10
The Acadia had lights everywhere: around the windows, framing the door, climbing the sides of the historic hotel, even strung out across the plaza so that as I got closer, it was like walking onto a stage.
In every window of the hotel hung wreaths with giant red bows, and giant nutcrackers stood on either side of the doors.
There was so much fucking Christmas cheer it would have given Rudolph the shits.
Inside was even worse. Red velvet. Faux fur.
Mistletoe hanging in the center of the high-ceilinged lobby—a young couple was kissing under it, trying to get a picture of themselves and the mistletoe at the same time.
A twinky little guy in a gray suit started toward me, but I shook my head at him and followed the signs that said GINGERbrEAD HOUSES.
Because this was the Acadia—and because this was the Reynolds family—the gingerbread house workshop wasn’t happening in one of the big multipurpose rooms. It wasn’t taking place on folding tables with disposable tablecloths in a ballroom that had been used the night before for somebody’s bar mitzvah.
It was happening in the Acadia’s marble-slabbed kitchen, surrounded by gleaming copper pots, a copper-finished ceiling, with boughs of holly and pine garlands everywhere.
A handful of families were stationed throughout the kitchen, working at the gleaming countertops.
And the Reynolds family was impossible to miss.
That had something to do with Marty, who was sticking his finger out of the zipper of his trousers and pretending it was his dick.
Who the fuck knew why? Trying to get a laugh.
Trying to get attention. He kept wagging his finger in the direction of a dark-haired woman in kitchen whites, grinning and swirling his drink in his other hand.
But it also had something to do with Noah.
Instead of an oversized hoodie, tonight, he wore a forest-green sweater that hit him at the thighs.
And instead of leggings, he’d opted for jeans.
Skinny jeans, yes. So skinny that they might as well have been painted on, as a matter of fact.
And ankle boots that looked soft and buttery and probably cost a fortune.
He’d swapped the dangly earring for a pearl stud, and he wore a necklace made up of long gold links.
Which was strange, because I’d given him that necklace.
I’d given it to him on our first anniversary.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I joined them.
Noah’s head whipped up, and his eyes widened. Tracy cooed and leaned in to kiss my cheek. Jonathan held out a hand, and I gave him a shake my own dad would have been proud of.
Act like a fucking man.
And Marty spun around, finger still sticking out of his drawers.
“Something special for the ladies,” I said.
Jonathan burst out laughing. Tracy tittered, and when Marty shot her a hurt look, she covered up the laugh by slamming the rest of her drink. She looked like she was one gin and tonic away from sliding off her stool.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” Jonathan said. “Noah said you got tied up at work.”
“Moved some stuff around,” I said. And then to Noah, “Hey.”
He’d been staring at me with huge eyes throughout the greetings.
He had one finger curled around the necklace as though—what?
He wanted to hide it? He wanted me to see it?
He wanted to rip it off? Whatever we’d said about kissing seemed like it had been years ago, and I couldn’t remember anyway, so instead I put my hand on his waist. God, he was thin.
But he was still Noah, too, and his hipbone slotted into my palm like we were made for each other, and I drew him against me in a half-hug.
“Hi,” Noah said in a half-whisper.
His eyes were red. He was smiling, but around his family, Noah would smile even if somebody was peeling off his skin.
“Turns out none of us are any good at this,” Jonathan said. “Thank God you got here in time.”
He beckoned me over to a gingerbread house that wasn’t exactly falling over, but definitely didn’t look structurally sound.
Noah squeezed my wrist once, but whatever the message was, I didn’t get it.
Tracy tried to prop herself on her elbow and knocked over the tray of sprinkles and colored sugar, all of it spilling across the counter.
Noah caught Tracy and straightened her, and the dark-haired woman in kitchen whites came over and started cleaning up.
“The problem is none of it will stay upright,” Jonathan was saying, drawing my attention back to the house. “And we followed the instructions.”
I gave the house a quick look and nodded toward the bag of frosting. “Looks like it needs more frosting.”
“Well, we talked about that,” Jonathan said, and he was slipping into that we’re-men-talking-about-man-stuff voice he had. “But look at those finished houses. They hardly used any icing at all.”
“Contractor trick,” I said. “You put the caulk where they can’t see it. Or the duct tape. Or the spray foam.” I picked up the bag of frosting and motioned for Jonathan to steady two of the gingerbread walls. “Or in this case—”
“The icing,” Jonathan said with a big smile.
