known, and it’s totally no big deal to— Oh. You know, gay people have kids too. Harper’s adopted, if you must know.” He was still pressed to Bryce, his palms still warm on Bryce’s cheeks.