Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ONE YEAR LATER
Ben and Pete stumble out of Castillo’s about fifteen minutes later than they mean to on Christmas Eve.
They’re both laughing, more than a little tipsy, and laden with bags of gifts and food.
Pete throws apologies over his shoulder as the door is closing behind them, calling, “I’m sorry, but it’s the last ferry of the night!
We’re not sleeping here! I love you!” as it slams shut.
He turns and grins at Ben, his huffed-out breath of laughter clearly visible in the cold night air, as they start walking towards the harbor. “Well? What’s the verdict? Better or worse than last year?”
“Oh, better,” Ben says, shaking his head and grinning himself, although his is a little rueful. “Not that last year was bad, exactly, just…”
“A bit much to meet my entire family and every friend my father’s ever had when we’d been dating, for, oh, four days?
Here, give me those.” He reaches over and takes Ben’s bags, adds them to the brace of gifts he’s already holding, and then threads his free hand through Ben’s, squeezing lightly.
“I probably shouldn’t have asked you to come, honestly.
I just hated the thought of you being alone on Christmas. ”
“Hey, it was better than being alone on Christmas,” Ben protests.
Snow is starting to fall as they walk, the sort of thick, heavy flakes that suggest the city will be blanketed soon, and they both pick up the pace without having to say anything about it at all.
“I had a good time! It was a bit of a… marathon, that’s all.
Much easier this year, now that I know everyone. ”
Pete rolls his eyes good-naturedly, which is fair; Ben’s more aware than anyone that he’s underplaying it.
The truth is, last year’s Castillo Christmas Eve had been a bit of an ordeal, but it’s not like it was the Castillos’ fault.
It’s only that Pete has so many aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins and people who are so close to the family they might as well be cousins that meeting all of them, in a single evening, had been intense.
It’s not that Ben doesn’t have cousins, since both of his parents came from families like Pete’s: big, loud, close families that saw each other regularly, were involved in one another’s lives.
It was just that the entire run of Ben’s childhood, and every development that happened since, suggested that Lucia and Daniel had done everything in their power to escape living like that.
They’d wanted something smaller, more insular, more manageable. Fewer moving parts.
Maybe it skips a generation. To his own surprise, Ben has found in the last year that he quite enjoys Pete’s family, far more than he’s ever enjoyed any of the occasionally seen, far-flung Blumenthals or Margiottas.
There’s something oddly comforting about it, the rush of conversation and noise and laughter, the way everyone always seems to have something to say to each other, some thread they’d left last time and meant to pick back up.
The more he gets to know them—developing inside jokes with Pete’s sisters, and playing video games with his nieces and nephews, and having a few genuinely wrenching conversations with Adrián, Pete’s father—the easier he finds it to relax around them. Be himself.
But: “How about for you?” he asks, giving Pete’s hand a light squeeze of his own. “Better now that we’ve changed things around?”
Pete takes a deep breath, then sighs, which isn’t exactly surprising.
Ben knows he still feels some guilt about hiring nursing staff to help manage Adrián’s illness, even though these days, between the show and his independent sponsorship deals, he can more than afford it.
Still, Ben’s quite sure it was the right thing, and Pete must agree with him, because he nods.
“Yeah, it—is. I don’t think I quite realized how much it was weighing on me, the pressure of keeping it all managed.
And you were right: It is easier, for someone who isn’t related.
I watch these nurses do things that killed me to do, and for them it’s totally chill, business as usual.
Another day on the job.” He pauses, craning his neck as they approach the harbor to make sure the ferry hasn’t gone without them, and then, satisfied, finishes, “And he seems happier, too, right? My dad? He was sharp tonight, I thought.”
“I think all the flirting with his nurses is doing more for him than anything,” Ben says wryly, which makes Pete laugh. Then, in fairness, he’s forced to add: “Although not with Kyle, of course. Poor Kyle—he must think the man hates him, he’s so disappointed to see him arrive.”
