A place like home, p.1
A Place Like Home, page 1
A Place Like Home
Christmas Shorts
Yolande Kleinn
Published by Yolande Kleinn, 2021.
Copyright 2021 Yolande Kleinn
ISBN 978-1-946316-22-6
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
A Place Like Home
Cover Design
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About the Author
A Place Like Home
by Yolande Kleinn
The worst thing about winter is how early the sun goes down.
Alan trudges cautiously along an icy sidewalk, through what is admittedly a beautiful neighborhood. Fresh snowfall blankets the entire city, rendering the glittering holiday decorations bright and festive. The dark sky adds to the effect, all the tiny white lights shimmering like fireflies and strings of rainbow bulbs glinting across roofs and lawns.
It's not the worst consolation prize, but it's not enough. Alan went to work in the gloom before dawn, and left to an evening-dark horizon. Never mind how much he hates the cold—he'd give a kidney just to experience a few minutes of sunlight at the end of his workday.
His own driveway, when at last he reaches it, is covered in enough snow to make him glad he took the bus downtown this morning. Hopefully by tomorrow, every identical garage along the block will be plowed out—but tonight, Alan would need to salt and shovel just to get his car off the street.
Exhausted as he is from a week of overtime—finance is always a nightmare right before the holidays—Alan doesn't notice the warm glow pouring out his windows. Hell, it's Christmas Eve, and glinting light assails him from all directions as he navigates knee-high drifts to reach his front door. How can he be expected to notice just one in an identical line of townhomes, even if this one does belong to him?
He notices once he steps through the door, though. Soft light emanates from the living room at the top of the stairs, oddly patterned from the string of rainbow lights on his tree. Low strains of music drift sedately through the quiet, and a crisp scent of mulled cider fills the air.
Alan kicks off his boots and unwinds the soft scarf from around his neck. Surprise quickly gives way to elated incredulity at finding his home occupied. Only one other person has a key, and though Alan thought him still on the other side of an ocean, no burglar would bother making the place smell so good before running off with the valuables.
"Jamie?" Alan calls up the long, narrow stairs that lead into his cozy second-floor condo.
A scramble of footsteps sets the floorboards creaking, and Jamie's head pokes over the banister just as Alan shrugs out of his massive overcoat. The clothing beneath barely qualifies as business casual—Alan refused to wear a goddamn tie when he got called in on Christmas Eve. Hell, he could've refused to go in at all, but overtime pay makes for a compelling argument—especially when he plans to travel abroad next year, ostensibly to visit the man currently grinning down at him from above.
Now, meeting Jamie with a helpless smile of his own, Alan wishes he'd told his boss to fuck off. How long has Jamie been waiting? How much time did Alan waste working, when he could've been drinking hot cider and watching holiday classics with his best friend?
"Hi." Jamie grins wider as he watches Alan climb the stairs. "I let myself in."
"I noticed." Alan reaches the landing, and whuffs out a gasp of laughter as Jamie launches at him. He marvels, as always, at the strength in the enthusiastic hug. For a man with such a small frame, Jamie packs a lot of power into those skinny arms.
Alan returns the embrace with matching ferocity, holding on with all the giddy emotion in his racing heart. He doesn't know why Jamie is here. He only knows he's more glad of it than he will ever dare to say.
The instant Jamie moves to withdraw, Alan lets go. Every instinct urges him to hold on longer, but he resists. Too much chance of Jamie reading between those lines. After a decade of making sure Jamie doesn't suspect his deeper feelings, Alan's not going to fuck this up.
"Marigold!" Jamie calls, aiming his voice down the hall past the kitchen. "Guess who's home!"
Alan has all of two seconds to register surprise that Jamie brought his daughter, and then a high squeal and a skitter of footsteps race along the hall. It's a damn good thing Alan's feet are firmly planted, as his favorite four-year-old hurtles into him with no more warning than that. Alan rallies just in time to scoop her into a big, squashy hug, heart all but bursting in his chest.
