Chapter 31
CAROLINE
Icrouch beside the bucket of sand and roll up my coat sleeve, holding the lighter out over the roman candle Gus planted in the center—the whole thing looking like it’s some kind of explosive birthday cake.
“I’ve never done this before,” I say, hesitating a bit.
“How does it work? What do I do? And is this even legal?”
After having given us some time alone to talk—and cry and kiss and cry some more—the three worst actors in Lennox Valley declared their contrived plant conversation complete and came back outside to join us.
“Well,” Gus drawls smoothly at my side, “you’ve come to the right guy with your questions. Basically, light stick, stick go boom.”
“That your professional explanation, you fuckin’ caveman?” Miles deadpans from over my shoulder.
“Hell no!” Gus says on a laugh. “But there isn’t much more to it than that. You’re gonna light it, then back up and let the magic happen.”
“Right. Okay…”
“And don’t worry,” he adds. “The fire marshal hooked me up with a permit.”
“A permit?” Miles echoes. “Fuck, man, we really are almost thirty.” He crouches at my side, gently rubbing my back. “Want me to go first? Like, if you wanna watch one before you—?”
“No, I got it.” I shoot him a brave smile. “Trying new things, right?”
“Attagirl.” He kisses my temple. “Light it up.”
I flick a flame to life and, when the fuse catches, hurry to back up a few steps, dragging Miles with me.
He pulls me in front of him and wraps his arms around my waist as we watch the shots whiz into the night sky.
We Are the Champions comes on as Gus steps up to light the next one.
“Seriously, man, have you got a song for everything?” Miles asks.
“Almost like it was planned,” he retorts with a wink, then sings along in an obnoxious falsetto that has us all laughing—and Miles groaning. As Gus’ roman candle fizzles out and he passes the lighter to Jude, tiny raindrops start to speckle our cheeks.
“Damn,” Jude says, blinking up into the night.
“Olena, we better do ours together before we get rained out.” Tucking their coat collars around their necks, they huddle up and put their fireworks in the bucket side by side.
It’s not long before twin sparkling arcs zing upward, leaving fizzing crackles of smoke in their wake.
“Alright,” Gus says when the pair are spent. “Guest of honor.” He hands Miles the last one and sweeps an arm toward the launch bucket in invitation as the rain picks up. “But, uh, maybe be quick about it.”
Shrugging against the rain, Miles heads over and makes fast work of lighting his.
“Happy one year, buddy,” Gus says, giving him a good-natured slap on the shoulder as they both back up to watch the first shot launch.
Olena whoops as the little yellow fireball shoots skyward. “Aww, gold stars, Miles!”
Miles grins and squeezes me tightly to his side.
“Proud of you,” I whisper, rising up to kiss his cheek.
He opens his mouth to respond, but a flash of lightning cuts him off, followed by rolling thunder and a downpour that feels like someone turned on a tap in the sky.
“Shit, that’s our cue,” Jude says.
With the rain hissing around us, we scramble to gather up all the chairs, blankets, and anything else that might not survive the downpour, quickly stashing everything under the shelter of the gazebo before making a break for the house.
Gus hangs back to douse what’s left of the bonfire, trailing us inside with an easy smile despite looking like he just walked through a lawn sprinkler.
I can see why he and Miles are close. They’ve got the same kind of energy—like they’ve both seen enough heavy stuff that they don’t get hung up on the small things.
It’s only when I go to hang up my wet jacket near the front door that my memory finally jogs.
An enormous inflatable Jack Skellington bobs in the rain outside the living room window.
Past the Nightmare Before Christmas display Gus has set up in his front yard, the entire street is decked out to the nines in over-the-top Christmas decorations.
“So, what’s the deal with this street, anyway?
Is it like this every year?” Arriving late and then getting swept up with Miles, it had completely slipped my mind to ask.
After touring local care homes and making arrangements for Grandpa all day, including having an appointment with his lawyer which had run late, I’d had to get ready and drive here in a rush.
On top of that, the novelty street sign had sent me on a confusing detour, taking me around the block and right back into the bottleneck of cars trying to get access to Westview Crescent—otherwise known as Candy Cane Lane.
“Yeah, it’s tradition.” Gus appears beside me at the window, ruffling his wet hair with a towel as we peer out at the steady stream of sightseeing traffic crawling in and out of the cul-de-sac.
“If you buy a house here, it’s part of the deal.
Fun, right?” He grins, his features lit up with delight like he’s an overgrown kid.
“Is that why you were late?” Miles circles his arms around my waist from behind—and it’s like my whole body exhales. He kisses my cheek. “The weird Christmas explosion thing hold you up?”
“Partly.” I nod.
“Hey, it’s not weird, man,” Gus says with a scoff. “It’s awesome! It’s Christmas! Best time of the year, hands down.”
I twist around, catching Miles rolling his eyes like he’s heard this from Gus a thousand times before.
“So you signed up for this?” I ask Gus, gesturing at the spectacle outside.
He laughs beside us. “Not exactly. This house belonged to my folks. They’re the real Christmas keeners. Anyway, they downsized and passed the place to me and my ex.” When I tilt my head, he adds, “Uh, long story. Just me here now, though.”
“What’s with that one?” I ask, noticing a less-than-stellar effort from the house directly across the street.
