Chapter 18 Sixteen Days till Christmas
18.
Sixteen days till Christmas
Having Ash back was a festive fever dream Rafi never wanted to end. They’d spent the weekend doing what they’d always done in December: Playing boisterous games of Scrabble in front of a crackling fire. Going for snowy romps in the backwoods that inevitably descended into snowball fights. The art crawl on Sunday would be a new tradition, Rafi decided, given how cool it’d been to visit all the local art studios. They agreed it reminded them of trips to the Guggenheim or the Met as kids—Babs used to drive both boys down to see a new exhibition, then they’d all get ice cream in Central Park.
At dinner on Sunday evening, Ash had regaled the family with stories about all the quirks of London life: the Tube, the black cabs, the fact that no one owned an umbrella even though it rained every day. Rafi fell asleep that night feeling light and happy. Maybe all his anxieties were already resolving themselves, thanks to Ash and the comforts of home.
But as soon as Rafi awoke on Monday morning, he knew he was wrong. Dread pounced, knocking the breath out of him. When he opened his laptop at 9:00 a.m. , his entire body recoiled. The vague dissatisfaction he’d identified last week grew with every keystroke as he answered the same mind-numbing questions and complaints.
How do I postpone my recurring donation for next month?
Then I need to change credit cards but the website doesn’t let me?!
Then Your organization SUCKS!!! How do I cancel my fucking donations?
The nonprofit was technically doing a good thing, but the work, Rafi was realizing, was a grind. It was like dating Sunita had been a veil, and now that veil was lifted. He definitely did not want his manager’s job, so where was this leading? Nowhere.
At lunch, Ash was energized, recounting an interview he’d conducted with a young designer who made upcycled jewelry out of household waste. Through his work for London Man, Ash was carving out a beat that explored fashion through the environmental and social issues he cared about. Rafi hung on to every word, desperate to absorb his best friend’s enthusiasm. But somehow, Ash’s good mood made the dreary afternoon even worse. In the weekly all-hands meeting, the grid of faces staring back from his screen made him want to dissociate, in the same way he would when facing a wall of photographers on a red carpet with his mother, an invasive experience he’d never enjoyed.
By the end of the day, Rafi didn’t just dislike his job. He hated it, and himself, for ending up in this situation. He couldn’t just quit: he had a lease and car payment and expenses. But the idea of getting back on the hamster wheel of his life after Christmas made him want to throw his laptop out the window, get in his car, and just drive.
—
Dinner was painful. Babs and Birdie held court, and while Rafi tried to enjoy the hijinks, he couldn’t manage more than a few bites and one-word answers. As soon as the dishes were done, he caught Ash’s eye. Without needing to exchange a word, they peeled off in tandem, heading for Rafi’s bedroom.
“Are you okay?” Ash asked, as Rafi shut his door.
“I’ve entered the Ninth Circle of Hell in Dante’s Inferno. ” Rafi collapsed into one of the leather club chairs facing the fire, which he’d lit earlier.
“That bad, huh?” Ash fished an expensive-looking bottle of whiskey from his suitcase. “I was saving this for a rainy day.”
“Crack it open, man.” Rafi sighed. “It’s pouring.”
Ash found two rocks glasses and splashed them each a finger, handing one to Rafi as he sank into the other club chair. “Is it Sunita?”
Rafi puffed a humorless laugh. “God, I almost wish that was it.” He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, fortifying himself to share the bitter truth. “I think I’m having a quarter-life crisis?”
Ash’s eyes widened.
“I’m not happy. At work. In…life?” As Ash listened, Rafi tried to put into words everything that had crystalized for him ever since he pulled that damned card. Everything he’d quite possibly been in denial over prior to this week.
“Well, you can absolutely quit your job,” Ash said. “Maybe not tomorrow—you’ll need to get some savings together first, talk to some recruiters, or whatever. But if you’re not happy, don’t stay. Find something else.”
“But I’m not like Birdie and Liz, and you: I don’t have a creative passion that drives me. I’ve never wanted to be a full-time artist, or founder, or mid-level marketing manager.” Zookeeper? Kindergarten teacher? Pastry chef? Nothing he could think of set his soul on fire. “I can’t think of a job that’d give my life meaning.”