His questions will have to wait, immediately subsumed by a torrent of information from the child in his arms. Marigold's face, brown and beaming with delight, looks so much like Jamie in her excitement. She recounts a disjointed tale of airports, car rides, and a giant pretzel. Her skin is flushed with warmth and energy, her dark eyes shining and showing no sign of jet lag. She squirms as she tells her story, and Alan finally has to set her down for fear of dropping her. God, she's gotten big—has it really been so long since he last saw her in person?
Video calls may help stay in touch across continents—and Marigold's mom has always been kind enough to make time for Alan, even when Jamie isn't around—but it's not the same as sharing real, actual space with his favorite people.
"We already set up camp in your guest room." Jamie doesn't sound the least bit apologetic as he adds, "I hope that's okay."
Of course it's okay. There's a reason he gave Jamie a key.
"How are you even here?" Alan is still trying to wrap his head around the impossible fact of coming home to house guests when he fully expected to be alone through the holiday. He's still staring at Jamie's amused face as Marigold takes him by the hand and marches him authoritatively into the kitchen. "How are you both here?"
"Juice." Marigold ignores his questions and points up at the counter, where Alan's smallest slow cooker sits, obviously the source of the heavenly aroma permeating his home.
"Is that how we ask for things, Mar?" Jamie follows as far as the door frame, a serious expression concealing a spark of humor.
Marigold huffs. "Not for me, Daddy. For Auntie Alan." As a toddler with more than a dozen aunts and no biological uncles, Marigold dubbed Alan Auntie when she first started to speak—and the appellation has stuck ever since.
"Thank you, sweetheart." Alan extricates his hand in order to pour himself a steaming mug of heaven. Then, finding the half-empty jug of cider in the door of the fridge, he fills a plastic cup halfway and hands it to Marigold.
She beams, then takes a huge drink without spilling a single drop on her festive green sweater.
Jamie is wearing a Christmas sweater too, Alan realizes. A knit pattern of light and dark green stripes, with a truly appalling reindeer emblazoned across the front.
"Auntie Alan, come play with my new blocks!" Marigold proclaims. "They make a rocket ship, and a doll house, and a submarine!"
Alan's head hurts a little with trying to imagine all those shapes coming from the same chunky block set, and he quickly stops trying. "I'll be there in a minute. Why don't you go start the submarine, and you can show me when it's done."
Marigold gives him a suspicious look, scrutinizing him with all the intensity of a spymaster assessing a slippery target. Then she gives a somber nod and darts back along the hall, a dozen tight braids bouncing down her back.
"Don't spill!" Jamie calls behind her, probably too late. Alan snorts a laugh. He's not worried about cleaning a little apple cider out of the carpets.
In the sudden quiet, Alan lifts his mug and takes a cautious sip. He finds the cider hot but not scalding, and he takes a longer drink. His eyes flutter shut as he savors the crisp bite of apple and cinnamon.
He doesn't know what to make of the way Jamie is staring at him when he blinks back to awareness, though Jamie's gaze cuts away quickly enough to leave him wondering if he imagined the indecipherable intensity.
"I'm glad you're here," Alan says, letting affection soften the words. "But you still haven't told me how. Shouldn't you both be in Spain with Nat? You said you couldn't come until January."
Jamie and Nat may share an unorthodox parenting arrangement—no longer romantically involved when they learned they were going to be parents, they've done some serious gymnastics to give their daughter a stable life between them—but the big holidays are sacred family traditions. If Alan occasionally feels a pang of wishing he could be there along with everyone, instead of waiting his turn on the wrong continent... Well. He'd willingly sacrifice even more for the sake of the family he's chosen for himself.
"Nat had a work emergency." Jamie's grimace makes Alan's heart tighten protectively. "Something big. Top-secret big. I don't know what happened—fucking nondisclosure agreements—but she had to fly out at the last minute, and no one would tell her when she might be back. Could be a few days, could be a month."
