Chicken Shit and Combine Parts
LEO
The farmhouse looks exactly like it did last year. White paint, blue shutters, a porch swing that's seen better days. The barn looms behind it, red and sturdy against the winter sky. Everything is covered in a light dusting of snow, making it look like a Christmas card.
Max is out of the rental car before I've even fully stopped. Grabbing his bag, practically vibrating with energy despite the long flight and the drive from the airport. He's different here already. The tension from the last few days is melting off him like the snow on the windshield.
"Max!"
Mrs. Webber appears on the porch. She's tiny, barely five-foot-two, with Max's same bright blue eyes and delicate features. That's where he gets his looks from. The pretty bone structure. The way his face lights up when he smiles.
She's got an apron on, flour in her hair, and a kind smile.
Mr. Webber is right behind her, wiping his hands on a rag.
Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of build that comes from decades of farm work.
Max drops his bag and runs. His mom catches him first. That hug looks perfect.
I've been trying not to want one of her hugs for the last three days.
"I missed you," Max says into her shoulder. His voice is muffled but happy.
"Missed you too, baby." She pulls back, hands on his face. "You look thin. Are you eating?"
"Mom, I'm eating. I promise."
Mr. Webber steps forward. Pulls Max into a brief, backslapping hug. "Good to have you home, son."
"Good to be home, Dad."
I get out slowly and grab both our bags, giving them a moment. Mrs. Webber turns to me. "Leo! Third Christmas in a row. It's official we're making it a tradition!"
"Hi, Mrs. Webber."
"Oh, none of that." She pulls me into a hug, too. Warm, and smelling like cinnamon. "You call me Stella. Or Mom, if you want. You're family."
My throat tightens. "I'll… I'll try to remember."
Mr. Webber extends a hand. He has a firm grip. "Leo. Good to see you."
"You too, Mr. Webber."
"Owen's fine." He releases my hand and looks at Max. "That harvester's acting up again. The one you modified."
Max's whole face lights up. "The efficiency upgrade?"
"The mechanic won't touch it. Says you did something he can't figure out."
"I made it better! Want me to look at it?"
"That's why I mentioned it." Owen's already turning toward the barn. "Come on. Before dinner."
"Be right there!" Max looks at me. "Leo, you good here? I'll be—"
"Go." I manage a smile. "I'll unpack."
He's already moving. Following his dad toward the barn. Talking a mile a minute about hydraulic systems and gear ratios. The barn door closes behind them.
Stella laughs softly. Picks up Max's abandoned bag. "Those two. Get them near machinery, and the rest of the world disappears." She heads inside, gesturing for me to follow. "Come on, Leo. You know where Max's room is. I put fresh sheets on both beds this morning."
"Thanks, Mrs.—" I catch myself. "Stella."
"There we go." She beams at me. "Third year's the charm. You're family, Leo. I keep telling you that."
I follow her inside. The house smells like Christmas.
Pine, cinnamon, and Christmas baking. The tree's up in the corner, huge, reaching almost to the ceiling.
No decorations yet, just the bare branches waiting.
"We waited for you boys," Stella says, noticing my gaze.
"Thought you could help decorate tonight after dinner. "
"Sure. Yeah. I'd like that." She squeezes my arm. Warm and kind. The way mothers do. Well, mothers who aren't like mine. Then she's gone, heading to the kitchen, humming something under her breath.
Standing there, bags in hand, I stare at the tree.
Family, she said. Except that family doesn't do what Max and I did last week.
Family doesn't involve me lying awake every night, replaying every moment.
Every touch. Every sound he made. Family doesn't involve wanting to do it again so badly that it physically hurts.
I head upstairs. Max's room. The one I've stayed in twice before. The one where we've pulled all-nighters working on projects, where Max falls asleep mid-sentence and I have to shake him awake, when everything was easy and uncomplicated.
The room has two beds. One on each wall. They’re close enough that we can talk in the dark.
There's maybe a one percent chance I survive this week sane.
Max has been in the barn with his dad for an hour, and I'm standing in the living room with Stella, staring at a box of Christmas ornaments that looks older than I am.
"Max made most of these," Stella says, pulling out a lumpy felt reindeer. "Second grade. His teacher said he was very… creative." The reindeer has five legs and what might be antlers or possibly ears. Hard to tell.
"It's great," I say.