“Dad, do you know that joke about contractors?” Marty said. He was trying to lean between us, his face almost resting on my shoulder.
“Get out of the light,” Jonathan said.
“They like to pack it full of caulk,” Marty said. “Get it? Dad, do you get it?”
The smile slipped as Jonathan looked over his shoulder and barked, “Move, Marty!”
Marty flinched and retreated.
The sounds of Noah and the chef—or whoever that dark-haired woman was—cleaning up the spill continued as I piped a thick line of frosting on one piece of gingerbread and then on the other.
“All right,” I said. “Don’t push too hard.”
“You’re sounding like Marty’s caulk joke,” Jonathan said not quite under his breath, but he lined up the two walls and pressed them together.
“Hold it.” I set a timer on my phone, and when it reached a minute, I said, “Okay, let’s see.”
“They’re going to fall,” Marty said behind us. There was something weird about his voice, and it took me a moment to recognize it: he was out of breath. Like he was desperate to get into the mix. Like a puppy who’d already been scolded once. “We already tried that—”
“Good God, Marty, go help your mother,” Jonathan said. “Noah, can you give your husband a hand here?”
Noah appeared at my side a moment later. Smiling. Because yeah, family time. His hip settled against mine, and I couldn’t tell if it was the cramped quarters of the kitchen or if—what? He was leaning against me?
“Not really anything for you to do,” I said. “We’re just going to see if the walls stay up.”
With a grimace, Jonathan released the gingerbread.
The walls stood.
“Just gotta give it a little time to set up,” I said.
“This is what I’m always telling people,” Noah said. “Howie can do anything.”
“Let’s do the rest of the walls,” I said.
Jonathan passed one of the gingerbread walls to Noah and kept the other for himself. I placed my stripe of frosting on each side.
“Get it lined up before you press it in.”
Noah snickered. Even Jonathan smiled faintly.
“God damn it,” I said. “I hear it.”
Noah started to laugh.
As Jonathan set his wall in place, he asked, “How was work today, Howie?”
“All right,” I said. Noah was leaning back, studying his wall as though he’d made a mistake, so I said, “No, Noah, you’re doing it right. You got it.”
Noah flashed me a grateful smile, but he spoke to his dad. “Howie’s making so much progress with the house. You aren’t going to recognize it.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing it,” Jonathan said.
“Well, it’s not ready yet,” I said.
“I know. But Noah said you’d be on the holiday house tour, so I bought tickets.” He leaned back, studying the walls. “Do you think it’s set?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
For some reason, Jonathan chuckled as he eased his hands away from the wall. “God, why is that so satisfying?”
“It’s nice to see something come together,” Noah said. “Something you made. That’s what Howie always says.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Jonathan told me. “You can see what you do. It has meaning. What do I do? Sit in an office all day on Zoom calls. God, we don’t even meet face-to-face anymore.”
“You do a lot of important work, Dad—” Noah began. With his family smile. With his family voice.
“I do a lot of bullshit,” Jonathan said over him. “Some days, I sit in that damn office and think about walking away from it all. Just walking away. Doing real work. A man’s work. You gave yourself a gift, Howie. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you didn’t.”
A gap followed, and I realized everyone—except maybe Tracy, who looked like she’d fallen asleep sitting up—was waiting for me to say something. So, I told the truth. “Noah’s always been real supportive.”
Jonathan favored Noah with a considering look and finally said, “This family got lucky with you.”
Pink rose in Noah’s face, and for a moment, his eyes were wet and shining. Then he ducked his head, as though looking at the gingerbread house more closely.
“If you’re bored with your job, Dad,” Marty called, “you should do crypto. I do crypto, and I’m making a killing.”
“It’s like he doesn’t have a pair of ears,” Jonathan muttered.
“If you’re not doing crypto,” Marty said, stirring one of the little tubs of sprinkles with a finger—the same finger that, earlier, he’d been pretending was his dick—“you’re getting left behind.”
Noah had looked up again. The tears—if they had been tears—were gone, and he was smiling again. He was always smiling. Jonathan could run him over with his fucking car, and he’d be on the ground with that fucking smile and say, Great job, Dad.
“Whoa,” Jonathan said.
A glob of frosting lay on the counter; too late, I realized I’d squeezed the bag of frosting without even being aware of it.
I set the bag down, wiped my hand on my pants—I hadn’t gotten any frosting on myself, but I wiped my hand anyway—and because I had jack shit to say, asked, “How was your day, Noah?”