Ghostwriter of Christmas Past

by TA Moore

  The passenger door was wedged against the road barrier. Jason sidestepped down the slope, rapped a knuckle on the window, and waited for it to drop an inch. A suspicious blue eye peered out at him.

  “Did you know my dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  She dropped the window all the way and regarded him flatly. “He’s dead. So’s my mom.” She delivered the news quietly—information without inflection.

  “I heard,” Tom said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Really?”

  “Small town,” he told her. He reached in and helped her scramble out through the window. Her hands were icy against his neck as she hung on to him. “Births and deaths, there’s always someone keeping track.”

  “Huh.”

  Tom handed her up onto the road and hopped up after her. The wind had picked up, and it was sharp-edged with frost. Overhead the sky was pale and heavy with snow.

  “You don’t have to take us all the way into town,” Jason said as he tucked Mallory’s borrowed jacket more tightly around her skinny shoulders “We’re staying at my old place. If you want to drop us off there, it’s closer.”

  Tom reached up and scratched behind his ear. His cropped hair managed to feel sweaty and cold at the same time. He squinted at Jason dubiously.

  “Your dad’s house?”

  “Well, it was until he died,” Jason said. “Now it’s mine.”

  “And when he dies, it’ll be mine,” Mallory said.

  Jason winced and gave her an aggrieved look. “Do you have to?” he asked. “I’m not dying.”

  “Yet,” she said grimly and got into the car. She scooched over the leather to the far side.

  “Just stop it, Mallory,” Jason told the space where she’d been. He sighed and turned to Tom, his shoulders hunched toward his ears and his arms crossed over his chest. “Do you mind? If you need to head into town first, we can get an Uber out.”

  “Good luck with that,” Tom said dryly. There technically was an Uber in Malachite, but Harry Davies lost his license for Ubering under the influence the year before. He hesitated for a second longer and then shrugged off his misgivings. It was months since he drove by the old Burke place, and if someone had fixed the place up for Jason, Tom was the last person they’d tell. Old grudges were another thing people kept track of in small towns. “It’s fine. My shift’s over anyhow, so it will save me a round trip.”

  “You still live at home?” Jason asked. A sour mixture of pity and guilt undercut his words. The picture he had of Tom’s life was evidently pretty clear and pretty pathetic.

  “Yeah,” Tom said dryly. “You should come over sometime. You can have the top bunk.”

  Tom rolled his eyes and got into the car. The hot air from the vents stung his cold fingers and nose. He closed the door, dragged the seat belt over his chest, and waited for Jason to scramble in behind him.

  “Here.” There was half a pint of hot black coffee from the station left in Tom’s travel mug. He passed it back between the seats. “It’s hot.”

  That was about all that could be said for it, but Jason didn’t seem to mind. He drank it quietly as they drove along increasingly narrow snow-lined paths. Unclipped undergrowth scraped the windows on the cruiser, and the scrape of noise got creepier as the light got dimmer.

  It was definitely dusk by the time Tom turned left at the battered old rust-red postbox. He couldn’t help the quick glance in the rearview mirror. Jason was looking at the mailbox too, over Mallory’s head propped on his shoulder. Was he remembering the night they knocked it down—Jason was driving, but Tom took the blame since his dad would only ground him—or the day they put it back up?

  Drunken laughter and a hand on Jason’s lean thigh as they bounced through the warm, black night? Or sweat and bare chests and taking too damn long to do something that simple.

  “I never expected to come back here,” Jason said.

  So neither. Tom snorted quietly at himself, always the hopeless romantic, and turned his attention back to the road. It was thick with snow that crunched like celery under his tires.

  “No reason for you to. Your dad always had Johnny and Jack for company.”

  Jason laughed. The soft huff of sound tried to be amused but didn’t quite make it. “They were always his favorites.”

  Old memories weren’t always good. Or even bittersweet. Tom had always known why Jason wanted to leave Malachite; he just hadn’t realized he was one of the things that would be left behind.