"It's terrible." She's smiling. "But we hang it every year anyway." She hands me the reindeer. I find a spot on a lower branch. It's the third year in a row I've helped decorate this tree, and it's starting to feel like a tradition. Like I belong here.
Except I don't. Not really. Especially not after what happened between Max and me.
"Where are your parents spending Christmas this year?" Stella asks casually while sorting through ornaments.
"Fiji." The lie comes easily. "Business trip. Big client. They couldn't get out of it."
The truth is worse. They're at some cabin in Washington.
I found out by accident last month when I called to wish Dad a happy birthday, and he let it slip.
"Oh, we'll be at the cabin for Christmas this year, the whole family's coming—" Then the pause.
The realization. "Well, you should come too. Of course."
The whole family… Of course. Like an afterthought. Like he forgot I existed until that exact moment.
I'd said no. Told him I had plans already. Which was true, Max had invited me weeks before. But even if he hadn't, I wouldn't have gone to that cabin. Wouldn't have spent a week being the son they forgot to invite, watching my brother and sister belong in ways I never managed to.
This lie is better. Fiji sounds exotic. Unavoidable. Doesn't make anyone feel sorry for me.
"Mmhm." Stella doesn't look up. "And what do your parents do again?"
Shit. Did I tell her last time? I can't remember.
"Finance," I say. Safe. Vague. "Consulting."
"In Fiji."
"They take clients to nice places. Part of the… the relationship building."
"I see." She pulls out another ornament. This one's a robot. Felt body, button eyes, pipe cleaner arms. One arm is hanging by a thread. "Max made this in third grade." It's lumpy. Lopsided. The kind of craft project that makes you wonder if the kid was paying attention at all. It's perfect.
"He insists we hang it every year," Stella continues. "Said it was his best work."
"It is," I manage.
She stops what she's doing and looks at me. Holds it a beat too long. Then she hands me the robot. "Here. You hang this one." I take it carefully. Like it might fall apart in my hands. I find a branch near the top. Where it'll catch the light.
"Well," Stella says quietly, "their loss. Your parents, I mean. We're happy to have you here, Leo." She hugs me. Quick, and she smells like cinnamon and baking.
Then she's gone. Heading to the kitchen. "I need to check on the roast. You keep decorating. Max should be back soon." I stand there. Holding nothing. Staring at Max's childhood robot. I'm about to cry.
Don't cry. Don't cry.
The front door bangs open. "—and that's why you don't use regular bolts when the torque specifications clearly call for grade eight, but does the mechanic listen? No. And now the whole housing assembly is—Leo!" Max spots me and grins. "You're doing the tree!"
He's covered in grease. Hair sticking up.
Smudge on his cheek. Eyes bright with the kind of happiness that only comes from fixing something complicated.
Isaac comes in and closes the door behind them, stomping snow off his boots.
He catches my eye and nods a greeting before heading toward the kitchen.
"Your mom asked me to help," I say.
"Cool! I'll help too. Just let me—" He looks down at himself. "Okay, maybe I should wash my hands first. Don't put up the star without me!"
"Dinner!" Stella calls from the kitchen. "Everyone, wash up and get in here before it gets cold!"
Max bounces toward the kitchen. "Come on, Leo.
Mom's pot roast is the best." Owen appears from the back hallway, wiping his hands on a rag.
Isaac's already heading for the kitchen table.
I follow behind them, feeling like an interloper, the ornament box still in my hands until Stella gently takes it from me with a smile and sets it aside.
Dinner is pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans that Stella insists aren't from a can; they're from the garden, and she froze them in September. The kitchen table is big. Solid wood that's probably been in this family for generations.
Owen sits at the head of the table, Stella to his right. Isaac sits across from her, and Max drops into the chair beside Isaac, which puts me next to Max. Close enough that our elbows bump when he reaches for the salt. He doesn't seem to notice.
I notice everything.
"So," Owen says, passing the roast. "How'd your finals go?"
"Good!" Max is already talking around a mouthful of potatoes. "My Autonomous Systems final had this really interesting question about inverse kinematics in robotic arm manipulation, and I wasn't sure about my approach at first, but then I remembered this paper I read about—"
"Swallow first," Stella says mildly.
Max swallows. Keeps going. "—about optimization algorithms, and I applied that framework to the problem, and I think it worked? I won't know until grades post, but I felt good about it."
"That's great, honey." Stella's smiling. "And your other finals?"