Ash’s smile was fond. “Raf, that’s completely normal. For some people, their identity and passion are tied up with their work. But plenty of people I know have a job they like well enough that funds the things they really enjoy doing. Like travel or spending time with family. A hobby. Not everyone needs to find meaning in work.”
Maybe because he’d grown up in such a creative family, Rafi had never considered that he didn’t need to be fulfilled by his work. That he could find his passion outside of work. That his passion and his work might be two completely different things.
“That actually makes me feel a bit better,” he admitted, taking another sip. “Even if I still need to figure out what I want my life to be about, big picture.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I really wanted to get married, but I don’t think my true desire was to marry Sunita, specifically. It was about…something else. Something I still haven’t figured out.”
A log in the fire shifted, the pieces of wood rearranging. “Well, what does marriage mean to you?” Ash asked. “What about it appeals?”
Now, that was a good question. Rafi inhaled several deep breaths, trying to push past discomfort. “I think what appeals about it is having a family. Of course, I already have a family,” he added, “and you’re part of it. But as a husband, with a spouse, a couple kids running around? In that little unit, I’d always…belong.”
His breath hitched in his throat. Something in his chest cracked open.
Across from him, Ash’s voice was soft. “That’s something you’ve struggled with in the past.”
Ash was right—he’d been there for all of it. Rafi had always struggled to truly, deeply, belong.
Was that why he’d proposed to Sunita? Why he’d always wanted to get married?
“Whoa.” Rafi sat back in his chair, letting out a stunned breath. “I think I just had a breakthrough.” He looked at his empty glass. “I think I need another drink.”
Ash chuckled and rose to retrieve the bottle.
“You should pull a card!” Rafi felt like he’d been the focus for long enough. “You deserve a breakthrough too.”
Ash refilled their glasses. “Don’t know if I’m ready for one of those.”
Ash’s thirtieth birthday wasn’t until April of next year. Even though it didn’t seem to be a source of tension for him like it was for Rafi, Ash still deserved the chance for self-reflection. Rafi scooped up the deck from his bedside table. “ The Big Questions. You already have the answers, ” he read aloud from the black-and-white packaging, then handed the deck to Ash. “Shuffle, pull, reflect. It’s easy, if you don’t mind the potential side effect of a full-blown existential meltdown.”
With a playfully wary expression, Ash started shuffling. They both leaned forward as Ash pulled a card, flipping it over so they could read it at the same time.
What simple things make you happy?
Rafi slapped Ash’s knee. “Oh, that’s an easy one!”
“What makes me happy? Hmm…” Ash took a slow sip of whiskey, which was, Rafi noticed, the exact same mellow brown as his eyes. “Whiskey in front of a fire on a cold night. ‘Cakewalk’ by the Oscar Peterson Quartet. Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Sam Cooke.” His eyes went a little starry, a smile on his lips. “Laughing so hard you feel like a kid. Finding the perfect cashmere sweater. Pasta, in general. You.”
Ash smiled at Rafi and Rafi smiled back, feeling a surge of affection so powerful it almost made him woozy. How goddamn lucky he was to have a friend like this, one who’d known him for so long, through so many different phases, all the ups and downs. And how lucky he was to know Ash in the same way. The moment stretched, but neither looked away.
God, Ash was beautiful. His words. His heart. His mouth. Had his mouth always looked like that? So lush and soft, especially when contrasted with the hard line of his jaw. No wonder he was so in demand.
“What about…” Rafi arched a cheeky brow. “Boys?”
“Boys?”
“Boys,” Rafi repeated. “Sex. You know—that thing that happens when a man and another man love each other very much…”
Ash chuckled, shifting in the club chair. “Right. Not sure how much love has to do with it.”
Only now did Rafi realize he was a little drunk. He and Ash didn’t usually go deep on sex because typically, Ash kept his sex life to himself. What did Rafi really want to know?
“Do you want to get married?” Rafi asked, realizing he didn’t actually know. “Y’know—one day.”
“One day?” Ash tipped his head to the side, scratching his cheek thoughtfully. “Maybe. If I meet the right guy.”
“Really?” Rafi pitched forward with a grin. “Why? What about marriage appeals to you?”
Ash squirmed, a nervous chuckle bubbling out of him. “Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t think about it that much.”
“I’ve got all night, bro.”
