14
The house wasn’t just a house, of course.
That wasn’t Jonathan’s style. It was some kind of mini-mansion that was supposed to look like a log cabin.
It didn’t. Look like a log cabin, I mean.
It had the log siding, sure. But that was where the resemblance stopped.
It was bigger, for one thing—built in a wide vee, with a circular drive that followed the length of the building.
And the windows for another. They were huge, and they were everywhere, filled with wreaths and bows and a warm glow. An even bigger wreath hung on the door.
Something about parking the truck front and center seemed like a jackass move, so I left it at the end of the drive and trudged the rest of the way on foot.
Noah’s gift swung from one hand. In the other, I carried the bottle of wine—yeah, I’d stopped, because I had to have something.
The night was clear. The stars looked like little chipped-out spots in the dark.
No wind, nothing, but when I turned my head, the cold felt sharp enough to cut my cheek.
I knocked. I waited. A house like this, obviously you were going to wait.
Noah answered a moment later. He wore a fuzzy red-and-green sweater over a button-up, houndstooth trousers, and soft-looking mocs that had probably cost a fortune.
He was smiling, but it was the family-good-times smile, and I thought maybe, if he hadn’t been smiling, he would have looked—I don’t know.
Tired. Or maybe—and this thought darted deep underwater—like he wanted to cry.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi, Howie. Merry Christmas Eve.” He took the gift bag and said, “What’s this?”
“It’s your Christmas present, dingus.”
For a moment, the smile lifted, and I thought of how a hawk rose on thermals. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Howard Cartwright. That’s so lovely. You didn’t have to do that.”
Never, in the history of the world, had there been a right answer to that, so I stuck my hands in my pockets.
“Come in—”
“I wanted to,” I blurted. Because apparently there was a right answer. I just thought of it three seconds too late like a jackass. Something changed in Noah’s eyes, and I realized he thought I was responding to the invitation. “The gift. I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” he said in a different tone.
And when I stepped inside, he stretched up to buss my cheek.
It happened so quickly—and was over so quickly—that I didn’t have time to respond.
Noah was already moving around me to shut the door, and then helping me out of my coat—or trying to, anyway, now that he had the gift bag in one hand and the wine in the other—and so instead of having to say anything about the kiss or do anything or think anything, I heard myself saying, “Get your mitts off me; I got it.”
Which just made Noah laugh, but at least he let me take off my own coat.
Inside, the house looked as ritzy as I’d expected: plush sofas in neutrals, reclaimed-wood tables and chairs, natural stone accents.
But cold, too. The art on the walls made me think of Noah, actually.
Of the holiday tour. How careful he was in his choices, how thoughtful.
How even for a house he wasn’t living in, he’d taken time to pick pieces of art that felt meaningful and appropriate and…
and real, I guess. The stuff on these walls, on the other hand, made me think of sleeping in a motel.
We walked deeper into the house. The living room had a wall of windows that looked out on a black lake.
The lights were turned down low, here, and a Christmas tree was glowing, and from somewhere else in the house came the rumble of Jonathan’s voice.
Noah set the gift bag under the tree and adjusted his grip on the bottle of wine.
His shoulders were tight, and he seemed to be hesitating.
“Where’s the party?” I asked.
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “You’ll have to excuse my dad; work emergency.”
There were a lot of those.
“What about Marty? Trying to solve the problems of the world?”
Noah made a disgusted noise. “He’d love that, but no, Dad told him to buzz off.
Not so politely, either. So, Marty told me and Mom he was going out to meet someone.
A friend.” He stopped. Shook his head. He lifted his eyes—not like he was praying or seeking guidance, but like he was trying to keep tears from welling.
“A friend,” he said again. “How stupid does he think we are?”
“He’s using again?”
“He never stopped. He’d been out of rehab—the last time—a day, two. And he told Mom he was going to see his new therapist.”
“Ah.” That was all I said. But one thing you learned in recovery was that some people were drawn to addicts, had them peppered throughout their lives. A mother who couldn’t dry out. A brother who snorted his allowance. A junkie ex.
Noah shivered, as though shaking off something, and his face changed—that stupid smile he wore around his family was glued back on.
But before he could say anything, a voice called from the next room.
It grew stronger, as though moving toward us.
“Where are you? I thought you were answering the door.” And then Tracy appeared in the opening, backlit so that she was nothing more than a shadow.
