Chapter Last December
I think I’d miss you even if we’d never met.
—The Wedding Date
Last December
JAMIE
TUESDAY 10:33 PM
Yooo tree lighting on thursday night??
Santa hats ugly sweaters hot cocoa
don’t make me do this alone ??
The holidays come quicker than Jordan anticipated.
One moment, it’s October, and he’s planning a Halloween bash alongside a high-profile actor’s nonbinary kid’s b-mitzvah.
The next, it’s late November. Holiday parties explode across his calendar.
Kami appoints him co-organizer of 24 Carter Gold’s upcoming annual New Year’s Eve celebration.
It’s hectic and adrenaline draining and Jordan never wants to see his boss on six hours of sleep without caffeine again.
Point is, he needs a night off.
A Christmas tree lighting is perfect.
The biggest tree lighting happens at the Battery Atlanta, a curated shopping district northwest of the city.
There’s live music, minor celebrities, and even a holiday movie showing afterward.
Jordan’s been before. Uncle Kenny was an honorary guest. But it’s far too noisy and glitzy, a commercial production that rivals some of 24 Carter Gold’s celebrations.
Downtown Decatur is simpler. Homier. A city wrapped up in small-town vibes. It reminds Jordan of Christmases with his whole family. All nearly a dozen of them, packed into Uncle Kenny and Auntie Leena’s living room, decorating an artificial tree over eggnog and music.
He arrives early to take it all in.
Wreaths glow from lampposts. Lights are strung in shop windows. The air is slightly chilled, perfumed with pine sap and ginger and wood smoke from the restaurants.
The square is already packed. Carolers warm up tree-side.
Kids hopped up on soft, chewy cookies and steaming cocoa run around shrieking happily.
Couples take selfies on the lawn or under the gazebo.
Santas of all sizes parade through the crowd like a flash mob will break out into Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” any second.
Jordan cringes.
Please, God. No flash mobs.
A family of Grinches passes him wearing fuzzy, lime-green onesies and red scarves. He almost snaps a photo to show Denz. But then they clear and—
There he is.
Disheveled bedhead, prickly jaw. In casual boots, faded jeans, and a bright green sweater with snowflakes and ornaments and Homer Simpson disappearing into foliage. It’s the most hideous thing Jordan’s ever seen. But on Jamie, it’s perfect.
In a sea of tinsel and popcorn garlands, Jamie Peters is the star on the tree.
Jordan can’t help but laugh as he approaches.
Jamie frowns. “You’re not wearing an ugly sweater.”
He is not. Jordan opted for light-wash jeans and a snug tan wool pullover. Technically, still a sweater. Just not from the Burn After Wearing section of T.J. Maxx.
“I gave you specific instructions,” Jamie says.
“You did no such thing.”
“I absolutely did.” Jamie unlocks his phone and reads, “Santa hats. Ugly sweaters. Hot cocoa.”
Jordan squints at him. “Fine. But we don’t have Santa hats.”
With a flourish, Jamie produces a red-and-white Santa hat out of thin air. Or out of the back pocket of his jeans. He plops it on Jordan’s head.
“Ta-da!”
Jordan scowls. He got a fresh haircut this afternoon. For no real reason. Certainly not because he was seeing Jamie tonight. That would be absurd.
Either way, this stupid hat is ruining his aesthetics.
He blows the cottony white ball at the end out of his face. “I look ridiculous,” he grumbles.
“’Tis the season, Jordan!”
Those scrunched, friendly brown eyes focused on him shifts something unnameable in Jordan’s belly. A feeling he’s grown strangely fond of.
“Well,” he says, smiling despite himself, “two out of three requirements met. Only hot cocoa left.”
“Hot cocoa and watching the tree lighting.”
“Obviously.”
Jamie steps forward. He fixes the hat on Jordan’s head. Jordan counts the seconds he lingers there, heat radiating off him.
Christmas in Atlanta is nothing like a Hallmark movie. It’s on the warmer side of cold. Snowfall is rare. But the moment Jamie backs away, Jordan feels like he’s standing in a tundra. Like Jamie’s a fire he needs to be next to.
“Much better,” Jamie says, his gaze intent on Jordan’s face.
Jordan stares back, unblinking.
Something chimes. It’s Jamie’s phone. His face wrinkles as he reads the screen.
“Everything okay?” Jordan asks.
There’s a beat of silence. Jamie keeps reading. Then his eyes snap up. “Oh, yeah. It’s, uh—nothing.” He smiles, but it’s not quite as big as before. “Shall we?”
Jordan buys the hot chocolates. Peppermint for himself. Extra marshmallows for Jamie.