Ash took a measured sip. “I guess, it’s a nice idea. To commit to someone I love, who loves me. To know we’d be together through all the ups and downs. To wake up every morning with my best friend.”
The world tilted, just one degree. For a weird, wobbly moment, it almost felt like Ash was talking about him.
“Well, I’m very, very available,” Rafi joked. “My mom could walk us both up the aisle.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Color was rising in Ash’s cheeks. “I mean, my best friend who isn’t you.”
Rafi clutched his heart, feigning pain, before reaching for the whiskey. “What about kids?”
“Raf.” Ash groaned. “Can we talk about something else?”
Rafi topped them both up. “You’d be a great dad.”
Ash’s thick gold brows jumped up. “Based on what?”
“Based on you!” Rafi waved a hand in Ash’s general direction.
Ash rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “Never thought I’d be a very good dad. Y’know: ’cause mine was so shit.” He narrowed his eyes. “Remember the time when he took off for a month? When I was like, what, fifteen?”
Rafi’s heart felt like a dishrag being wrung out. Privately, Rafi had always wondered if Willie’s emotional negligence was related to Ash’s reticence to let someone in, long-term. Or maybe he just enjoyed casual sex and didn’t need a relationship to be fulfilled. “I didn’t even have a dad and I think I’ll be okay at it,” Rafi said. “I can definitely see you being a great dad.”
“You can?” Ash sounded doubtful.
“I can.”
Rafi pictured a park. A little boy on a swing. Ash, in the same jeans and sweater he was wearing now, pushing the kid in a way that looked natural, easy. Fun, for both of them. The day was overcast, the sky a pearly gray. Smart white row houses faced the park—Rafi recognized it as London, cribbed from the movies; he’d never actually been. He imagined Ash and the little boy holding hands as they crossed the street, entering one of the gorgeous townhouses. Wooden floorboards, walls lined with art. A hallway that opened into an airy kitchen, where a man—Ash’s husband—was at the stove making dinner: pasta, in general. The little boy ran to him— Daddy, Daddy! Smiling, the man turned to swing the boy into his arms as Ash leaned down to plant a kiss on his mouth.
The man was Rafi. Rafi, in an apron, holding a sauce-covered spoon. Rafi, kissing Ash, holding their son, in their London townhouse.
The fantasy screeched to a halt. Rafi landed back in his bedroom with a jarring thud. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Jesus, it’d seemed so real. So…normal. He could practically feel Ash’s mouth pressing into his own. The weight of that kid in his arms. The smell of the sauce lingered in his nose.
He was obviously much drunker than he thought he was. “No more whiskey for me.” Rafi wobbled to his feet. “Woah.” The room was spinning. Swiveling for the bathroom, he lost his balance, toppling headlong toward the fire.
“Raf!” Ash dashed forward to catch him. He grabbed both of Rafi’s arms, steadying him with a strong grip.
On feeling Ash’s hands on his bare skin, a jolt of electricity arced up Rafi’s arms and across his entire back, where it stayed, fizzing under his skin. Rafi sucked in a gasp.
Okay, he was definitely very drunk. Way too much whiskey, way too much talk about marriage and best friends and sex. He opened his mouth to make an excuse, looking up to find Ash’s gaze.
Ash was staring down at him. Concern and a strange sort of heat turned his eyes into molasses: golden-brown and sticky. The temperature in the room was suddenly triple digits. They were standing so close. Ash was still holding Rafi’s arms with his warm, strong hands. He wasn’t letting go. Time seemed to slow, then stop.
They were still. Just. Staring. Directly into each other’s eyes.
Ash’s gaze moved to Rafi’s mouth.
A spike of heat plunged into Rafi’s stomach. No: lower.
For one wild second, Rafi imagined Ash cupping the back of Rafi’s neck, then dropping his head to slide his tongue into Rafi’s willing mouth.
Ash. His friend.
“Sorry,” Rafi blurted, breaking the embrace to back up. “I’m such a lightweight.” His heart was floundering, blood hurricaning around his body. “Bedtime for me.”
In less than a minute, he had the covers pulled up tight, facing away from Ash, feigning sleep.
Ash took his time showering, getting into bed to read for a while before switching off the light.
Rafi squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to come and erase the end of the night from the record, praying he didn’t remember his ludicrous fantasy tomorrow.
But somehow, he already knew he’d never be able to forget it.