  He pulled up in front of the once-white house—the Burke house to him, but still the old Winchester place to most of the older people in town. Ownership was more than just property deeds. It was time served.

  “What the hell,” Jason groaned.

  THE LAST time Jason saw the house was in the rearview mirror of his brother’s old Ford truck as Ben drove him into town. It wasn’t a good memory, not one he spent a lot of time on, and his focus had been on the money in his pocket and the blood on his teeth. He was pretty sure, though, that back then it had a roof.

  He stood in the ankle-deep snow, melt cold as it soaked down into his socks, and stared at the burnt-out wreck of his childhood home. It hadn’t all been shit. He remembered cookies on the counter when he was a kid before his mom got sick, and Ben rigging up a swing from the tree out back that always came loose and sent them bowling down the hill. Jason should feel something other than… tired.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Your last tenant had the bright idea to grow some extra money,” Tommy said. He stuck his hands into his back pockets and looked at the house. “He did his own electrical work, and when it shorted out, the place went up like a match. Look, Jase, I’m sorry. I assumed you knew, that someone had been up to fix the place up. But….”

  He grimaced unhappily.

  Jason worked his jaw from one side to the other. It clicked at the hinges. “Fuck.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Tommy said. “You need a new roof, but the rest of the house is mostly intact. Just some smoke and water damage.”

  If Jason closed his eyes, they could be fourteen again, before sex complicated everything. Just the two of them, a disaster, and Tommy’s optimistic claim that “we can fix this.” He was always wrong.

  “Christmas is next week,” he said. “This was meant to be… it was meant to be Christmas. I was going to get something right. Just this once.”

  It wasn’t fair. Tommy’s shoulder wasn’t Jason’s to cry on anymore, but who else did he have? He sniffed hard, tasted salt, and turned away so he could scrub the sleeve of his borrowed jacket over his eyes. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a grown man sniffling like a little girl in the dark.

  Maybe it was the setting, but he could hear his dad’s voice all too clearly in his head with that thought. Dad never had much patience with feelings, or his son.

  “Sorry.” He sniffed again. “Not your problem. I can find a B&B or a motel. Something. Mallory’s going to have to get used to disappointment. Might as well start now.”

  He meant it. When the words left his tongue, he meant it. It was only when he caught himself waiting that he realized it was a play as well. A well-aimed heartstring yank he knew would end with a hand on his shoulder and an “against my better judgment” offer.

  It took longer than the selfish lizard part of his brain was expecting, but only by seconds. Tommy put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Look. I’ve got room. If you and Mallory want to, you can stay with me.”

  Oh goddammit, I am an asshole. Everyone has always been right about that.

  “I can’t let you do that,” he protested as he turned around. If he didn’t look too closely, he might even convince himself he meant it. “Mallory’s not your problem, and it’s not like…. Well, like you said, us being friends? Sounds fake.”

  Tommy snorted, and the corner of his mouth tucked up in a half-willing smile. “Yeah, well, we were,” he said. “Ben was a friend too. I’m not leaving his kid to spend Christmas in
a Motel 6. It’s a big house. There’s plenty of room.”

  There always was. Enough room for sleepovers and for weeklong stays when Dad was away working. And there was always room for an extra plate at the dinner table… and enough pride for him as well when they passed exams.

  Jason’s dad never let them go without and never really beat them—not with his fists. The belt was enough. Usually. He never loved them either. So Jason just sucked up what he could get from the Ryans.

  Still would, he guessed.

  “You sure?” he asked. Part of him wanted Tommy to say no, to take on the responsibility of being the asshole for once. The rest of him kept talking. “We aren’t putting you out?”

  “It’s a big house,” Tommy said. “C’mon, Jase, don’t make me beg.”

  “Thanks. I mean it.”

  Tommy shrugged and walked away to get back into the car. Jason took one last look at the house. He tried to feel something. He did. But there was nothing. He’d spent the best Christmases he could remember at the Ryans’ anyway.