They walk slowly through the square. The surge of extra bodies forces Jamie to stay close. Right by Jordan’s side, their hands brushing every few steps.
“Die Hard?”
Somehow, they get on the topic of favorite Christmas movies. Jordan’s not ashamed of his choice. He’ll fight anyone—including Jamie—about John McClane’s clear influence on the holiday season.
“It’s a classic,” Jordan tells him.
Jamie balks. “Yeah, if you’re into violence and Bruce Willis crawling around in a tank top with bloody feet for over two hours.”
“Jamie.” Jordan pauses, grinning. “Is this your way of telling me you have a feet kink?”
“I mean, duh. Who doesn’t?”
Jordan sips to hide the nearly invisible flush in his cheeks. He burns his tongue. Worth it.
“But it’s not the ultimate holiday classic,” Jamie argues after his own sip. “That honor belongs to—”
“I swear to God, if you say Love Actually—”
“The Holiday.”
Jordan stops abruptly, pondering.
The left side of Jamie’s mouth inches up. “Perfect, right?”
Jordan tilts his head one way, then the other. “Nah.”
“What?”
“A close second, though.”
“Bullshit!” Jamie tips his head back, laughing.
“Look, I can appreciate Cameron Diaz’s humor,” Jordan says as they stroll. “Kate Winslet is phenomenal. But they’re no ‘yippee-ki-yay, motherfu—’”
“Your taste is disgraceful!”
Jordan shrugs, undeterred.
“Wait until Denz gets back,” Jamie says. “He’ll agree with me.”
Jordan doesn’t comment. Denz arrives in two weeks. It’s his first time home in months since moving to Culver City with Braylon.
The first time he’ll be around Jordan and Jamie, together.
Not, like, together together. They’re not dating. Just hanging out. Frequently. Which Jordan thinks is nice.
The proximity to someone is comforting. So is Jamie’s near-constant affection. Jordan’s finally identified that scent always clinging to him—amber and oak. It’s also nice watching his phone regularly light up with messages and calls. Their easy conversations.
Maybe it’s a little confusing too. Baffling. All that excitement buzzing in his system right before seeing Jamie again.
He thinks about it at his desk, during meetings. On the weekends. When he’s cleaning his bathroom.
Now, when their shoulders bump.
The wind rustles Jamie’s curls as he looks down on Jordan. As he coerces Jordan into switching cups so Jamie can sample his peppermint cocoa.
It’s this growing itch inside Jordan for more. Of what? He hasn’t figured that out yet. But he wants more. Even if it’s only a little.
Even if it’s just a—
Jamie grimaces when his phone chimes again.
“You’re popular tonight,” Jordan observes.
A rueful smile pulls at Jamie’s mouth. “I’m always popular.”
“Oh, yes,” Jordan says mockingly. “How could you not be? Atlanta’s resident love expert and all.”
Jamie flicks the fluffy ball on Jordan’s hat. “You’ve stopped complaining about how great I am.”
“Have I?”
“You have.”
“God, I must be losing my touch. Getting soft in my old age.”
The corners of Jamie’s eyes scrunch.
In the madness of the past two months, Jordan’s birthday happened. Jamie’s did too. They’re a few weeks apart.
Cheryl tried to organize an extravagant party for Jordan. He quickly vetoed it. Settled for a quiet family night in and a big cake. Jamie had dinner with his parents too. Though he hasn’t talked about how that went.
In between, they celebrated together. At a cozy downtown diner. Over late-night pie.
Another flawless night that left Jordan with … a hunger.
More and more and more.
Jamie stops them on the lawn. “We should get a selfie.”
“We should?” Jordan’s belly dances.
“Yeah. For Denz.”
“Oh.”
“The bastard sent me a pic of him on the beach the other day,” Jamie says, smirking. “I had FOMO all day. Time to return the favor.”
Jordan barely has time to blink. To answer. Jamie hauls him closer. He arranges Jordan next to him, his arm extended with the selfie camera pointed at them. He curls his other arm around Jordan’s shoulders so effortlessly, as if this is how they’re always meant to be.
At each other’s side. Bodies pressed together. Breathing each other in.
“Smile!”
Jordan does, automatically. Thoughtlessly.
The camera snaps.
“No, no, no,” Jamie whines. “We look so fake. Like an annoying Christmas card from that one set of friends you hate but pretend to like because at least they give decent gifts.”
Jordan tilts his head back. “That was weirdly specific.”
“Trust me. They’re the worst.”
He repositions Jordan to face the camera. Warm fingers going to Jordan’s jaw. Arm tightening around his shoulders.
“Ready?”