Pete laughs again, and then, sounding abruptly serious, says, “Aw, hell, I think we might miss it—come on!” They dash madly for the boat, which is bedecked with garlands and string lights and a few large wreaths hanging from either side of the bow, and manage to run onboard before the walkway is pulled up, the horn blasted from above.
In mutual tacit agreement, Pete and Ben make their way out of the (poorly) heated interior cabin and onto the ferry’s open upper deck.
The snow is coming down heavily now, but in spite of that, or perhaps because of it, the deck is dotted with other people, mostly in couples or small groups, looking out over the water at one glittering city or the other.
In honor of the holiday, most of them are wearing red or green, although Ben gives a cheerful, knowing nod to a man in a fluffy blue sweater with a menorah on the front.
It’s picturesque, and as Ben and Pete step up to an empty spot on the railing, Ben is abruptly awash with the strange certainty that he’ll think of this again, later.
That when he is old and frail like Mrs. C, and reliving the glory of his youth in the stunning Technicolor of his imagination, this particular moment will be one of those that pops up.
They’re interrupted, briefly, before they can get comfortable: A pair of what appear to be Midwestern tourists recognize them, gasping, and beg for autographs and photos.
They grant them, Pete a little more comfortably than Ben—Ben’s only been in their videos regularly for a few months, and he’s still getting used to the increase in fame.
But Pete’s practically an old pro by now, rattling off a few easy, noncommittal answers to their questions and then politely sending them on their way.
You’d never know that this very same type of attention had once driven him to a panic attack in a hot dog costume.
When they’ve gone, Ben turns his face towards the water and Pete steps up behind him, putting an arm around Ben on either side, their hands next to one another’s on the long railing between them and the punishingly cold Hudson River.
Pete tucks his chin over Ben’s shoulder, and Ben sighs deeply and relaxes into him, wrapping himself in the warmth and comfort that Pete always seems to radiate as though he’s more furnace than man.
For a few moments, they look out over the water together, appreciating the view.
They’re facing Manhattan, and it’s putting on a show for Christmas Eve: Lights twinkle everywhere, and several of the larger skyscrapers are lit in red and green in honor of the holiday.
As they get closer to shore, Ben can pick out a few Christmas-themed children’s drawings posted in the window of a building next to the water; in spite of himself and his traditional anti-Christmas inclinations, he can’t help but find it a little heartwarming.
As if having overhead this thought, Pete, laughing on it slightly, says, “Hey—having the weirdest sense of déjà vu. You wouldn’t happen to remember standing here with me on Christmas Eve last year, would you?
Almost exactly here? While we had a wildly entertaining discussion of the merits of the holiday season? ”
Ben groans, the memory coming back to him all at once. “Oh, God. Yes, I remember—who could forget? You said I was a Grinch.”
“Well,” Pete says, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of his neck to soften the blow, “you were being a Grinch. You can’t blame a guy for calling a thing like he sees it—”
“You can when that thing is you and what he’s calling it is a Grinch—”
“My point is,” Pete interrupts, chuckling, “is that I said that it had been a pretty good holiday season for us both, and that maybe it was unfair to declare yourself a sworn enemy of Christmas when it was obviously fond of you. And then you said that Christmas was probably just trying to lure you into a false sense of security, so that it could attack you when your defenses were lowered, and that you couldn’t possibly reconsider your thoughts on the subject for at least a year. ”
“You’re not supposed to remember it when I say things like that!” Ben protests, not meaning it at all. “You’re supposed to be like a normal boyfriend, and not listen to anything I say!”
“Joke’s on you,” Pete says, light, “if you’re expecting me to be normal or stop listening to what you say.
A lot of it’s very interesting, and—with so much love—really, amazingly insane.
” Then, his tone slipping down to a teasing one: “Anyway, it’s been a year and I’ve been very patient, but the curiosity is eating me alive. What’s the verdict? Scrooge or Santa?”
“That sounds like the name of some deeply cursed holiday game show,” Ben says, hoping to distract him.
Pete doesn’t take the bait, just hums in amused acknowledgment and continues to wait for an answer.