Alan sympathizes with the edge of frustration. He's been on friendly terms with Nat for almost as long as he's known Jamie, and he still doesn't know anything about her job. He can only imagine how much worse the mystery is for someone who shares and intersects her life at close range. Just because Jamie and Nat aren't a couple doesn't me
"So you... came here?" Alan prompts.
"Mar was heartbroken. This was all I could think of to console her. Nat agreed it was a good plan, and besides..." Jamie's shrug is too tense, his gaze too evasive for the show of nonchalance to be remotely convincing. "Being here feels like home."
A flush of pleasure swirls through Alan's chest, and he doesn't know which fact is hitting him harder: that Jamie's attempt to soothe Mar's heartbreak brought them here; or that Jamie considers Alan home.
When Alan's floored silence lasts a beat too long, Jamie blusters onward. "Bad news is, you might be stuck with us awhile. The last-minute holiday airfare cleaned me out. I can't buy return tickets until Nat resurfaces to wire me funds."
Alan snorts and shakes his head, then takes another sip of cider. "That's not bad news. I go back to work on the second, but you're both welcome as long as you need to stay." The thought of waking up to company tomorrow—of Jamie and Mar being here Christmas morning—is such a lovely and novel concept that Alan can barely wrap his head around it. He selfishly hopes Nat won't finish her top secret project too soon.
"Have you eaten dinner yet?" Jamie's question carries such sudden, restless purpose that for a moment Alan just blinks at him across the kitchen. An undercurrent of unreadable emotion flashes in the deep brown of Jamie's eyes as he straightens up from the door jamb.
"I hope you didn't wait for me," Alan protests. No, he hasn't eaten dinner, unless he counts the granola bar and energy drink he had at his desk. "It's late, and you've been traveling all day."
"Oh! No. We ate. Picked up sandwiches on our way in from the airport. Yours is in the fridge." Again, some nervous compulsion seems to tug Jamie into motion, and he crosses in front of Alan to reach the refrigerator.
"Jamie, I'm fine." Alan can't guess what this burst of energy heralds, but every instinct aches to soothe his friend. He sets the half-finished mug of cider down on the counter and takes a cautious step forward.
The fridge door squeaks, and Jamie folds practically inside as he searches for the promised sandwich amid a forest of greens and fresh fruit. "I swear, it's in here somewhere. How do you use this much produce before it goes bad, anyway? You live alone. Oh, we got you a lemonade too, assuming I can find it. We—"
"Jamie," Alan interrupts more firmly. Exasperation and concern mingle with fondness in his voice. "The sandwich can wait."
Despite this admonition, Jamie keeps fussing with a head of broccoli that somehow lost its place in the lineup—refusing to fit back on the shelf no matter how Jamie adjusts the angle—so Alan wraps a gentle but insistent grip just above Jamie's elbow and tugs until he turns around. Alan's fingers, paler than ever thanks to the lack of sunlight, look stark against the dark green stripes of the sweater.
Up close, it's dramatically evident just how tall Alan stands next to his guest. He continues to hold Jamie's arm in a loose grip, plucking up the head of broccoli with his free hand and setting it on the counter as the fridge squeaks shut. Jamie meets his eyes at last, but the unsteady intensity sends a confused shiver along Alan's spine.
"Now," Alan says. "Are you going to keep hiding in my fridge, or will you tell me what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." The answer comes out too quick, and a little too sharp, but it also shines with unexpected sincerity. "I just don't... This... It's really, really good to see you, is all."
"And you're behaving strangely because...?" Alan wonders, as soon as he asks the question, if he's being too blunt. Jamie's oddness tonight isn't that strange, and even if it were, why should Alan call him out? There are dozens of completely innocuous reasons he might be off-kilter, especially after a day of airports and a long drive.
But the way Jamie's eyes widen, startled and a little bit guilty, stops Alan from trying to take the words back.
