Twisted Christmas

by Sara Cate

  My stomach is churning as I pull my knees to my chest, leaning back on the couch and pretending to watch the movie, though my peripheral stays on him. He brings a bottle of beer to his lips and takes a long gulp, mesmerizing me with the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, sheeted in two-day-old stubble.

  My mouth begins to water, and I close my eyes, tight. This can’t be happening. Still.

  Jesus Christ, what more do I have to do? I’ve tried it all; prayers, distractions of all shapes and sizes… I even bought some crystals and herbs online, hoping to use them to ward off my impure thoughts. Nothing fucking works.

  I’m still hopelessly infatuated with my own goddamn guardian, and it’s sick.

  Inconvenient and so damn wrong.

  What is wrong with me? Am I some kind of pervert?

  I came to terms with my sexuality pretty early on. By the time I was twelve, I already knew I liked boys not girls, and it’s never been something I’ve struggled with. Sure, I don’t broadcast my sexuality to the world, but that’s because I don’t broadcast anything. I like keeping to myself. I have friends, and they know I’m gay. I came out to James when I was fourteen, and he didn’t even bat an eye. He just told me that he loves and accepts me no matter what.

  Why in the fucking world that made me swoon, I have no clue.

  Yet from the moment I came into my own as a teen, growing slowly from a boy into a man, the only person I’ve managed to develop feelings for is the one I can’t have.

  The one I won’t have. Ever.

  It sucks balls. And not in the good way.

  The movie keeps playing, into the next one, and James orders us pizza. It arrives quick enough and we eat. I indulge in my cake pop afterward while James finishes his second beer, quietly asking me to grab him another one. Taking the empty bottle from him, I jump up and race to the kitchen. He’s been asking me to get him beers since I was old enough to carry them, which only serves to remind me that I’m his kid. And I always will be.

  I fucking loathe how heavy that fact sits in my gut as I return to the living room with a new bottle.

  Sinking onto the couch, I hold out the beer, and when he takes it, our fingers brush. Tell me why that one insignificant touch sends a rack of shivers through my lower stomach and a twitch into my crotch. I have to fight not to roll my eyes at myself.

  “Thanks, kid,” he murmurs, sipping from the bottle.

  Kid. Yea… That’s what I am. His fucking son… Forever a child in his eyes.

  I barely even notice I’m shivering so hard, teeth chattering, until he grunts, “You want me to start a fire?” He nods toward the fireplace across the living room.

  “Uh… no.” My voice scrapes, and I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”

  “Good, ’cause it’s actually pretty warm in here,” he huffs.

  My side-eye takes in the sight of him, watching the TV and ignoring my fidgets. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, nowhere near as bundled as I am, and clearly, he’s comfortable. The lines of his wide chest, broad shoulders and thick arms are visible beneath the material, prompting me to tug my lower lip between my teeth.

  I’m not cold either, James… Actually, I’m burning the fuck up.

  Scolding myself internally, I decide to take on a new tactic for distraction, something that’s proven effective in the past. Prying into his heavily-guarded armor.

  “So what happened with Leslie?” I rest my head on the back of the couch, eyes locked on the television screen.

  “Nothing.” His deep voice rumbles at my side, giving me even more chills.

  “That doesn’t sound right,” I keep poking. “Two years and it just ends? There’s gotta be a reason.”

  He stays silent for a few lingering moments, swallowing a long pull from the bottle before he finally answers, “I don’t think I was in love with her…”

  My stomach clenches. “You don’t think?”

  His eyes shift to mine for a split second. “No. I… wasn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s with the third degree, kid?” He narrows his gaze at me from the side. “You breaking into investigative journalism or something?”

  “Uh no.” I give him a look. “That would make for a very bland piece of writing. No one cares about your love life.”

  He lets out a throaty chuckle, one that slithers into my brain through my ears and presses on something that releases a shot of dopamine. James doesn’t laugh often, and when he does, and I’m responsible for it, I swear to God, it’s like a hit of some really good drugs.

