8. Christmas Eve Snowed In
DECEMBER 2038
AFTER CHAPTER 32 IN SINFUL LIKE US
We listened to "The Heart is a Muscle" Gang of Youths while writing this scene.
Character List:
Beckett Cobalt - 21
Luna Hale - 19
Bodyguards:
O’Malley - 27 Epsilon (Current Client: Beckett Cobalt)
Paul Donnelly - 27 Omega (Current Client: Xander Hale)
**
PAUL DONNELLY
I LIGHT A CANDLESTICK in the kitchen, cupping my hand around the flame as it catches the wick. Wind whistles throughout this old Scotland house, and nearly everyone has dispersed to sleep. Or pretend to.
I can’t sleep.
I’m not even pretending.
It’s nearing midnight on Christmas Eve. Snowed-in for four days and counting. Nobody thought we’d be here for the holidays, so there was no tree, no decorations or gifts, just Christmas music from Quinn’s now dead phone. (Quinnie taking one for the team.)
Today was…eventful.
Holidays bring out the best and worst in people.
We were supposed to be keeping morale high for the famous ones, and that sank into quicksand around the time a fight broke out.
Most of us yelled at Tony and Thatcher (pretending to be Banks) to break apart, but no one stopped Thatcher. Toolbox vs. Tank—Tank is gonna win, no question. Thatcher is massive and too strong, and I’d take on a Tank, a Terminator, a Tsunami for a friend—but Tony isn’t anything to me.
Plus, what came out of his mouth tonight and how he squared up to Jane—if Thatcher didn’t punch him first, someone else would’ve.
The fight was one-sided since Tony couldn’t get the upper hand.
Oscar and I both audibly winced and flinched when Thatcher landed a final, brutal fist in Tony’s jaw. The Toolbox slumped down on the floorboards of the Scotland house. Unconscious.
He’s alright now. Shoulda woke up with a bruised ego, but I think he’s still looking for a fight to validate his manhood. For whatever reason, people see me as an easy punching bag, and so he’s risen on my list of people to avoid while we’re trapped here.
1. O’Malley
2. Tony the Toolbox
3. Beckett
I grind down, my jaw tensing. Beckett. A gnarled root is in my ribcage that I try to breathe out. Only list I thought he’d be on of mine is Friends to Protect. The fact that Jane and Charlie forced their brother here because of his drug use is another reason why I just want to forget and move on.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I mutter to myself, leaning on the kitchen cupboards while I have this orange sweater on the counter. Candlelight flickers over a pinky-sized hole, and using a safety pin I found, I try to fish a thread through and create a knot.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
It’s just a hole.
With my wrist, I nudge my glasses further up my nose. If I can fix it, I wanna fix it. Luna knitted this sweater for me in exchange for sketching the galaxy design for a future tattoo. I made something for her, and she made something for me.
So it means something to me. I don’t want her to think I didn’t care enough about it—that I destroyed it.
“Come on, sweater,” I mutter. “Cooperate with me here.” I have no extra yarn or sewing thread. So I’m working with what already exists. I’m fiddling over the loose yarn around the hole for what feels like ten minutes before I hear footsteps.
I stay bent against the cupboards, elbow on the counter, and a guy on my To Avoid List suddenly enters the kitchen.
Beckett slows to a complete stop, his gaze slamming against mine. Yeah, he wasn’t expecting to see me any more than I thought it’d be him gliding through the doorway.
I tense, my muscles stretching in searing bands. Unmoving. What do I even say?
Merry Christmas Eve, why’d you get rid of me that easily?
Couldn’t even talk to me about it first?
Did I not deserve that?
It hasn’t even been two months off his detail. I hope years from now, it won’t hurt to see him. To be in his company. ‘Cause right now, it feels like walking over glass, and I’m not even moving a muscle.
Dark half-moons shadow his yellow-green eyes. He must not be sleeping well. The longer we’re trapped in Scotland, that’s another day without cocaine. Unless he brought some.