Gus follows my gaze, then grumbles, “Don’t get me started. They’ve got a house sitter this year.”
“Are we ready for dessert or what?” Olena calls from the kitchen, pulling our attention.
“Hell yes!” Miles drags me along with him, then stops short and lets out a resigned chuckle when he sees the cake.
I tuck myself into his side and read the loopy pink lettering. “Sober but still a dumbass” is scrawled above a cartoon unicorn.
“Wow, thanks, buddy,” he calls over his shoulder at Gus, who’s just crouched down to set up the fireplace.
Gus straightens and strolls over with a curious look on his face, then barks out a laugh. “Hey, man, wasn’t my doing,” he says, holding up his hands. “Jude’s the one who ordered it.” He squeezes Miles on the shoulder before turning back to his task.
Miles turns to Jude, pinning him with a long stare.
“Gotta keep you humble,” is all Jude says, then scruffs up Miles’ hair before taking a gentle jab to the ribs.
Cake decimated, we all sit around the crackling fireplace, sipping some kind of cranberry-pomegranate punch Olena concocted. Miles has his arm slung around me on the couch and there’s something hypnotic about the way he brushes soft strokes on my arm with his thumb while we watch the flames dance.
“So, wait,” I start, tilting my head at Gus, “you’re a firefighter, but you lit a bonfire in your backyard, set off fireworks, and have a wood-burning fireplace? Isn’t that, like, a paradox?”
“Yeah, should we report you somewhere?” Olena teases, draping her legs over Jude’s lap and leaning back on the love seat’s armrest. “Firefighters behaving badly, or something?”
“Nah, I love it,” Gus says, stretching out on the recliner next to them. “You’d be surprised how many folks in the fire service love fire. I think when you know firsthand how powerful it is, there’s a bit of a thrill in taming it.”
Jude smirks. “Well, you look thrilled, man.”
“I am! I am,” Gus insists, then fails to fight off a yawn. “Thrilled for my best buddy here.” He stretches forward to bump fists with Miles, then flops back into his seat. “He got his one-year chip, he got his girl back, it’s almost Christmas… What’s not to love?”
Jude watches his brother for a moment, then nods. “I’m happy for him too.” Then, with a hint of a smile, Jude’s eyes shift to mine. “Happy for them.”
I squeeze tighter to Miles’ side and try not to get too emotional. The quiet approval from Jude feels like a rare gift—one that I won’t take for granted.
Gus’ black cat lumbers into the living room, still wearing the jingle-bell collar and Santa vest from earlier.
“Hey, there’s my buddy!” Miles jumps up from the couch to scoop the cat into his arms, then sinks back into the seat beside me, slouching low with the furball on his chest. “It’s about time ol’ Lumps joined the party.”
“Lumps?” I let the cat sniff my hand, then give it a tentative scratch around the ears.
“Miles didn’t tell you about Lumpy?” Gus asks. “Well, his real name’s Coal, but nobody calls him that.”
Miles makes a snuffled sound as Lumpy headbutts his nose.
“Aww, Lump of Coal. I get it,” I say, snuggling back into Miles’ side and helping myself to a few more strokes of the cat’s silky black fur.
Already purring, Lumpy makes a half-turn and settles onto Miles’ chest like it’s the best seat in the house.
Miles quirks a brow my way. “He’s basically my mental health mascot.”
“But wait,” I start, turning to Gus, “isn’t a lump of coal a punishment? Miles here isn’t looking terribly punished.”
Quite the opposite; he’s grinning.
“Nah, pretty sure he’s suffering horribly,” Olena deadpans. “He’s way overloaded with cuteness.”
“Aw, but this isn’t even his cutest outfit,” Miles says, glancing at me. “Speaking of which,” he adds, lifting his chin at Gus, “did you get the new one?”
“The new one?” Gus asks, sounding equal parts weary and amused as he sets his drink down on the coffee table. “As in another one? Dude, you gotta stop buying my cat ridiculous costumes.”
“Fuck that!” Miles says before handing me the cat and pushing off the couch. He jogs to the front door and opens it, then lets out a victorious laugh. He shuts the door and strolls back inside, beaming as he tears open the package. “Thought it was coming today.”
“By all means, open my mail,” Gus deadpans.
“Hey, I bought the damn thing.”
“Okay, I’m confused,” I say, looking to Olena and Jude for an explanation as Lumpy settles onto my lap, still purring. “What’s happening?”
“Someone entrusted Miles with a credit card,” Jude explains with a smirk, then takes a sip of his drink.
“Fuck off,” Miles says through a chuckle. “This is within my entertainment budget.”
And, when he manages to wiggle the indulgent cat’s paws and tail through the little plush getup, I know it’s money well spent.
“Oh my God,” I say. “He’s the world’s cutest dump truck. Or I should say, Lump truck!”
Miles lights up at the pun. “Lump truck? You’re fucking perfect. C’mere.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, squeezing me closer.
Looking amused, Gus reaches over to pat Lumpy’s back. “Isn’t this a little on the nose, though? Old Lumps already has a dump truck ass, dude.”
Miles puts on a horrified face, covering Lumpy’s ears. “Don’t body-shame my chonky boy! There’s nothing wrong with having a badonkadonk.”
Gus holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m not arguing with that. You know I like big—”
Miles cuts him off, eyes wide. “Don’t you fucking sing!”