  He sighs it out and shakes his head. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t accept me for who I am… and who’s in my life.”

  A painful throb of guilt stabs me in the chest like a sharp blade.

  Me… They broke up because of me.

  It’s my fault.

  James will die alone because he’s too busy fretting over his grown-ass adoptive son, who’s secretly never happier than when it’s just the two of us.

  I’m such a selfish asshole.

  Correction, a perverted selfish asshole.

  There are so many things I want to say, but I won’t let myself. Instead, I just slither off the couch and mumble, “I’m going to bed.”

  Giving him my back, I only make it two steps before I hear him calling. “Jess… Don’t be like that. You wanted to know, so I fucking told you.”

  I peek at him over my shoulder, forcing a smile. “No, I know. I’m just tired.”

  Leaving the room quickly, while trying to act like I’m feeling totally normal inside, I stumble up the steps into my bedroom. Once inside with the door closed, I take in a long breath, squeezing my eyes shut while releasing it slowly.

  I hate everything about what I’ve become. A thorn in the side of the person I love most in this world. The only person I love, for that matter.

  I feel like such a moron as I pace around my bedroom. Obsessing over my own father—figure—for years, like a total creep. I just want these feelings to go away, but I’m not sure they ever will. It’s like a sickness… A terminal disease with no cure.

  Trust me, I’ve tried to transfer the feelings onto others. I’ve hooked up with a few guys, more in the past year than before. I didn’t even have my first kiss until I was fifteen, because I never wanted to give it to anyone who wasn’t my own goddamn guardian. But I finally bit the bullet and did it. And it felt… so fucking wrong.

  But I kept getting back up on that horse, only to be tossed off every time in disappointment. I lost my virginity six months ago to a dude from school, and even that just felt like a means to an end.

  We’ve fucked a couple of times since, and it’s alright I guess, because he’s hot. He’s the captain of the football team, but he’s straight, so no one’s allowed to know he likes putting his dick in guys. Not that I even care, because I don’t want anything from him. Anything but a meaningless distraction.

  An ultimate dissatisfaction.

  Crawling into my bed beneath the covers, I grab my phone where it’s been charging on the nightstand. Speak of the devil, I have a new text from Tanner. I open it to find a dick pic, and I roll my eyes. Why am I not surprised one bit?

  It’s a decent dick, and I guess it sort of gives my own erection some traction, but not much. I’m too lost in my own head, too focused on my sick crush to even bother responding. Instead, I stuff my phone under the pillow next to me and close my eyes.

  My hand slithers down to the waistband of my sweats, slipping inside and grazing myself over my boxers. Teasing my hardening flesh, my mind swims with images of the man downstairs. The man who’s almost twice my age, and technically my father. Though not by blood, it’s still wrong. I’ve known him literally my entire life. He raised me… Changed my diapers and shit.

  It’s twisted.

  He taught me how to ride a bike, how to shave, how to drive; he comforted me when I got hurt, and scolded me when I fucked up. He’s been my fucking father my whole life, yet n
ow I look at him like he’s supposed to be more than that.

  I’ve always prayed that it’s just an attraction. Because he’s hot as fuck, nothing more.

  But as my lips quiver and my fist curls around my erection to visions of him touching me the way I’m touching myself, I can’t even be sure.

  All I know is that I’m jerking off to thoughts of my dad right now…

  And less than two minutes later, I’m coming in my hand with his face in my brain.

  Chapter 3

  James

  * * *

  It’s just after midnight when I drag myself up the steps to my bedroom.

  I’m barely even tired, but I just knew if I stayed downstairs on the couch I’d end up drinking too many beers and passing out down there, which is something I’d prefer not to do.

  I just don’t want to seem like I’m drowning my sorrows, because I’m not. I dodged a bit of a bullet when Leslie ended things. I’m glad it happened, though it pains me to admit it. Why wouldn’t I want to get serious with a beautiful woman? It doesn’t make much sense.