Even that much was enough: the way she held on to the wall to keep her balance; the slight unsteadiness when standing still, as though caught in a strong wind; even the wisps of her hair that stuck out like she’d slept on her side—probably because, at some point this afternoon, she had.
“Howie! Oh thank God. Finally, someone who knows how to have a little fun!”
Noah’s whole body tightened.
“Come have a drink with me,” she said. “And help me convince my beautiful boy that he can do so much better with his life.”
“Ouch,” I said. And the most unexpected part was that it really did hurt—the surprise of the sting almost as bad as the sting itself.
“Mom,” Noah said.
“Noah,” Tracy said with a laugh. “Oh my God, I didn’t mean it that way. Come on, come on.”
She had a drunk’s insistence, a drunk’s fixation, and like a drunk, as long as she had a glass in her hand, she had all the time in the world.
The kitchen was a high-ceilinged room that melded into another, more casual living space.
Marble countertops and dark cabinets, a hand-worked backsplash that you knew just from looking at it had taken fucking forever, pendant lights with boxy shades.
Tracy was sitting at the breakfast bar. She had a glass in one hand, the bottle of Bombay Sapphire a few inches away, the bottle of Fever-Tree just beyond that.
It was Christmas Eve, so maybe that was why my first thought, as I got closer, was that she smelled like a pine tree.
“My, my, my,” Tracy said. “Don’t you clean up nice.” She pursed her mouth like she wanted a kiss. “Come say hello.”
I tried for a quick hug, but it turned into a boozy grapple, with Tracy clinging to me, making pleased noises as she held me against her.
When she finally let me go, she said, “The man of steel. I swear to God, Howie, do you have an ounce of body fat? I always thought it was a waste you were gay. So much rock-solid man.”
“Mom,” Noah said. And then, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m teasing,” Tracy snapped. In a softer voice, she said to me, “Howie knows I’m teasing. Don’t you, Howie?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Noah is embarrassed of me.”
“I’m not embarrassed of you,” Noah said stiffly as he racked the bottle of wine I’d brought. There was a moment where I could feel him trying to resist, and then Noah turned to me. “I said maybe we shouldn’t go out after dinner.”
“I’ve had two drinks.” Tracy held up two fingers. “Two.”
Noah shook his head, but all he did was smile, like somebody was putting this whole fucking debacle on TV. “Dinner is almost ready. I hope you don’t mind if we’re a little more casual about it tonight.”
Now that Noah mentioned it, I caught a whiff of the food—meat, onion, garlic. I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten lunch, and my stomach made a loud noise. Noah’s face went from startled to a grin, and then the grin disappeared just as quickly.
“Noah uses food as a coping mechanism,” Tracy was saying. “Which is not a healthy lifestyle choice.”
“Mom, Howie doesn’t want to talk about this.”
“Noah gets defensive when I try to help him. Does that seem right to you, Howie? When your mom tries to help you, do you get defensive?”
My mom was passed out with a bottle between her legs. The thought was just there, suddenly, out of nowhere—like someone turning on stage lights. He was screaming. We were all screaming. And he had the belt. He was so mad that day.
The memory was so strong, pressing so hard into this moment, that I couldn’t tell if I was dizzy or sick or what, so I put a hand on the counter to steady myself.
“I’m not getting defensive,” Noah said. But his tone was slipping. The family-good-times vibe was almost gone, and in its place was the brittle, yeah, defensiveness that I remembered from too many Reynolds family gatherings.
“I just wish you could see you how I see you,” Tracy said. “You’re a beautiful young man. You’re so smart. You’re so talented. You could make so much more out of your life than…this.”
“I’m sorry you’re disappointed with how my life turned out,” he said. “Howie, maybe you want a drink or something.”
“I’m not disappointed, baby. I love you. I want you to be happy.”
“Sorry,” Noah said, hands on his hips, then hands tucked under his arms, then hands on his hips again. “I know you don’t—what about a Sprite?”
“I’m not disappointed because it’s not my life,” Tracy said. “If it were my life, I’d be disappointed. Because I know you can do so much better. But it’s not my life, baby. It’s your life. I’m not disappointed.”
Noah kept blinking those electric blue eyes. His shoulders curved, and he wasn’t looking at me. “Howie, could you help me get out the plates?”