I try not to picture that.
“You alright?” I ask him quietly.
He nods tightly and produces an even tighter smile. He’s agitated. Drug withdrawals, most likely. Or maybe he just can’t stand to look at my face. I dunno.
His face isn’t bringing warm fuzzies either.
As his eyes flit around the cupboards, the fridge—everywhere but me—I try to refocus on the sweater. Seems like Beckett has the same avoidance list and my name is scrawled somewhere on his, too. Instead of leaving, he surprisingly comes further into the kitchen.
Tension bakes my body with an uncomfortable heat, and if someone told me we were stuck in the Sahara Desert, not a snowstorm, I might believe them.
I hear Beckett open a cupboard near the fridge.
The wind roars and rattles the icy windowpanes, and right as he shuts a cupboard, the flame extinguishes on my candle.
“Fuck,” I curse, and I unpocket my lighter. Let’s try this again. Cupping my hand around the wick, I try to produce a flame. It extinguishes too fast. Shit. I roll my thumb over the lighter’s wheel.
Come on, baby flame.
Light my world.
Come on.
Just light up enough so I can see this fucking counter at least. I’m not asking for a whole lot, am I?
Beckett is watching my focused attempts while he fills a glass of water from the sink. After a full minute, the fire finally stays long enough to catch the wick.
Never doubted you, lighter. I kiss my cheap lighter and shove the thing in my pocket.
Back to the sweater, I break the safety pin further open. It’s not a needle and thread, but it should work as a hook to fish the yarn. I’d say I’m handy. Crafty. I should be able to fix this.
Beckett opens a few drawers.
It distracts me, honestly. I bite back frustration, and after accidently unspooling a yarn that’d been perfectly fine and I form a bigger hole, I set the safety pin down and wonder where I went wrong.
I sense Beckett nearing, and I cast a glance towards him.
He’s found a sewing kit, and without a word, he extends his hand towards the sweater. I know he can sew. And it’s not that I have a vindictive instinct yelling at me to deny his silent offer.
It’s that it hurts to accept it.
Just as silently, I take a few steps back, letting him have the sweater and the light. Beckett stands where I’d been, and without a word, he flips the sweater inside-out and threads a needle.
I take off my reading glasses. Pocketing them. And while he stitches the hole shut, we say nothing.
Not one thing.
I lean my shoulder blades against the fridge, a rock in the pit of my throat, and I can’t even watch him do me a favor. Should I have said no?
Should I have rejected the offer? ‘Cause this is more painful than I thought it’d be.
The flame never goes out. Beckett is either barely breathing or he’s so graceful, he moves without stirring the wind.
He bites off the thread, does something fancy with his fingers (can’t really see; still trying not to look) and then turns the orange and green alien sweater outside-in.
Once he’s done, he hands it to me.
The thanks, man is lost. It’s buried behind, You happy without me? You wish you talked to me before you got me transferred? Why couldn’t I stop you from using?
Why did I never try?
I take the sweater. I can’t speak.
A fist is now in my throat.
His eyes are full of tormented things, and he cuts his gaze to the rattling window. And quietly, so very quietly, he whispers, “Goodnight, Donnelly.”
And he leaves. He leaves with his glass of water and without another sound.
I’d think I hallucinated the exchange, but I have the patched sweater to prove I didn’t. As I return to the candle, to blow it out, more footsteps patter along the creaky floorboards.
I wait to extinguish the light.
My face contorts seeing him.
Frustration and anger simmer inside me as O’Malley, of all people, crests the threshold of the kitchen. Am I in A Christmas Carol or what? The Ghost of Christmas Past just left, and now I’m facing Christmas Present? If that makes me Scrooge, then fuck that.
I’m nothing like Scrooge.
The holidays might not have loved me most of my life, but that didn’t stop me from trying to love them.
“Late-night chitchat with my client?” O’Malley says, his pink lips quirking at my client. He looks like a young Cillian Murphy, but O’Malley’s face is more punchable.