  He didn’t know why Ben hung on to the place. Or why he left it to Jason in his will. Peace offering, or a last “screw you”?

  “Should have said whatever it was when you were alive,” he muttered to the ghost of his brother as he turned and trudged back to the car. “Suppose you thought you had time, though.”

  He got in next to Tommy and held his hands out to the heaters. “I forgot how cold it gets.”

  “I know Ben lived in Florida?” Tommy said. It wasn’t exactly a question, just the suggestion of one. Jason could ignore it if he wanted, but he supposed it didn’t matter anymore. Even if he was years past being forced to do anything, there was no one left to come and bring him back into the Burke fold.

  “San Diego,” he said. “Other side of the country. Guess that says it all.”

  Tommy just “huh’d” as he turned the car. Before they started back down the road, he stopped, foot on the brake, and punched Jason in the arm—not hard enough to do any damage, but hard enough to ache.

  “What the—” Jason grimaced and rubbed his arm. “What was that for?”

  “Trying to manipulate me with that sad-sack act,” Tommy said as he shifted gears. “Just because I fall for it doesn’t mean I don’t see it.”

  Weirdly that actually made Jason feel better. He might still be an asshole, but Tommy shared some of the responsibility.

  “Where are we going?” Mallory asked from the back. The words were mumbled as she squeezed them out through a jaw-cracking yawn. “Did we get lost?”

  Judging by Tommy’s shrug, he thought it was Jason’s job to explain. He was probably right.

  “We’re going to stay with Tommy—”

  “Tom.”

  “—tonight. Our old place needs a bit more work than I thought.” He held his breath and waited for the anger or the tears. The final realization that he was useless and she’d be better off fending for herself.

  She shrugged. “Okay. Can we stop for pizza? I’m starving.”

  Or that. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

  She grinned and flopped back in her seat, back on her phone. It should have been a relief, but it just felt like suspense. Eventually she’d realize he had no idea what he was doing, he’d screw up worse than forgetting to sign a permission slip, and then what would they do? There was no one else to take her. If there had been, no way Ben would have sent her to Jason.

  Before he could sink into the familiar mire of self-hatred, Tommy tossed him his phone. “Under ‘pizza.’ They already have my address.”

  A COLD, skinny finger jammed between his ribs woke Jason up the next morning. He groaned and rolled away from it, only to end up tangled in a lot more bedding than he bothered with back home—duvet, blanket, extra pillows.

  “Fuck sake.” Jason backhanded a pillow out of the bed and propped himself up on one elbow. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and squinted at Mallory.

  She was still in her pajamas, flannel-covered with Santa pugs and reindeers, but she was bright-eyed and bouncing with energy—literally—on the side of the bed. He’d been young once, and he wasn’t old yet, just… older. But had he ever been that energetic? It didn’t seem likely.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Was Officer Ryan your boyfriend when you lived here?” she asked.

  “No,” he lied and then wondered why he bothered. It wasn’t like he was a sixteen-year-old kid anymore, scared what his dad would do if he admitted he’d kissed Tommy, eager and mint sharp, in the back of his junker Chevy. Or seventeen and it was more than kissing. “Not exactly.”

  The correction came too late for Mallory, who had already bounced off the bed.

  “Good,” she said firmly. “Because I’m going to marry him one day, and that could have been awkward.”

  Jason gave up and dragged himself out of the warm hollow of mattress and sheets. He stretched and yawned. Something in his shoulder popped loose—a release of pressure he hadn’t even realized was there.

  “I thought you were going to live alone with cats and law books,” he said. “What changed your mind?”

  “He’s making breakfast,” she said. “Right now. From scratch.”

  Jason pulled his knees up and rested his elbows on them. “Yeah, don’t get too excited about that,” he said. “The only things he can cook are pancakes and cheese sandwiches.”

  Mallory looked at him like he was an idiot. “And cheese sandwiches? I was going to marry him just for the pancakes,” she said. “Jason, this is why you’re still single. Your standards are, like, way too high.”

  She gave him an exasperated shake of her head and stomped out of the room before he could respond.

