by Cooper Davis
Fuck his father. Fuck him for hurting the person I love most in this world.
But Max is strong again now, and although he’s withdrawn and pretty quiet, he’s actually talking about going down to Williams Sonoma just to make Leah happy.
“You need to call her,” I suggest carefully, and he gives a shrug of forced indifference.
“Why bother?”
“Because she’s worried about you, man.”
“I’ll call later,” he says dully, looking back at the newspaper where he’s spread it on the kitchen table.
“How ’bout I call her then? Tell her you’re okay,” I offer, reaching for the phone.
“Since when did you and Leah get so tight?” he asks tartly, and I feel like a stranger is staring up at me.
“Maxwell, what’s going on?”
Again, he just kind of makes a face of indifference. “I mean, she wasn’t so keen on you back in Winchester.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. She’s planning our whole wedding,” I remind him. “I mean, you’re the one talking about the registry thing, all to get her to lay off of us about it.”
“I don’t want anything to do with my family. Not at all,” he says. “Okay? Not any of them.”
He’s being incredibly unfair to his sister, and to John and his mother for that matter, lumping them in with his father. But I know it’s not the right time to say that, so I just nod, folding my arms over my chest. “Okay, sure. But you do owe your sister a call.”
“Later,” he grumbles in a sullen voice, leaving me there at the table by myself.
Later finds us at Williams Sonoma, just as planned, and he’s prowling the aisles like a wily hunter. Sometimes I swear that Maxwell’s more turned on by the sight of a good bread machine than he is by me. Watching him finger all that chrome and steel, I practically see the hard-on he’s getting from across the store. My Maxwell loves his cooking gear, of that there’s just no doubt.
I wander around a little aimlessly, wondering why in hell a set of measuring scoops should cost more than thirty dollars, when my cell phone rings. I’ve got it shoved in my back pocket because of a problem down at the studio, something I’m trying to sort out between the stunt coordinator and my construction foreman.
But when I answer, it’s Leah again. “Why hasn’t he called?” she asks before I have a chance to really answer the phone. “He thinks I’m part of it, doesn’t he?”
“Part of what?” I ask, scratching my eyebrow in confusion. Max is on the other side of the store, scanning mixing bowls into the registry. I swear, he’s found his way straight to heaven in this place.
“My dad’s rejection. He thinks it’s a conspiracy, doesn’t he?”
“No, actually, he doesn’t.”
“Because, I could see this playing into his feelings about me,” she says in a rush, and I hear the pain in her voice. “Problems we’ve had in the past, that kind of thing.”
“Leah, he’s just really upset with your father, okay?” I explain, and wish Max had called her earlier. “He’s really hurt.”
“I know he is.”
“What was your father thinking, anyway?”
She sighs, and it’s a broken, weary kind of sound. “I really don’t know, Hunter.”
“Well, he’s about to lose his son if he doesn’t get his shit together.”
There’s silence for a long moment, and then she says, “You’ll still come, won’t you? To Winchester?”
“Like hell.”
“No, Hunter, seriously. Use the tickets and come stay with John and me.”
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea right now, Leah.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think I need to see your dad, for one thing. And Max doesn’t either, for another.”
“We wouldn’t see him. We’d celebrate at my house.”
Is she saying what I think she really is? I have to be sure, so I ask, “You’d blow off your parents? Take a stand with us?”
“Yes, I would, Hunter.”
“Why?”
“Because my father’s wrong on this. And because Max needs me.”
“Okay,” I manage, but my throat is tight as a wire as I watch Max from across the store. His expression is so melancholy, a little hopeless, and as Leah starts chattering about how we’ll spend the holiday, I add another best friend to my ever-growing list.
Chapter Eleven
’Tis the season, and what do you know? I’m in love for the very first time in my life; and I mean really in love, that soul-shattering, breath-stealing kind of love that Max Daniels has worked on me. No doubt about it, I’m definitely doing my part to make the yuletide gay. Complete with secret Christmas packages for my fiancé, tucked in the corner of the rental SUV.
He’s asleep beside me, cranked back in the seat with his hand dangling over the armrest between us. Soft little snoring sounds keep coming from his direction, and I’m glad he can rest. Between those long hours at the office and planning our wedding, he’s been working his ass off. Well, and shopping his ass off, too. Aunt Edna was right about that—my boy does love to shop.
We’re almost to Winchester, and as I click off the miles, a strange nervousness builds inside me. My palms are sweaty, my throat’s gone dry; I can only wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I mean, we’ve found true allies in Leah and John, and on top of that, we’re spending the holidays with all our closest friends. And that’s just it. Max and I are truly a couple now, everyone knows, so I should feel secure about going back to Winchester.
Instead I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel like it’s some kind of adversary. The only conclusion I can reach is that maybe I’m worried about my baby, afraid his father will somehow manage to fuck with him again. No way in hell I’m going to let that happen. Phillip’s days of hurting Maxwell are over, end of story, and if that means some kind of showdown between the two of us, so be it.
Yeah, so I’m in hyper protective mode, and it’s no wonder. Max finally seems to be enjoying our engagement, not fretting so much about family and all that shit. Thanks to the Wedding Nazi’s coaching, he’s become fully consumed with our nuptials, just having fun with everything.