I still remember our fight outside of the pub. Feels like yesterday, but it’s been about a week.
“And you care because…?” I ask with the tight lift of my shoulders. “I’m all you think about. You have a hard-on for me. You’re obsessed with what I’m doing and wherever I am.”
O’Malley lets out a noise of annoyance.
Good.
I’m glad he’s annoyed. He’s a locust to me, and I want him not to dig under my skin.
He meets my gaze and says, “Fuck you.”
“Appreciate it,” I say casually like he’s not bothering me, but he is. “I’d been all out of fucks.”
I want to leave him behind and just end tonight on a bittersweet Christmas note. Got my sweater fixed. Didn’t punch anyone (personally, can’t say the same for Thatch). I’m not back in Philly. Which is strange to still be happy about that, but I am.
I really am.
Right as I step forward, O’Malley cuts off my path and reaches for the cupboard above and behind my head. Forcing me to inch backwards, my back hits the counter, and I shift the waxy candlestick to the side, careful that it doesn’t tip over.
It’s still lit.
O’Malley’s chest bumps up against my chest. And for a brief, split-second, I do wonder if he has a thing for me.
He’s staring into me. I can’t read him that well.
“I’m straight,” I tell him, since I'm wondering if he thinks I’m not.
His jaw clenches. “Fuck. You.” He wrenches open the cupboard above my head, knocking the wood into my skull.
Fuck. I wince.
And I bang my shoulder forcefully against him as I shove past. He stumbles a little. Anger boils my blood, and I could so easily wrestle him to the ground. Pick a fight. Throw a few punches.
Won’t make me feel any better. I know that, so I take a few breaths and try to calm the fuck down.
O’Malley grabs a basket of med supplies we’ve all pooled together. After picking out a bottle of pain meds, he doles a few pills in his palms and returns the basket to the cupboard. It’s only when he leaves do I realize that he’s limping.
Guess he hurt his ankle or hamstring.
Alright, I need to go to bed. So I turn to blow out the candle that’s surprisingly still lit, and I hear another set of footsteps.
“Please not him,” I mutter under my breath, expecting the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.
I remember A Christmas Carol from school. I liked whenever teachers played the movie. School was my favorite part of the holidays. Was the only thing that really felt festive. Classrooms were decorated. Sometimes there’d be hot chocolate.
It’s going to be Tony. The third person on my list is coming to haunt me. I jinxed myself or something by thinking about those three guys. I know I did.
Tony is coming to pick a fight. Well, guess what—I’ve already had a cupboard knocked in my skull and been cursed at and sat in silence with my past.
My future can’t be any worse than that.
Can it?
I’m tense, about to blow out the candle and not linger to see him.
“Oh…” Her voice stops me cold. “Hi, hey, howdy.”
Slowly, I twist my head over my shoulder. I must be dreaming now.
Luna Hale throws up the Vulcan salute, wearing three layers of clothes and a knitted beanie with two poms. “What’s up? Or down…you kinda look down.” Her voice is soft in the quiet.
I shake my head. “I thought you were Tony.”
“Oh. Definitely not Tony.” She comes forward, noticing my sweater she knitted but says nothing. Now I’m glad I let Beckett patch the hole for me. “Did you wish I was him?”
I laugh. “No.” I breathe in deeper and knot the sweater around my waist, the knitted arms long enough to tie. “I’m glad you’re not.”
She smiles a little and then touches the back of a chair, the breakfast table cozied up against the windows. “What are you doing awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“Same.” She stares at the cupboards behind me.
“Need something?” I wonder, taking the candle over to the table. I set it on the surface.
She frowns. “I don’t know…maybe later. I know we don’t have a lot of resources…I’ll just wait.”
“Watcha looking for, Luna?” I wonder, seeing her wrestling with telling me.
Her cheeks redden. I haven’t thought she’s shy, but she looks away from me. Must be personal or somethin’. Resources imply food or medication.
