Chapter 3
NOEL
My seat belt kept rubbing against the side of my neck. I plucked at it with two fingers, grumbling as I nearly missed my turn onto the two-lane blacktop that would take me home.
Home. Such an odd word.
I hadn’t lived in Nebraska in a decade, and yet the wide-open sky, the golden fields of wheat and corn, and the highway that seemed to roll out into the distance, straight and unbending—like so many of the people here—were like looking into a mirror.
My chest tightened.
This isn’t who you are anymore. You’re Noel Grisold, talented chef, rising to new heights—
And crashing so hard you just ran home to Nebraska.
I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter as I passed the sign that read Granville 30 miles. I was nearly there now.
My neck ached from the long, stressful drive from the Omaha airport.
The headrest that pushed forward just a little too far in my economy rental didn’t help matters.
Neither did the fact that I hadn’t driven regularly in at least five years.
In Chicago, I’d taken the L everywhere, preferring to travel by train.
Between navigating O’Hare, dealing with flight delays, and driving home, I’d exhausted my enthusiasm for this trip. My chest continued to constrict, reminding me of why I hadn’t come back in four years.
I didn’t belong here. I hadn’t in a long time. Hell, I hadn’t even belonged when I lived here. Thank god, that wasn’t the case anymore.
I’d spend Thanksgiving weekend and make sure Dad really was recovering okay and Mom hadn’t downplayed his health concerns.
Maybe talk to my parents about retiring for good.
We could sell the place, use the money to set them up for a comfortable life.
Maybe they’d like to come back to Chicago, even.
I missed them, and if they were closer, it’d be easier to balance work and family.
Finally, I spotted the dirt road with a big sign that read Grisold Christmas Tree Farm next to it. A W had been spray-painted in so it read Griswold Tree Farm. I rolled my eyes. I’d been hearing those jokes my whole life.
When your family owned a Christmas tree farm and had a last name so similar to the family in one of the most iconic Christmas movies of all time, it was unavoidable.
Shitter’s full, Noel!
Someone grasped the back of my neck and shoved my head toward the toilet—
“What’s going on in here?”
Water, humiliation, laughter. A large hand on my shoulder, pulling me back.
I spun, catching a glimpse of the pity in Hopper Kelly’s eyes.
Pushed past him, face so hot I thought I’d self-immolate, almost wished I would.
“Leave me alone. All of you. Fuck off!”
My right front tire hit a pothole in the road, jolting me out of the memories. I raised a hand to my hot cheek. Ten years later, and I hadn’t even made it all the way home before I was that devastated gay boy who didn’t know how to hide the part of him that everyone hated so much.
Not my parents. They’d taken my coming-out in relative stride.
My mother said she’d just been waiting for me to tell her.
My dad told me he’d figured it out when I wanted to learn to dance instead of joining the peewee baseball league.
I’d informed him that was a sexist notion, and straight guys could like dancing.
He’d followed that up by asking me if I was straight, then.
Touché, Dad. Touché.
But as supportive as my parents were, they couldn’t change the culture of a Midwestern state that wasn’t yet open to queerness or the nasty Riverton High School bullies who feared their own latent homosexuality so much that they couldn’t let me live in peace.
I swerved around the next pothole, focusing intensely on the road to keep the memories at bay. I wasn’t that kid anymore. I was an independent, strong, talented man with a whole life far from here.
Maybe that life was imploding at the moment, but no one needed to know that.
As far as they were concerned, I was a rock star chef with a little holiday vacation. Thankfully, none of them were in the business, or they’d recognize that had to be a lie.
The parking area lay ahead, covered in gravel. With a sigh of relief, I pulled in and shifted into park, then threw open the car door and stepped out, eager to stretch.
My dad’s golden retriever in a red bandana raced toward me, tongue lolling out one side of her mouth.
I crouched down to greet her. “Well, aren’t you just the prettiest girl!”
“Cinnamon sure likes you,” a deep voice said, startling me.
I jerked my head up, nearly toppling, as a giant of a man stepped out of the trees. He was dressed in jeans, hiking boots, and a red fleece pullover that matched the dog’s bandana. A beard covered most of his face, and a green stocking cap hid his hair, but his eyes were the same.
Even if Mom hadn’t mentioned that Hopper was helping them with the tree farm, one look at those eyes—the same ones that looked at me with such pity in high school—would have slapped me with recognition.
“Hopper,” I said tightly, feeling awkward crouched at the man’s feet.
I gave Cinnamon a final pat and straightened to my full height, which still only brought me as high as his shoulder. I huffed. He must have gotten even taller since high school. How was that even possible?
“Noel.” He dipped his head, eyes narrowed. “You finally made it home, I see.”
I bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Must have been a long drive, is all.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t totally convinced that’s all he meant by his comment, but it wasn’t like I visited often. Tough to be mad about something that was true. “Well, yeah.”