In a last-ditch effort to avoid giving him one, Ben tries, “Technically, it’s still Christmas, you know!
This could all be part of its wretched plot to destroy me!
Some guy in an elf costume could be going to whisk you out from under my nose with his sensual, seasonal charms on the way back home, and then where would I be? ”
“I’m not sure,” Pete admits, dry. “Because I can’t imagine any location on earth where that could happen, mostly. If I were you, I’d just answer the question instead of worrying about it.”
Ben stares out at the water, feeling caught, but not in an unpleasant way.
More like—sometimes, Pete will come home to their apartment and Ben will be at his editing desk with headphones in, and Pete will walk up behind him, unheard and unseen, and put his hands on Ben’s shoulders.
And for a fraction of a second, there’s this moment of terror—who’s here?
Who’s got me? Why?—before Ben’s body recognizes the touch as Pete’s and relaxes before it can even begin to tense.
It’s always such a good sensation, almost better for that bare moment of uncertainty, the possibility of some worse fate than the delightful one that has in fact arrived.
Maybe it’s that the comparison makes him appreciate it more.
Whatever the reason, that’s the emotion that surges within him as Pete adds, his tone slipping into one that Ben considers quite promising, “Of course, I could always spend the last few hours of this Christmas making a case for it. Show you the joys of the season in the spirit of the famous song.”
Ben snorts before he can help himself. “Pretty sure that one isn’t called, ‘O Noisy Night, O Unholy Night,’ Pete—”
Pete makes a noise against the shell of Ben’s ear like a game show buzzer indicating a wrong answer.
In his best imitation of an announcer, he says, “IIIII’m sorry, but I’m afraid the answer the judges were looking for was ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You.’” When Ben flushes, pleased, Pete kisses the side of his jaw and adds, “That is, assuming you’ll issue your verdict on the season as a whole immediately afterwards, of course.
While your memory is still fresh, and Christmas has the best shot at winning you over. ”
“Did Big Tinsel pay you off?” Ben demands, but he’s grinning. “Is the pine tree lobby lining your pockets with hundreds or what?”
“Nah,” Pete says. “Those guys are real cheapskates—they’ll only pay in needles.”
Ben rolls his eyes, but with his face safely turned out towards the river, he allows himself a little smirk as he considers the year he’s passed.
It hasn’t been perfect—nothing ever is—but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t the closest he’s ever come to perfect.
And he’d be lying, too, if he said he hadn’t felt his heart swell near to bursting the first time he walked past this year’s tree at Rockefeller Center, or stepped foot into the Bryant Park Holiday Market.
He’d be lying if he said he’d ever be able to look at this season again without being grateful for what it gave him.
“You know,” Ben says, trying to sound casual, “maybe I’m coming around.
It isn’t so bad, really. I could get used to it.
But more data is always better—I think you’d better check back in five years to make sure.
” He lets his voice go a little wicked as he adds, “Having said that, of course, I could change my mind at any moment. It’s not really official until Christmas is over.
So… I think it might not hurt to make sure I’m really convinced, don’t you? ”
Pete’s lips are warm and chapped and familiar as they press against the side of Ben’s neck again, the kiss longer and more promising this time.
He murmurs a soft agreement and wraps an arm around Ben’s waist as, although they can’t be more than a few minutes from shore, a group of carolers assembles in the center of the deck.
It’s a slapdash, impromptu bunch and slightly drunk besides, but they burst out into a fairly well-executed rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” to which Pete starts humming along.
Ben doubts he’ll ever go all in for partridges and pear trees, but when it comes to gifts his true love gave him, he’d never be able to cut off the list at twelve. He lets the music wash over him, warm and spirit-lifting, as he turns his gaze towards home.
*
If Recipe for Trouble left you wanting more, make sure to check out Fall Into You. When Will Robertson unexpectedly inherits his family’s apple farm, he doesn’t expect it to come with the infuriating and distractingly sexy general manager Casey Reeves...
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