Hell, he spends every night with his nose poked in those bridal magazines or surfing gay wedding sites on the Internet. Around our place it’s all wedding, all the time. Like last week, when he popped into the bathroom where I was shaving and out of the blue announced that he’d written his ceremonial vows. When I asked if he was going to read them to me he blushed wildly, protesting that there was no way he’d let me hear them until the rehearsal. I smirked and reminded him that everybody would hear them then, so maybe he’d want to practice on me beforehand.
All that got me was the suggestion that he could think of lots of things he’d like to practice on me, but none of them included those vows. Five minutes later we were laughing and rolling in the sack, practically ready to make love. See? I’m crazy about those vows already and I haven’t even heard them yet.
So, yeah, he’s doing the wedding thing full tilt, and I have to say it clearly suits him; he’s downright radiant about it all. But it’s more than that. Something in his whole demeanor has changed in the past month—he’s become bolder, more confident. Like maybe in the wake of Maxine’s big debut, Max came out of himself a little bit more, too.
He’s even sporting a new, super-short haircut that’s driving me fucking mad. Every time he catches me staring at him, he just grins, running his palm over that spiky hair with a little shy gesture. Shy my ass. Every time he does that, it’s an invitation that makes me want to sprint to his side and do the exact same thing with my own hands. And while I restrain myself most of the time, occasionally I move in for a quick kiss and run my fingertips over the bristly hairs along the back of his neck.
He’s hot
as hell, and he knows it, which is just fine by me. He deserves to know how beautiful he is, that the new haircut works its magic over me like a damned voodoo charm.
Of course, Maxwell always glows this time of year, anyway. He’s like a little boy when it comes to Christmas; I saw that from the very beginning of our friendship. I’d only known him a few months when he and Louisa threw a big holiday bash at her house. Between their two guest lists there were probably seventy-five or more people crammed into that place, and Max was in the thick of everything, right in his element. He moved easily through the noisy partygoers, serving up elegant hors d’oeuvres on trays, and making fancy sausage balls in the kitchen.
He never even broke a sweat, just kept smiling and chattering with all their friends. In fact, Louisa was the one who looked vaguely panicked by it all, but not Max, not even close. He loved every minute of it, right down to placating the cops when they showed up around midnight because the neighbors had complained.
But more than anything, it’s those fantastic little sausage balls I remember. I can practically taste how spicy they were, even now. I have a funny memory of plucking a handful of them off of his platter while he was arranging them, just to be irritating. Even then, I had to pop his proverbial bra strap—that’s nothing new at all. I probably managed to swipe half a dozen of them before he could stop me, and he kind of swatted at my arm as I darted out of his reach. He had this confounded expression on his face as I glanced at him, so I turned back for a moment.
“What?” I wondered if I’d truly pissed him off. Figured I probably had since I was constantly pissing off Veronica, but honestly? I really hoped I hadn’t because I wanted him to be happy with me.
He gestured me closer, smiling at me innocently. I loped over to him, and when I was just a couple of feet away, damn if that debonair, polished guy didn’t suddenly hurl two more sausage balls right at my head. “Thought you might want those,” he teased, pushing past me without another glance.
So the little devil flirted right back. Funny that I never realized it for what it was at the time.
Especially since I remember thinking how killer that suit looked on him, with that pinkish-colored tie. That he was sophisticated and smooth in ways I’d never be, and probably had girls all over him wherever he went. I wondered if Louisa ever got jealous about that fact, ’cause I knew I would…if he were mine.
That’s what I was thinking as I watched her take the silver platter out of his hands, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek, a tender gesture, and an oddly innocent one between two people who I assumed were lovers. He sure as hell struck me as a beautiful man that night, and even way back then, some small voice inside me was willing to admit that fact.
And glancing at him beside me now, sleeping so sweetly, he strikes me as even more gorgeous than four years ago. Probably because I don’t have to figure anything out now, don’t have to translate the confusing, rogue voices inside my head.
It’s very simple: I know I’m in love.
It feels a little weird, not being alone at Christmas. For the past seven years, I’ve spent every holiday back in L.A., all by my lonesome on the big day. Bowl games, frozen pizza and loads of beer. Not a bad way to pass the time, but it had gotten old. Edna never stopped trying to get me home, but with the short hiatus from the studio and the frigid temperatures back in Iowa, I just couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the trip. Besides, Ed always had plenty of company between her church friends and neighbors.
The past couple of years, the Winchester Contingent—Max, in particular—kept trying to convince me to head home with them. I was pretty tempted, especially last year when Max and I were already damned close, but still I stuck it out alone.
Yet the solo gig didn’t fit anymore, either. I think maybe that’s why I called him at his folks’ house on Christmas Day to wish him a happy holiday. Strange to think we were still just best friends then, because I definitely remember that he sounded a little breathless to hear my voice. He told me he’d missed me, I blushed when he said it, and then mumbled something lame back to him.
Then there was the gift he kind of thrust at me, right at the LAX curbside when I dropped him off last Christmas. One moment he was plunking his bags on the sidewalk, the next leaning back through the passenger door with a foil-covered box.