Jamie’s phone chimes again. A text. He swipes the notification away, biting his lip for a beat before he resets into a grin.
“Okay. Take two. Say ‘yippee-ki-ho-ho-ho, motherfucker!’”
“Fuck you,” Jordan laughs out.
Another snap. It’s less elegant than the first. Jordan’s mid-cackle. Jamie’s face is half tucked into Jordan’s temple, crinkled with amusement. It’s more … them.
Jordan can’t stop staring at it.
That is, until more chimes erupt from Jamie’s phone. He turns it away to read.
Jordan lets his brain drift. Hundreds of thoughts explode at once. Like a bare shoulder pressed to his under Fourth of July fireworks. Like a sticky bar and screaming, drunk friends at a trivia night. Like Don Henley talking about all the boys of summer in the back of a Jeep.
A neon-lit diner with cheesy music and great pie.
Moment after moment, laugh after laugh, touch after touch crashing together.
When the dust settles, Jordan sees one thing:
Jamie, at the heart of everything.
Moremoremore.
The crowd thickens around them. The carolers bop through “Last Christmas.” Anticipation halos above in the purple sky.
In Jordan’s gut.
He edges closer to Jamie. Inhales amber and oak. He steps on his tiptoes, chasing the high like he’s just devoured a tray of pot brownies.
Jamie lowers his phone, brow furrowed.
Jordan ignores it. He closes his eyes, giddy. So close—
“Whoa.”
Then he almost falls over when Jamie jerks backward. Jordan blinks, swallows. He stares as Jamie’s face freefalls into a deep frown.
“Oh,” Jordan says for lack of anything better. “Uh—”
“Jordan.”
It comes out slow, weak, almost disappointed. As if Jordan missed something. Missed a lot of things, actually.
“I—” Jordan’s voice fails. Everything is crisscrossed, plugged into the wrong port, malfunctioning. “Sorry?”
Jamie grimaces. He glances at his phone, then Jordan again. So many times before, Jordan’s absently counted all the colors in Jamie’s eyes. Vibrant, electric, brilliant shades of emerald and cedar. Now, he only sees a sad brown.
“I didn’t mean to—did I…”
Get it wrong? sits in the air between them.
Embarrassment churns nauseously inside Jordan’s sternum. Of course he got it wrong. He just tried to kiss Jamie. And Jamie backed up like Jordan was a fucking velociraptor waiting to claw his insides out. Like Jordan couldn’t possibly have gotten it so wrong in his entire life.
He wants to puke. Or run away.
He does neither.
A sigh shivers through Jamie’s shoulders. He shakes his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” He looks at his phone again. “You’re still figuring yourself out and I—I don’t think I’m the right person for that.”
When Jamie looks at him, Jordan’s frozen.
“For you,” Jamie adds, “while you’re on this journey.”
Jordan forces his expression into something neutral, unreadable.
This journey.
It stings like ice water to the face. And all Jordan hears is the question Jamie asked him months ago:
Do you think you’re queer?
Jordan didn’t know. He still doesn’t know. But Jamie was cool with that. He’s always been cool with that. Until this very moment.
Silent seconds slip by. Jordan has no clue what words mean anymore. Jamie holds his gaze for a long time before carelessly dragging a hand through his hair, swearing quietly.
“I don’t want this to be awkward,” he says, pained. “I want to be your friend. Jordan, please. I need—” He smiles weakly. “I always want you around.”
Jordan finally finds his words: “As a friend.”
“As my friend.”
Jordan nods, over and over. That’s what they’ve been, right? Since they were teens. Since that first text on Valentine’s all the way until now.
Friends.
Somewhere nearby, a countdown starts. Voices shout. People are vacating the lawn to get closer to the square’s center.
Jordan stays put. Jamie does too. He says, “Are you okay?”
It’s a silly question. Fucking ridiculous. Because Jordan doesn’t let things like this get to him. Ever. Not since he was a kid.
“Jordan, please,” Jamie says again. “I don’t want this to be awkward.”
That makes Jordan laugh. Full, loud, stomach aching.
He holds up a hand until he’s done. “Jamie, dude. It’s fine. I got caught up for a second there. But it’s nothing. I’m good. We’re cool.”
“We are?” Jamie’s voice drags, skeptical.
“We’re cool,” Jordan repeats with as much sureness as he can project.
This time, Jamie nods, scratching his cheek.
“Cool.” He gestures to the tree. “It’s starting. Wanna check it out?”
“Yeah. That’s why we’re here, right?”
They turn together. Stand side by side in the damp breeze. When the tree lights up all of Decatur, Jordan listens to the crowd cheer while, on the inside, something goes as dark, quiet, hollow as the smile on his face.