“Medicine?” I throw out there. “You in pain?” I hope not.
“It’s not that bad yet,” she mutters so quietly. “Just cramps.”
“Bad enough for you to come down here is bad enough for me to steal shit for you.” I open the same cupboard O’Malley did, and I find the limited supply of pain meds. “If anyone asks, I took them for my headache.”
Once I come over and put three pills in her palm, Luna looks a little overwhelmed. “Thanks.” She smiles over at me, and I fill her a water from the tap while she sinks down at the breakfast table. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“The wind.” I place the water beside her, and I take a seat at the other end of the table. The candlelight between us. “You missing home?”
She downs the pills with a big swig, then nods. “I keep thinking about Xander. It’s not even that we won’t be there tomorrow. It’s that we can’t even call him to wish him a happy birthday or let him know we’re thinking about him.”
“Yeah,” I nod back. “I get that.” I eye the empty chair beside her. “We could pretend.”
She smiles over at the chair. “Pretend everyone is here?”
“Yeah, why not?”
Luna leans forward, eyeing the tartan tablecloth and the candle. “And there’s a feast. A ginormous Christmas feast with mac-and-cheese.”
“Now we’re talking,” I say, and I think she smiles more off how I say talk like tawk. “What do you do—turkey, ham?”
“Christmas Day? Ham.”
“There’s a huge ham,” I tell her. “Massive. Right there.” I point at the center of the table.
She leans forward and smells with closed eyes. “Mmm, pineapple-y.”
“Mashed potatoes.”
“Garlic mashed potatoes,” she amends.
“Girl, get out of my head,” I tease.
We’re both grinning. “Yams,” she says. “The frozen kind. They’re the best. They’re over there.” She motions to a spot near Xander’s chair.
I pretend to slide her the yams. She mimes forking a yam and taking a big bite. With a pretend mouthful, Luna sing-songs, “Delicious.”
“What does Xander like?”
“The rolls. He’s usually in charge of making them because he likes them a perfectly golden color. He’ll stand by the oven like they’re his babies. Incubating.”
I laugh, and I push the rolls towards him.
She heaps more food onto his plate. A good portion of ham, another scoop of yams and potatoes. “There you go, birthday boy.”
“We can’t forget dessert,” I tell her. “You see that cheesecake? Each slice is a different flavor.”
“Mmm,” she moans. “Caramel. Strawberry.”
“Chocolate.”
She shoves the plate to me. “Take a slice.”
I take many slices and stuff my face until she’s laughing, and I’m laughing with her. And we keep building upon our Christmas feast, the table overflowing with gravy, cranberries, a molten chocolate cake, sugar cookies, ice cream, and pizza bites.
We’re digging in, laughing and moaning over the perfectly cooked rolls, and this is the best meal I’ve had all year. Christmas Eve with Luna Hale.
Luna cups a goblet of Fizz Life with two hands, and she asks, “Have you seen Hook?”
I chew a grisly part of ham. “Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “Loved that movie as a kid.”
“Yeah…me too.” She shares in my knowing smile.
Eating a pretend feast is the highlight of Hook. Thing is, this isn’t the first time I’ve done this on a holiday. Just the first time I haven’t been alone doing it.
I don’t tell her that.
Seems too deep.
Guilt festers in me a little bit for wanting to be snowed-in, unlike Luna. They’re suffering here, and I’m the only person who would rather stay here than go back home. I know that.
My dad is in Philly. Out of prison.
It’s just better here. Away from him.
This is better.
Once we’re both stuffed, I careen over and blow out the candle. We’re bathed in darkness.
“Merry Christmas, space babe,” I breathe in the quiet.
I hear her smile as she says, “Merry Sithmas. The cheer is strong with this one.”
I laugh, and it’s a laugh I let carry me to bed. Though, maybe I should’ve let it carry me to the moon. Her moon.
God, I wonder where that is. I bet it’s beautiful there.