"Jamie." Alan drops his voice to something soft and hopefully reassuring. His hands, nearly of their own volition, curl around Jamie's upper arms as though to steady him. What Alan really wants to do is frame Jamie's face between his hands, and lean forward to bump their foreheads together—but he settles for this, and for adding a quiet, "Whatever it is, I won't be upset."
Foolish, perhaps, to make promises about emotions. But Alan knows Jamie with his entire heart. There isn't a malicious bone in this man's body, and Alan can't imagine taking offense at whatever's got him worked up.
At least Jamie is meeting Alan's gaze now. No flinching, no retreat—just a long, piercing study of Alan's face—as though he's trying silently to unravel every secret in Alan's soul.
Alan only has one secret he's kept from his best friend. And for the first time, he finds himself confusingly unconcerned about Jamie learning the truth.
"Talk to me," Alan nudges, low and cautious.
Jamie gives a visible swallow, then reaches up to curl a tentative hand along Alan's cheek. There must be a scrape of stubble to meet the touch—Alan didn't shave this morning before his grudging jaunt to the office, and it's been hours since then. But Jamie's touch is gentle, and when his thumb traces Alan's cheek, it's all Alan can do not to gasp.
"I missed you," Jamie admits, in a tone that carries far more weight than usual.
Alan's heart beats faster, even as he wills himself calm. Hope is a ridiculous and risky thing to harbor. There's no reason to read deeper meaning into short, simple words he's heard dozens of times before.
"I've missed you too." Alan's own voice comes out a rumble of gravel. He always misses Jamie. Grateful as he is for the steady stream of phone calls, emails, text messages, video chats that keep them connected... Those aren't the same. He's always greedy for Jamie, and the long stretches apart are more torturous than he ever intends to admit.
The look Jamie is giving him makes Alan wonder, for the very first time, if the feeling might be mutual.
"Do you...?" Jamie starts, but lets the question taper off incomplete. He looks almost feverish, his eyes bright, the deep brown of his skin flushed with visible warmth. New resolve flashes behind the uncertain expression, turning it determined and sharp.
Alan covers Jamie's hand with his own, letting expectant stillness fall over him. He watches Jamie draw a slow inhale and square his shoulders. A moment later, Jamie raises his other hand, framing Alan's face between his palms.
Another pause. Another frantic heartbeat. Another stillness through which Alan half fears the ember burning in his chest will explode into a supernova, and the resulting conflagration will burn him to ash.
Then Jamie leans up and in, pulling Alan toward him with intent that even the most stubborn cynic couldn't deny—moving slowly enough to allow retreat several times over, never mind how readily Alan is allowing himself to be moved.
"Daddy?" a perplexed little voice breaks into the silence. "What're you doing?"
Alan's heart jerks and clenches, his fingers tightening around Jamie's arm in a disproportionate surge of alarm. His pulse races as though he's been caught doing something wrong, and if he weren't frozen in shock, he would probably jolt from Jamie's hands in a clumsy and needless rush.
Jamie shows no signs of such panic. Only frustrated exasperation that he masks with impressive efficiency, before letting go of Alan and turning to address his daughter.
"Grown-up stuff. What's wrong, sweetheart?"
Marigold's brow furrows as though she's considering mounting a challenge to this pronouncement. In Alan's experience, the odds are about fifty-fifty whether she'll demand to know what 'grown-up stuff' means in this context, necessitating a delicate but thorough explanation. But she must consider her primary mission a priority, because she answers Jamie's question without derailing into more complicated territory.
"I finished the submarine." She locks Alan in a stare like a tractor beam. "You have to come see."
Right. They only bought themselves a few minutes of reprieve. But Alan would defy anyone to remember other obligations with Jamie about to kiss them. Surely the universe can't fault him for getting distracted.
Or for the incredulous and frantic part of him that wants to scream at being interrupted.
Alan catches Jamie's eye. "This conversation isn't over." Then, putting on an appropriately apologetic smile, he turns to offer Marigold his hand. "Alright. Let's see this submarine."
