Chapter Two Taking “Don We Now Our Gay Apparel” Literally
Chapter Two
Taking “Don We Now Our Gay Apparel” Literally
“What do you think?” Kaitlyn stands in the doorway of the kitchen in just a bra and her underwear, holding up two different
Christmas sweaters. They’re both hideous, though Owen can’t quite tell if they’ve been designed that way on purpose.
One is bright green and sky blue, decorated in Minecraft creepers with blocks of varying textures sewn in. Even just looking at it makes Owen’s skin itch. The other features Rudolph,
with a giant red bulb sewn right into the nose and a battery pack weighing the hem in the back down. “Where did you even find
these?”
“Haight.”
“Rudolph is better than Minecraft, I suppose,” he tells her, switching off the stand mixer.
“Great, get changed!” That’s when Kaitlyn lobs the sweater at him.
“Wait, what?” Owen asks, voice muffled as the sweater smacks him in the face.
“Get changed!” Kaitlyn repeats, her own voice muffled as she pulls the other sweater over her head. “I got one for everybody!”
“You’re not serious.” Owen eyes the monstrosity in his hands, the red bulb blinking like it’s mocking him.
“Very.” Kaitlyn smiles at him slyly, continuing to hover in the doorframe. “Now put it on.” Her tone tells him that he doesn’t
have a choice.
Owen exhales deeply, knowing that tonight’s going to be hard enough, so he might as well play into the holiday spirit. And
the look on his best friend’s face when she sees the glowing lightbulb on his chest is worth it.
“How do I look?” he asks her, holding his arms out proudly.
“Like an asshole.” Kaitlyn snorts, and Owen rolls his eyes as he turns his attention back to the controlled chaos of the kitchen.
Sure, Kaitlyn had assured him that the group would be just fine with the cookies after he’d settled on snickerdoodle and chocolate
chip, both gluten-free, thanks to his own recipe. But as he squatted on the floor, watching the cookies bake in the oven,
breathing in the warm scent of melting chocolate, he felt deep down like it wasn’t enough.
Maybe it’s his inferiority complex, the need to always prove his usefulness to those around him. Maybe it’s because he knows
that Jacob is going to be here. If Owen wants to be nicer to himself, he can blame his desire to make his friends happy, to
provide for them in some way.
Those insecurities had led to him starting on the gingerbread cake, a hit with the group when he made it a few years ago.
Only, Abigail doesn’t really like gingerbread, or cinnamon. So Owen started on his quick and reliable cheesecake, throwing
together a simple fruit topping.
It took Owen sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through his baking supplies, to figure out that he still had date palm jaggery from when Ravi brought some over to make patishapta, which everyone loved at Friendsgiving, and the recipe is one he can throw together quickly.
It’s really only when Owen is mixing water into the
batter, double-checking on brownies, when he realizes something.
He didn’t make Jacob’s favorite cobbler.
For the first time in a year, he pulls his skillet from the warming drawer underneath the stove.
“Breaking out the skillet?” Kaitlyn asks suggestively. “Any particular reason?”
“No, not really,” Owen tells her, setting it down and checking the fridge for blueberries. There’s even a lemon, so he can
make the glaze the way Jacob likes.
“Nothing at all to do with the fact that my brother is coming back to town and that’s the same skillet you always used to
make his favorite cobbler?”
“Blueberry cobbler is his favorite?” Owen feigns ignorance, stacking another bowl in the sink to clean. He tries to do dishes
as he’s done with them—helps keep any cross-contamination in check—but he’s been so distracted that it’s been easy to let
the mess rack up. “I had no idea.”
“Uh-huh . . .” Kaitlyn hums, eyeing the plethora of desserts that Owen has decorated the countertops with. “Are you sure this
isn’t a bit excessive? I just wanted some cookies.”
He shrugs, positioning the bowl of batter under the KitchenAid. “I enjoy baking.”
“Owen . . .” Her voice is a bit softer this time. “I know we already talked about Jacob coming back—just remember there’s
no reason to overdo it.”
“I’m not,” he swears to her, telling himself that what he’s feeling isn’t his arthritis flaring up, even if he knows it probably is.
“You’re sure?” Kaitlyn asks gently in a way that makes Owen feel so uncomfortable. He gets why she cares, why she’s concerned. But sometimes the concern gets under his skin, like his friends think he’s made of glass
and he could break at any moment.
Owen sighs, turning the mixer on low, barely sparing Kaitlyn a glance before he faces forward again, his eyes focusing on
the batter in the bowl. “I don’t suppose I have that much of a choice.”
“You’ve always got a choice. I know that things didn’t end well between the two of you—”
Owen can’t help the scoff that slips out, even rolling his eyes at her. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I can un-invite him?” she tries to offer.
“Kait, stop.” Owen shakes his head, guilt settling deep in his gut. “I’m sorry. You’re not telling him he can’t come tonight.”
She looks at him, her expression still so unsure.
“I’ll survive, okay? I’m a big boy!” Owen forces a smile.
Kaitlyn grimaces. “Ew! Don’t ever call yourself that ever again, please.”
“What? I am a big strong boy!” Owen accentuates each word, flexing pitifully, his stick-thin arms hidden by the long sleeves
of the Christmas sweater. “Got the top surgery scars to prove it.” Owen yoinks up the hem of his sweater and the shirt underneath,
pulling both up to expose his inked torso to Kaitlyn, who snorts as she backs away from him.