  “I didn’t say the cheese sandwiches couldn’t be lived with,” he muttered as he got out of bed. “Just saying, don’t be misled by the cheese sandwiches into expecting dinner on the table every night.”

  His jeans had spent the night slung over a chair. The dried-out denim was stiff and gritty where the snowmelt had soaked into it. Jason dragged them on—he could find a clean pair in his suitcase later—and followed Mallory downstairs.

  Instead of carpet, there was polished warm wood under his feet as he padded down the hall. The old wallpaper had been stripped off the walls too, and the walls replastered and painted a soft dove gray.

  Jason felt oddly betrayed, as though someone should have run the changes by him for approval.

  He let himself into the kitchen and stopped. Okay, he thought as he flicked his tongue over suddenly dry lips. That was one change he didn’t object to. He leaned against the jamb and watched a sleep-ruffled Tommy show an attentive Mallory—and if she paid that much attention at school, there’d be a lot less concerned notes for Jason to ignore—how to flip pancakes.

  A white muscle shirt clung to Tommy’s solid shoulders and lean waist. Batman sleeping pants—because he was still a nerd, apparently—were cinched tightly around his narrow hips. Jason tilted his head to the side and wondered if the pants would just slide right down if he yanked that drawstring loose.

  “Yes.” Mallory fist pumped the air triumphantly as she successfully—finally from the plate of misshapes on the side—flipped a pancake. She pointed at the pan. “That one’s mine.”

  “Are there any left for the rest of us?” Jason asked.

  “Plenty to go around,” Tommy said. He slid Mallory’s pancake onto her plate and lifted it overhead as he turned. “Chef gets first taste, though. That’s the… umm. Rule.”

  A hungry, slightly startled expression flashed over Tom’s face as he caught sight of Jason slouched lazily in the doorway. Jason had a feeling it was the same expression he’d worn himself a second before. It felt the same—hot and tight in the pit of his stomach.

  It felt good too. For the first time in a while, Jason felt like his old sure-of-himself self. Maybe he didn’t have a clue about how to do a Christmas that wasn’t boozy and self-indulgent, and he didn’t know how to cope w
ith the grief of an orphaned, nearly teenage girl. But he could still catch a guy’s eye, still make him look at him like they wanted to drink him.

  It was something. That he could do it to Tommy still was… more than just something.

  “Not going to serve and protect today?” he asked.

  “Late shift.”

  Tommy finally gave the plate to Mallory and pointed her to the table. While she trotted over to happily drown her very first homemade pancake—probably—in maple syrup, Jason pushed himself off the doorframe and wandered over to take her place as cook’s helper.

  “You didn’t have to make breakfast.” He leaned against Tommy’s side to peer down at what he was doing. “But since you are, I still like blueberries.”

  “I don’t have any.” Tommy gave him a dry sideways look and a nudge with his elbow. “And I have breakfast most days.”

  “Yeah. You look like someone who eats their own weight in pancakes every day.” Jason leaned away, not quite out of Tommy’s space but not pressed against him either. “I’ll find somewhere else for us to stay today. Where would you recommend?”

  “I’d recommend August Lodge,” Tommy said. He poured another ladleful of batter into the pan. “I doubt you’ll get in, though. It’s ten days till Christmas.”

  “I know.” The pleasure of being able to fluster Tommy was washed away on a flood of nervous dread. “What about Mrs. Flint? Does she still rent out rooms?”

  “Maybe in heaven.”

  That made sense. She was about seventy when Jason left town.

  “We could stay here,” Mallory said. It made both of them jump, and Tommy added half a pancake of batter to the top of his stove. “I like it here.”

  “We’ve imposed enough,” Jason said. “Tommy—”

  “Tom.”

  “—has his own plans for Christmas. We can’t just invite ourselves.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Mallory said with all the preteen contempt she could muster. She waved her fork around at the kitchen, and by extension, the rest of the house. “He hasn’t decorated or anything. There’s no lights. There’s no tree.”