He rounded the car and popped the trunk. “I’ll help you carry your bags. It’s a trek to the house.”
“I seem to remember that,” I said mildly. “But I can manage.”
Hopper raised one eyebrow, and his gaze traveled over my much shorter frame. No doubt he’d noticed that my biceps did not bulge with muscle like his did and that my thighs weren’t built like saplings. We couldn’t all be Paul Bunyan.
I stepped up to the car, grabbed my largest bag, and wrestled it out of the trunk, grunting with effort. Hopper stood by, watching as I swung a duffel over my shoulder, grabbed my laptop bag, and then tried for my second suitcase.
The duffel slid down my arm, pulling me off-balance. I lost my grip on the second suitcase, and it thudded into the snow.
“Damn it!”
“Okay,” Hopper said mildly as Cinnamon danced around me, giving an eager bark. “Now that we’re done with that, how about you let me help?”
I scowled. “I got it.”
I grabbed the handle, nearly pulling a muscle to lug all of my bags over the rocky ground. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t let Hopper help me, only that I needed to assert my authority.
He was already helping my parents too much, and god knew what he hoped to get out of it. I couldn’t reinforce the idea that he was running the show here. This was my family’s tree farm.
Cinnamon raced ahead, though she was overweight by at least thirty pounds and didn’t move all that fast. Clearly, her working farm dog days were behind her. She’d retired, much like my father needed to do.
Laden with bags as I was, she might as well have been going fifty miles an hour, though. I was slogging along like a snail.
To my annoyance, Hopper kept pace with me, rather than fucking off to the woods again.
“Your room is ready for you,” he said, an oddly challenging note in his voice.
“Yeah? Good.” I hesitated. “You didn’t get it ready for me, did you?”
“No, I’m not a fucking maid.”
“Good, because I don’t need one.”
“Your mom worked long and hard to make it just right for you, though,” he added grudgingly. “Try to look appropriately impressed, okay? I’m sure this old house is nothing like your fancy Chicago condo, but it’s home.”
I turned a glare on him. “It’s not your home.”
There was a flicker in his eyes, almost a flinch, and his jaw tightened. I tried not to feel bad. Hopper was here, all but claiming my place as heir apparent, and I wasn’t going to stand by and let him take advantage of my parents.
I halted as we reached the yard, taking in the house and its surroundings. Everything looked a little more…worn than I remembered.
The house paint was fading and chipped in places.
The porch was still sturdy, but two boards had been replaced and repainted, not quite matching the rest. The stand of trees near the entrance was smaller than usual, and the lights that had been strung all over the property during the holiday season were missing.
It might be too early for all that decorating, or…maybe Hopper wasn’t helping as much as I’d thought he was. Maybe he was half-assing it and still hoping for a pat on the back. Well, he wouldn’t be getting one now that I was here.
The door opened, and Mom rushed out onto the porch. Dad came behind her, moving slowly.
“Damn,” I whispered.
They’d gotten old when I wasn’t looking. Their hair was faded, their faces tired. I dropped my bags and jogged across the yard so they wouldn’t try to come meet me.
“Noel!” Mom cried. “It’s so good to see you.”
I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her damp cheek against mine, and guilt swelled. I should have come sooner. I should have been here to help them instead of our neighbor having to do it. If I could just have been the good, strapping corn-fed American boy they needed…
No. That way lay ruin.
I was who I was. I couldn’t be a farmer any more than Hopper could become a chef.
“I missed you guys,” I said. “Dad, are you really okay?”
Mom released me so Dad could clap me on the shoulder. “I’m good now, Noel. Real good. Don’t you worry about that.”
Hopper came up behind us. He’d collected all my bags and was carrying them with ease, the jerk.
“I’ll take Noel’s bags to his room.”
“I can get them,” I said.
Hopper ignored me, passing us to climb the porch stairs. Somehow, he switched the suitcase to his other hand and opened the door without dropping a single bag.
How annoying was that? Why did he have to be so damn capable?
“Let him go,” Dad said easily. “Hopper likes to be of use.”
I frowned. “He helps run the farm, you said?”
“The day-to-day labor,” Dad said with a nod. “Assisting me, is all. I’ll be back at it anytime.”
“You’ll be back at nothing until you’re fully recovered,” Mom insisted, shaking her head. “Honestly, this man will be the death of me.”
“At least then you’ll stop nagging me,” Dad grumbled as they turned for the house.
“Come to the kitchen,” Mom said. “I’ve got coffee on. I want to hear all about your life in Chicago!”
“Okay,” I agreed, following them inside. “But I want to hear all about the farm, too.”
It was past time that I learned more about the tree farm operation, just how taxing it was for my parents, and what role exactly Hopper played in their lives.
Only then could I protect their interests—and make sure they weren’t taken in by handsome farm boys looking to cash in.