“Gross! Stop! I don’t need to see your nipples!”
“Oh, so the transgender body is gross to you?” Owen teases. “What happened to all that allyship?”
“It’s conditional!” Kaitlyn shouts, pulling away from Owen, hovering in the doorframe, the both of them still giggling.
He’s so glad that he didn’t lose her in the breakup. It’d been hard enough to feel Jacob slipping away so slowly.
That night, after everything was said and done, the first place Owen had gone was this very apartment. Through tears he’d
told her what happened, letting her rake her fingers through his hair as she listened intently. Abigail left the apartment
for a bit, giving them the space to talk, only to return with bags full of Vietnamese takeout. Halfway through dinner, Owen
saw from the corner of his eye Kaitlyn getting a call from Jacob. She lied; said she was going to the bathroom, the trip lasting
an hour.
Kaitlyn steps forward, reaching up, to rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then she stops herself, as if remembering that
Owen might not want to be touched right now.
Her instinct is correct.
“Let me know if you need some time, okay? Don’t suffer through dinner just because you want to put on a brave face.”
Owen makes a big show of rolling his eyes. “When have you ever known me to sit through something I didn’t want to?”
“You sat through sixty hours of Downton Abbey with me, Hailey, and Ravi,” Kaitlyn reminds him. “And the movies.”
“I wasn’t watching that,” he protests. He’d just always happened to show up at their apartment right as they were about to start a new episode.
“You’re such a bad liar,” Kaitlyn says dramatically as she steps out of the kitchen. “I gotta finish getting ready!”
“You know where to find me,” Owen tells her, squatting down to check the oven again, heat radiating from behind the glass as he watches the top of the brownies begin to harden. “Fuck . . .” he whispers to himself, standing up straight and digging his wrists into his eyes in frustration.
Why is he letting Jacob get to him like this? It’s not like Owen did anything wrong. Jacob’s the one who took that job at
Duke, who promised Owen that it’d be temporary, six months at the most. He’s the one who said yes when his professors offered
him the lead position on the migration research trip. He was the one who left.
It’s Jacob’s fault. Not Owen’s.
He deserves to have a good Christmas with his family. So what if Jacob is here? Why does that have to matter? Their relationship
is over, it’s done. Jacob has probably moved on by now anyway. Might already have a new boyfriend. And how pathetic would
it be for Owen to make it so obvious that he’s still hung up on his ex?
So that settles it. Owen’s not going to let Jacob get to him. Not tonight, and certainly not for the remainder of his stay,
however long that ends up lasting.
And just as Owen has come to this conclusion, pulling the brownies out of the oven, the doorbell rings.
“Owen?” Kaitlyn shouts from her and Abby’s bedroom. “Can you get that? I still don’t have pants on!”
“Like that’s ever stopped her before,” Owen murmurs to himself, washing his hands quickly and patting them dry on his apron.
Owen flips the stand mixer off before he spins into the hallway and toward the front door, cursing softly as his socked feet
nearly slip on the hardwood floors.
In hindsight, Owen should’ve seen what was about to happen coming from a million miles away. It’s almost too perfect, like it’s some cruel joke specifically planned by the universe just to torture him a little more, twist the knife a bit further.
As Owen reaches for the door handle, he doesn’t for a second think the person on the other side is someone other than one
of his friends. Either Ravi and Hailey, or maybe Kevin beat traffic on his way up from San Jose. Or Abigail’s back with dinner,
and her hands are full so she can’t unlock the door.
But it’s none of them.
The door swings wide into the apartment, and standing right there, bag thrown over his shoulder, dressed in a loose-fitting
Duke hoodie and matching gray sweatpants, is Jacob Morrison.
He stares at Owen with those soft brown eyes, as if it takes a moment for him to process that Owen is the one standing in
front of him.
Then he smiles at Owen, full lips mostly hidden by a beard.
Beard.
It’s full and bushy, with a few stray hairs that stick out, like he hasn’t had a chance to groom himself in a few days.
Left standing there, Owen’s forced to process Jacob in pieces, the ways he’s changed and the ways he hasn’t. There’s an exhaustion
to him—probably partly from traveling, but the faint circles under Jacob’s eyes feel worn in, like they’ve been there for
a while. There’s a new length to Jacob’s hair, more weight on his broad shoulders, more muscle and fat on his body.
Owen wonders what Jacob thinks of his own changes, of the longer length of his own curls, bleached to hell so long ago that
his dark brunet roots have grown back in by inches. There are new tattoos, a few new piercings in his ears that Jacob probably
can’t see.
Do I look tired too? Owen wonders.
“Owen!” Jacob says his name with a sleepy gentleness that Owen hasn’t heard in what feels like a lifetime.
Then Jacob’s eyes drift down to the blinking nose of the sweater.
“Taking ‘don we now our gay apparel’ literally, huh?” His joke is accompanied by the most affectionate laughter.
Another thing Owen hasn’t heard in forever.
Owen feels stuck in place, unable to move, unable to breathe, as he takes Jacob in, unblinking, his heart picking up pace
in his chest as he realizes that Jacob is actually here.
So naturally, the only reasonable reaction is to slam the door in Jacob’s face.