  I just can’t stop thinking about how Jesse clammed up when I mentioned the reason for the inevitable end to the relationship. I never meant for him to feel guilty. At the end of the day, it’s not his fault at all. I was the one keeping Leslie at a distance. It had nothing to do with him. These are all my issues.

  Maybe I’m not meant to settle down. With anyone.

  Inside my bedroom, I strip down to my boxers and climb into bed. Beneath the covers, I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling for a while, my internal obsessing whisking me away until I barely even remember how I got to where I am in my head.

  I’m not a great sleeper. I’ve always struggled with getting a full eight hours. Or even five. But part of me thinks I run better on a lack of sleep. I’m fine with it.

  When I hear sudden footsteps in the hallway, I’m on high alert. My bedroom door is open a crack, done so for a reason. So that he doesn’t hurt himself.

  Because when he staggers inside, he’s shuffling like a zombie, eyelids fluttering as his heavy steps clunk him right into the side of my bed. And then he crashes down onto it, nestling up on top of the covers.

  I let out a despondent sigh.

  Jesse sleepwalks. He’s been doing it since he was a kid, and we’ve never been able to get to the root of the problem. The first few times were terrifying. I’d wake up in the morning and find him on the bathroom floor, or curled up in a ball in the hallway. Thankfully he’s never injured himself, but that’s why I put up a gate at the top of the stairs, just in case. He seems to walk just fine in his sleep, making it all the way downstairs in the past. But it’s not a risk I’m willing to take. The last thing I want is him tripping down the steps and breaking his neck.

  He’s seen a therapist before, where he was diagnosed with some mild anxiety. They gave him sleeping pills in an attempt to keep him thoroughly conked out, but he doesn’t like taking them. Says they make him groggy.

  So instead, we got the gate, and confined him to upstairs. And now, his subconscious brings him in only one direction. My bedroom.

  I know it’s not healthy. I’m not a lunatic. But the thing is, I don’t have the heart to stop him. Jesse is a strong-willed kid. He’s smart and grounded, but he’s always suffered within himself. He’s quiet about his emotions, and he internalizes everything. I think I know where he gets it from…

  For as much as I’ve raised him, as well as I could as a nineteen-year-old without a clue, I know Jesse feels the absence of his real parents. He’d never voice it to me, but he does. He knows I’m not them… And I’ve always wondered if I’m glad about that fact or saddened by it.

  I don’t know if I want to be his father, or just his guardian. There’s a big difference in the two.

  Sure, I’ve done everything I can to give him a loving, stable home over the years. He doesn’t call me Dad, and I’m totally fine with that. I try to talk about his parents with him as much as possible, but at this point, it’s been so long since they were around, I barely remember what they were like anymore.

  It fucking sucks. Because they were my only family…

  And now I have this boy of theirs, who’s supposed to be mine just as much, and I don’t have any way of helping him. I don’t think he’s broken on the inside… I sure as shit hope not, because I’ve spent my entire adult life trying to put him back together.

  Jesse turns in the bed, shifting onto his stomach with his face mashed into the pillow. My bed is big enough that there’s plenty of room between us. I wouldn’t let this happen if there weren’t. But I also don’t make any immediate attempts at moving him, and I don’t really know why.

  I just want to keep him comfortable for a little while longer, and if this will do it, then fine. I’m not sure why he comes into my room in his sleep, but I refuse to make him feel bad about it, or myself either, for that matter. I don’t know if he remembers any part of doing this, but we don’t talk about it.

  And let’s just say, this is one giant reason why I always spent the night at Leslie’s house. Over two years of seeing each other, she’d only spent the night in my bed twice. And both times, I locked my bedroom door, and stayed awake all night, stressing about Jesse, hoping he wouldn’t try to get in while she was here.

  Fucked up, I know, but what can I do?

