42. Our Home For The Holidays
I t’s Christmas Day, and it’s been five months since I handed Josh the letter and let Kevin go.
Naomi’s apartment smells like cinnamon and pine—the kind of scent that settles into your clothes and follows you home.
The windows fog from the stove heat and the warm breath of people who know how to love each other.
Naomi stands at the stove in a red apron, one hand on her hip, the other stirring a pot of collard greens like she’s conducting a symphony.
“I swear to God, Daniel,” she says, pointing the wooden spoon at me, “if you slice that ham one more time like it’s a vinyl bootleg, I’m going to revoke your kitchen privileges.”
I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “I just believe in precision.”
“You believe in control,” Mateo mutters from the table, lining up forks like he’s resetting a stage.
“And y’all both believe you’re helping,” Naomi says, “which is why I invited you early—so you could annoy each other under my supervision.”
We laugh. It’s easy now, the three of us. No eggshells. No subtext. Just warmth. Mateo hums along to a Smokey Robinson track playing low on the radio. Naomi sprinkles paprika over the deviled eggs with an artist’s flair. The lights on the tiny tree blink in rhythm, slow and soft .
“This table looks good,” I say, adjusting one last plate.
“Yeah, well,” Naomi says, glancing over her shoulder, “don’t get used to domesticity. I’m still wild at heart.”
I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching her work. The past feels like a different apartment—not gone, just quieter. The way an old record hums beneath the groove, still spinning but no longer demanding attention.
Naomi raises an eyebrow at me. “You good? You’re weirdly quiet.”
“I’m good,” I say, and I mean it.
She doesn’t press. She nods like she believes me now.
There’s a knock at the door.
Naomi hands me a towel. “Get that, would you? My hands are full.”
Crossing the room, I wipe my hands dry. I know who it is, and for a second, my hand pauses on the doorknob. It’s not a pause of hesitation but of anticipation.
Patrick stands in the hallway, his cheeks pink from the cold.
He’s wearing a slightly oversized sports coat, the kind of upscale wool thing he probably borrowed from his father’s closet and thought made him look older.
His hair’s a little longer than the last time I saw him, falling into his eyes like he forgot to get it cut before winter break.
“Hey, stranger,” I say.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he says. “My mom’s pecan pie held me hostage.” He’s holding a bottle of wine and wearing that crooked smile I remember.
He steps forward, and we hug. It’s not awkward, but it is different—warmer, more familiar than flirty. We hadn’t seen each other since August when he left to start his sophomore year at Vanderbilt. Still, we’d kept in touch: a few calls, one postcard with a drawing of a turtle that made me laugh.
“Come on in,” I say, stepping aside. “It’s about time.”
Patrick steps in, and I take his coat as he surveys the apartment.
The lights are dim, the music low, and Naomi’s already two glasses into the wine.
Mateo’s just finished lighting the last of the tea candles I scattered around the room.
They emit a soft glow that makes the old apartment appear warm and festive.
“Merry Christmas, baby boy,” Naomi calls from the kitchen. She appears a few seconds later and throws her arms around him. “Look at you, with that grown-up scarf and everything.”
He laughs. “Trying to fool people into thinking I pay taxes.”
“Well, take off your damn shoes and come grab a plate.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Patrick says, grinning. He glances my way, and I swear I feel the room shift—not in that dizzying way it used to when I saw Kevin across a street, but in a quiet, anchored way. Like gravity finding you.
Mateo rolls his eyes. “God, you two are insufferable.” He’s standing at the kitchen pass-through, arms crossed, watching with a small smile. Patrick meets his eyes and walks over, neither hurried nor hesitant. They hug. And then, in full view of all of us, Patrick leans in and kisses Mateo.
It’s brief, but passionate and intentional.
No one’s surprised. Not really. The two have been trading calls and letters since late summer, making vague references that turned more direct around October.
Mateo mentioned Patrick more. Patrick started asking about Mateo.
Naomi and I teased them once or twice, but we both knew where it was headed.
Naomi raises her glass. “Well, damn. About time. ”
Mateo chuckles and loops an arm casually around Patrick’s waist. “We’re figuring it out. Long-distance, you know. Nothing dramatic.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the way his hand comes to rest on Patrick’s back says otherwise.
I laugh. “You should’ve heard Patrick the night I mentioned you. Couldn’t stop asking questions—what kind of music you liked, if you were seeing anyone, how tall you were.”
Patrick rolls his eyes, but his grin betrays him. “You make me sound desperate.”
“You were,” I say, “adorably so.”
Patrick shrugs, unabashed. “What can I say? I’m attracted to older guys—ones who know who they are. Mateo had that vibe from the jump. Cool. Solid. Grounded.”
Naomi snorts. “Grounded? Mateo?”
She lifts her wine glass and eyes Mateo. “You’re surrounded by fine-ass men at that diner and Burkhart’s every night—and yet, somehow, you have to pick from the friend group?”
Mateo raises a brow. “I like quality over quantity.”
Patrick nods and gives me a wink. “Exactly.”
I step back and take it in—Naomi commanding the kitchen, Mateo acting unimpressed, and Patrick already barefoot like he’s always belonged.
Patrick grins, then walks over to where I’m setting down a platter of roasted carrots. “This looks incredible. Did you guys cook all of this?”
“Most of it. Naomi helped. Mateo brought dessert. I worked on not burning anything,” I reply.
Dinner unfolds like something we’ve all needed but never named: slow, unrushed conversation, second helpings, the kind of laughter that slips easily from your chest when you’re full in the best way. There’s no tension. No shadows. Just us.
At one point, between the ham and the pie, Naomi leans forward and says, “I may have a date next week.”
Mateo raises a brow. “A date? With someone you didn’t cut off in traffic or threaten to punch?”
She shrugs, half-smiling. “He’s a writer. A client, technically. I’m editing his manuscript, and it’s not terrible.”
“That’s the bar now?” I ask. “Not terrible?”
“He has strong hands and knows how to use a semicolon. I’m intrigued.”
We all laugh.
Later, as we’re sipping coffee and passing around whatever’s left of the pecan pie, Mateo nudges me. “You didn’t tell Patrick your news.”
I shrug. “It’s not really news yet.”
Naomi squints. “Tell him.”
I glance around the table, at all of them, at the flickering candles and comfort I hadn’t realized had settled in my chest until now.
“Eddie and I have been talking,” I say finally, “about me taking over B-Side one day.”
“Daniel’s been working there nights and weekends,” Mateo tells Patrick.
Naomi places her fork on the table and applauds. “Our little entrepreneur.”
“Not yet. But maybe someday, when Eddie’s ready.”
Patrick grins. “You’d own the place? ”
“Maybe,” I say. “I mean, I love it. I love both jobs—the best of both worlds. Pool work keeps me fit and out in the fresh air, but B-Side feels like, I don’t know, my soul.”
Naomi nods slowly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Sounds like someone’s finally getting their shit together and building a life.”
Mateo raises his glass. “To Daniel. Keeper of pools, vinyl, and vibes.”
We all toast.
At last, I don’t feel like I’m chasing anything.
I’m not rebuilding the past or trying to become someone I’m not.
I’m just here, surrounded by people I didn’t have to earn or perform for.
It is not the life I imagined four years ago.
It’s better, quieter, steadier. A little strange and a little scrappy at times—full of soft turns and sharp edges—but they don’t cut like they used to.
As we sit there, full and laughing, with wine-stained lips and stories spilling over each other, I think this is what staying feels like. It’s not dramatic, not perfect. But it’s present, it’s enough, and it’s mine. I no longer feel like I’m chasing it. I’m living it.
END