I pointed at the big, flouncy bow on top. “Louisa wrap that?” I teased, and he smiled a little sheepishly.
“Nope, just me.”
“Cool,” I said, stalling for a moment, not sure what to say, because I didn’t have anything for him. “Thanks, man. I didn’t, you know…” I gestured awkwardly at the gift, and he nodded, stepping back onto the curb.
“I know. I just found something you needed.”
“Well, uh, thanks.”
“Have a great holiday, Hunter. Wish you were coming to Winchester. We all do.”
With that, I was left in his car alone, fingering that glittery package and wondering why I felt so squirmy and strange all over. Why my face had flushed hot at the sight of that big, girlish bow.
And wondering why I suddenly wanted to go to Winchester, Virginia with all my heart.
During the haul back to my place that day, I kept wondering what Maxwell might have bought me, what I might need, at least in his estimation. Max’s “needs” are much more on the par with most people’s desires, I knew that even then, so I figured it was something highbrow and fairly useless in my ultra-utilitarian, blue collar world.
Even though we’d never done the gift thing before and it wasn’t part of our friendship, his gesture made me wish I’d taken the time to find him something too. At my apartment, I set the package on the kitchen counter—there wasn’t a tree to put it under—and kept staring at it, stalking it, really. The tag on top said, “Don’t Open Until Christmas!”
How could I possibly wait? That was two days away and I was so freaking curious. I only had two other gifts, both from Aunt Edna, and I hadn’t saved them for Christmas. They were clothes, flannel shirts, just like I figured they’d be. Well, and Veronica had baked me a huge batch of cookies, more than half of which I’d already consumed. She knew that the sprinkled kind were my weakness, God love her.
But with Max’s present, somehow I did manage to wait, thanks to that little admonishment on the tag. Probably, too, because I knew how seriously Max takes Christmas, how much he loves it, and I didn’t want to do anything to spoil his surprise.
Christmas morning I woke to just another smoggy L.A. day—sunny and far too quiet outside my apartment. Rolling over in bed, I thought about my friends back in Winchester, wondered what they were doing, if they were together.
And of course, I thought about Max. Why I hadn’t just tagged along? Because I missed him, a lot more than I could comfortably admit.
Truth, baby! Sometimes it’s a cunning thing, especially when you’re not quite ready for it. Those little moments of clarity, the kind when you realize that you’re aching inside because your male best friend is several time zones away, well they can be pretty damned unsettling.
What I did with my own burst of realization was pad into the kitchen, bare feet swishing on the carpet, and tear into that wrapped box like a little boy on Christmas morning. Like it might be a train engine or a fire truck, something thrilling and unimaginable.
A card was on top of the tissue paper, just peeking out at me, and I set it aside. Folded carefully within the box, wrapped with incredible loving care was a china tree-topper, a handmade, delicate star that shimmered gold and purple and red. Maxwell knew I never had a tree at my place—we’d talked about it when I helped him wrangle his own home on the top of his Explorer. He knew I just didn’t do Christmas, had never been into it growing up, despite Edna’s endless coaxing.
Tears blurred my vision, as I opened the card and read his words.
Start making some memories, Hunter. Life’s too short without th
em. Maybe you’ll spend next Christmas in Winchester? Love, Max.
I don’t know what struck me more, the gesture or what he’d written, though I definitely noticed one word in particular. Couldn’t look away from it for the very life of me. Love.
And I think I opened my heart to the possibility of it with him just a tiny bit more that day.
As we make our way up the steps of John and Leah’s house, I can’t resist pointing at her holiday flag, flapping in the chilly breeze. Three green elves are wearing red and white fur, but manage to look more like aliens. Kind of like Santa’s helpers meet The X-Files. They look really silly, as if someone unexpectedly sprang those suits on them, someone from a bad wardrobe department for a B-grade movie.
“Look, they’re cross-dressing,” I murmur in his ear, as I drop two shopping bags filled with packages on their front step. I expect him to laugh it up with me, but instead, he answers by slugging me. Hard.
“Hey!” I protest, rubbing my arm.
“You deserved it.” But he’s smiling, and I know he’s just playing right back with me. He loves that I can’t quite get Maxine out of my head; that I keep bringing her up in offhand ways.
“Maybe it’s just a Winchester thing. You know, drag queens,” I say, right as the door flings open. And there’s Leah, wearing a similar Santa’s hat, all red and white faux fur.
“Max!” she squeals, flinging her arms around his neck, and he leans in close for a heartfelt hug. What a difference from last time, I think, as Leah holds on to him, eyes pressed shut like she’s savoring the moment.
Finally, they step apart, and she turns to me. A little cooler, but still my friend, she smiles and draws me into her arms for an embrace. It’s different than last time. It’s real and warm and makes me feel oddly uncomfortable. I’ve never had a sister, so I’m not sure how to do this. “Hunter, I’m so glad you’re here.”
I break the hug, feeling awkward. “Yeah, uh, good to be back.” She doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, because all her attention zooms back on to her brother as she tugs him inside the house with a stream of questions.