  I’m better off alone. Again, because if the alternative is alienating Jesse, well then, it’s just not going to happen.

  The sounds of Jesse’s soft breaths begin to lull me into a sleepy trance, and I force myself out of it. I’m going to have to move him soon, meaning I absolutely cannot fall asleep. If he wakes up in my bed, it would be the most confusing, awkward thing ever, and we can’t have that.

  Rolling onto my side, I observe him for a moment. His light blonde hair looks almost platinum in this light, mussed up and strewn about. Such a unique color. He definitely got it from Himla.

  His mother was of Swedish origin, and while Trent had a slightly darker complexion and hair, Jesse came out as a spitting image of his mom. The pale skin, hair a color that people choose from bottles, and those golden eyes, like wildflower honey.

  He’s a real looker, the kid. Whoever he ends up with will be one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

  He’s wearing the same thing he was when he went to bed; high school football team hoodie with the torn front pocket, gray sweatpants, and some ridiculous fuzzy Rick And Morty socks he wears constantly. It brings a curl to my lips, promptly falling away when I recall him storming out of the room at barely eight o’clock. Jesse doesn’t typically go to bed early either, so I just know he was upset about what I told him… Thinking he was the reason for Leslie and I ending things.

  I don’t want him to worry about me. He doesn’t need that stress.

  I’ll be fine. All I have to do is be here for him. Fuck love anyway, right?

  All relationships are doomed to fail before they even start.

  The next time I glance at the clock on my nightstand, I notice that it’s almost three in the morning. Where the hell did the time go?

  Sliding out of bed as gently as possible, I round to his side, bending down and scooping him up into my arms.

  Jesse’s not a small kind by any means. He’s just under six feet, one-hundred-and-seventy pounds of slim muscle. Yet when he’s sleeping, it’s so easy for me to hoist him up and carry him to his bedroom, just like when he was little.

  His calm breaths tickle the flesh of my neck as I bring him across the hall, back into his bedroom. Laying him down on the bed, I pull the covers over his waist, giving him one last lingering glance as he lets out a purr, stretching before nestling up beneath his comforter, still lost in his slumber.

  Unsure of what drives me to it, I reach down and brush my fingers through his silky blonde locks, pushing the strands of ivory from where they want to flop over his forehead. It reminds me of the times I put him to bed as a child. That’s the thought resting at the front of my mind as I leave
his bedroom and go back to my own.

  Crawling back into bed, I lie on my side, facing the empty spot.

  And I don’t fall asleep until the pale glow of sunrise peeks through the window.

  Chapter 4

  Jesse

  * * *

  My eyes creep open to sunlight streaming in through the partially drawn curtains of my bedroom window. Groggily, I blink myself awake, feeling around the bed.

  Something feels off, and I know what that means…

  I may have walked in my sleep.

  I know I do it. I’ve suffered from sleepwalking for years. Back when it started, it was nerve-racking, waking up not in my bed. James took me to a doctor a few times, but nothing has really helped. I accepted it long ago. And though I have no recollection of what I do, wandering around at night unconscious, I always have this feeling when I wake up knowing I’ve done it. Like a dream I can’t quite grasp.

  These recollections resonate in my mind… It’s been this way for a long time. And now I can barely even tell where my dreams end and reality begins.

  But I haven’t woken up outside of my bed in years. Somehow, I always seem to find my way back, which is interesting, to say the least.

  Rubbing my eyes, I swing my legs out of bed, cringing at how bright it is outside. The sun is reflecting off the snow, blinding me even through the curtains. I make my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth and take a shower.

  Once I’m done and dressed in black jeans and a flannel, I head downstairs, the smell of bacon and eggs rumbling my stomach. I swing into the kitchen, where James is standing in front of the stove, poking at things with a spatula.

  Pushing away the awkwardness I always feel around him lately, I chirp, “Good morning.”

  He does a little nod over his shoulder, nothing but a grunt for a response. Pretty on-brand for my adoptive father.