Chapter 24 Brin
Brin
The chain is on our door. The chain is never on our door. We live in a safe building with a nice little community feel—unlike some of my apartments in the past.
“Brin?” Marco’s voice calls from inside. My stomach does a flip of excitement at hearing his voice after everything we’ve been through the past few days.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I reply. Marco was gone when I woke up this morning, and hadn’t returned by the time I’d left for babysitting. I worried about him, going out to Long Island by himself. I hope it was cathartic for him.
But right now, I think all the sex in the past two days wore me out. And Noah was hyped up on Christmas excitement, and for someone who didn’t work her regular job yesterday or today, I am exhausted.
“Hang on, I’ll get the chain.”
I close the door and Marco removes the security chain. Then the door swings open and . . .
“Oh. My. God.”
Our apartment sparkles. I recognize the decorations as having come from Billy Bob’s apartment, and I can’t believe Marco took them.
There’s real evergreen boughs draped over the windows in the living room, and a wreath with ribbon and pearly strands sits on the coffee table AND OH MY GOD THERE’S A CHRISTMAS TREE.
It’s a little one that comes up to my chin, but it is stuffed full of ornaments and sparkling lights.
“You did all this?”
Marco rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. This was all going to waste at William’s place and I thought maybe you’d like it.”
“Yeah I like it. But I didn’t think you wanted to decorate. What changed?” Please don’t tell me this is sympathy I’m-sorry-I-defiled-you decorations.
Marco clears his throat and looks down. I immediately go to him and circle my arms around his waist. He tells me about finding the wreath and talking to Drew while I hold him tight.
It’s emotional for him, and I can hear how much it meant to him to have someone else honoring his brother in a way he would have wanted.
“I thought Drew was right, you know? My brother loved the holidays and I can reframe it to think about him in remembrance instead of loss.”
I put my chin on his chest so I can look up at him. “I am so glad that you reconnected with Drew.”
“Me too. Actually, he invited me to Christmas Eve dinner tonight. I was hoping you could come with me.”
I mock gasp. “Who me? Attend a Christmas party?”
He rolls his eyes at my antics, but he’s smiling.
“I was going to try to talk you into a Christmas movie tonight. But a party sounds way better.”
“It’s not a party,” he warns. “Just dinner.”
I’m so eager to meet Drew, this friend of Marco and Joe’s from the Before Brin times, that all of my exhaustion from earlier is forgotten.
Drew and his partner, Ioann, live in a charming and warm brownstone in Clinton Hill.
Their Christmas tree sits in the window overlooking Lafayette and their dining room, while narrow, is cozy.
Along with the hosts, there’s also Megan, a tiny woman Ioann dances with at a ballet company, and Nevaeh, Ioann’s fourteen-year-old from his first marriage.
The six of us fit comfortably in the space dominated by dark wood wainscoting and a bricked-in fireplace.
An elderly pittie snores in the dog bed close to the stairs, worn out from the excitement of having guests.
With such a small group, maybe Marco was right about this not being a party. But it’s even better, because once we’ve finished eating, we linger around the table over wine and our empty plates.
The whole evening has been awash in laughter and old stories. Drew has so many fond memories of Joe, and I can see Marco drink them in like a parched well.
“Do you remember,” Drew says, holding up his red wine, “our first Pride Parade?”
“Do you mean the Pickle Pride Parade?”
“And by pickles, you mean . . .” Ioann says with his thick Russian accent. Then he makes a rude gesture that has everyone laughing, and Drew tries to cover Nevaeh’s eyes.
The teenager rolls their eyes. “I don’t want to hear about weird sex things. Can I be excused?”
Without waiting for an answer they get up.
Drew shouts, “It’s not a sex thing. We smelled like pickles. Don’t you want to know why?”
Nevaeh takes an oversized Nirvana sweatshirt off one of the kitchen barstools and slinks upstairs.
“Well, I wanna know why you smelled like pickles,” Megan tells Drew.
His eyes crinkle. Drew is in his thirties, dark hair and eyes like Marco but his skin is light brown. “We wanted to tie-dye clothes and read that vinegar would make it brighter. But all it did was make it smell bad.”
“But we weren’t gonna show up to Pride without some kinda rainbow,” Marco adds.
“And Joe wanted to be decked out.” Drew flips his hand for emphasis. “You should have seen his hippie-dippie pickle-smelling crop top.”
“He got invited up onto the stage at one of the shows, I forget which one, and the whole time I could only think about those drag queens wondering what the fuck smelled like pickles.”
Drew leans back, chuckling. “Joe could be a wild child sometimes. But his confidence came from knowing he had you to look out for him.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Marco mutters.
Drew sits up, leaning in, and his voice firms. “You did. I know how much you saved Joe when you two came to the city. Marco is the hardest worker I know,” Drew says, looking around the table.
“He knew more about housing protections and reporting discrimination than anyone. He made sure all us young broke kids knew what our rights were.”
Under the table, I put my hand on Marco’s thigh and squeeze.
“You two had your parts. You took care of Joe, Joe made sure you had fun,” Drew adds.
Marco huffs a laugh. “He was always taking us to drag shows and queer clubs.”
“Exactly,” Drew says. The conversation moves to other things: dancing, Ioann and Megan’s upcoming duet for next year’s ballet, raising a teenager, and Drew’s work as a lobbyist.
Later, I’m admiring their Christmas tree with Megan while the men wash dishes.
“They have a beautiful tree,” Megan says.
“I like the homemade decorations.” Megan’s been best friends with Ioann for years, and she’s originally from California.
She’s not at all what I would have expected from a principal ballerina—down to earth, warm, but quiet.
I snort. “You should see the tree Marco brought me today.” I tell her about Billy Bob’s decorations while looking for the homemade ones on the tree in front of us. They’re scattered throughout the “nicer” ornaments, glass globes in gold, blue, and silver.
The homemade ones, though, are picture frames, hand painted with ribbons and rhinestones. They’re not Martha Stewart, but they’re obviously made with love.
“Brin, isn’t this Marco?”
Megan holds out an ornament. It’s round and painted in bright candy stripes. Sure enough, there’s Marco, his arm looped around the neck of a softer version of him.
I take the ornament and peer at it. “That’s Joe,” I whisper.
We bring the ornament over to the guys, and Drew smiles at it fondly. Marco dries his hands and carefully takes the ornament from me.
After a few minutes of reminiscing, with Marco telling us the story about the day the picture was taken, Drew says, “You should take that one.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Marco protests.
“We have a tree to hang it up on now,” I point out.
“I have the supplies to make more. And I still have that photo saved somewhere. I can make myself a new one,” Drew insists.
Marco takes it, and when we get home, he hangs it up on our pint-sized tree, right by the top.
“It’s the best ornament on the tree,” I say.
Later, when Marco is showering and getting ready for bed, I text Drew. We’d exchanged numbers before we left his house, and the ornament we brought home gave me an idea.
I haven’t gotten Marco anything for Christmas, since he didn’t celebrate, but I’m going to get him a last-minute gift in case he gets a tree to decorate for next year.