The double doors swing open, and I’m completely confused. Whatever magic that moment in the office held has evaporated. I’m trying to figure out what’s sogreatabout this hall. There’s a lecture pulpit, vaulted ceiling, and faux-marble floor. Aside from grandiose windows, it seems more like a typical hall to me.
“This is it?” I ask. I’ve seen old abandoned factories with more charm. Case in point: the one I booked for New Year’s Eve.
“What were you expecting? The Plaza?” he asks.
I sigh a sigh so deep and loud I could’ve started a windstorm. I must figure out how to make something grand happen here, something showstopping, something that if the people back home heard about it, they’d be clamoring for an invite to next year’s soiree. But the more I look, the more my stomach sinks. The molding is chipped and the sound system seems like a relic of the eighties. The windows need a wash.
We’ve got our work cut out for us.
“Tomorrow I was thinking we can hit up Jack’s storage space to see what decorations can be salvaged,” I say. I tell him about the key and the location—the only information Grandma trustedmewith. “Then, are there any home goods stores in town? Maybe a florist? Anything not totally tragic. I’m not above using my parents as bait again for a good deal.”
He laughs. “I think I know a spot. Let’s do the storage unit first. The less we spend on stuff, the more we can spend on food. Unless you think chicken fingers and fries from the diner are appropriate for serving.”
I cringe. “Over my dead body.”
“At the rate you’re going, we’ll both be history sooner rather than later,” he jokes.
My shoulders go up in response. How did this come full circle to me being a walking disappointment? Our interactions are a roller coaster whipping over hills and careening off the tracks at breakneck speeds. I’m going to need an emotional barf bag when my time here is up.
He notices the change in my demeanor, so he lowers his voice as he says, “I’m sorry, that was insensitive. It’s not you. It’s finals stress.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but that doesn’t change the truth. “It’s partially me. Partially that us-being-from-different-universes thing.”
“I don’t think we’re from different universes. We’re definitely from planets in the same solar system at least.” He offers a small, helpful smile. “I think on your planet your capability and your image equal your worth. I also think you come from a planet of insane privilege and never-ending cash flow, both of which have sheltered you to the ways other people live in places that are strange to you, like, I don’t know, Pluto…”
“I know you’re an English major, but even I’m aware Pluto’s not a planet anymore.”
“Oh my God, dude.” He face-palms and groan-laughs. “Forget the space metaphor. The people of this town are like…unicorns. They’re accepting and kind and identify as all different races, sexualities, gender identities, nationalities. And this isn’t some melting-pot bullshit, dude. This is like a little accepting oasis. I’m so blessed to go to school here. This place is special and this community is special. You need to be able to see how extraordinary they are if you’re going to give them the night they deserve.”
I nod. “I can vibe with mystical horned beasts. I just wish I had something to offer them. Something more than fail after fail after fail…” Throuple breakup. Island. Wood chopping. Near car crash. Maybe chaos does follow me wherever I go.
“You do have things to offer, Matthew,” Hector says, using the voice that unwound me on the night of the not-so-great escape. A voice I’d like to press on vinyl and play from Grandma’s record player. “You have charisma and event-planning experience. I mean, the way you worked Dean Graft into giving us this space for free. I couldn’t charm someone like that.”
Charm.He thinks I havecharm. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it feels like a massive eruption, lava spewing out of my dormant heart volcano, heating up my insides.
“I’m no you. You’re, like, the golden boy around here,” I say, deflecting.
“We have different skill sets. That’s all,” he says. “Mine’s a tiny bit more practical—ordrab, as you’d put it—but that doesn’t make it any less important.”
The bungle of our first meeting untangles us for real this time. The overwhelming urge to get back home doesn’t hit so hard. I find a small sense of contentment in basking under his caring words, and I think maybe (maybe, maybe, maybe…) there’s something in this town worth exploring after all.
Chapter 12
Hector doesn’t wait for an answer when he asks if he can make a pit stop on the way back to Grandma and Gramps’s.
That’s how I find myself wandering Wind River Community Pharmacy, a cheery mom-and-pop shop that makes an average Duane Reade look like the Mall of America. This tiny storefront has four aisles, one fridge, and maybe two employees max, both wearing tragic mustard-yellow vests.
As Hector browses, I stumble upon an endcap that contains a series of stuffed holiday figurines on battery-powered stands. I press the hand of a disgruntled-looking Santa, and his hips begin to shake robotically. He bellows from a speaker sewn somewhere inside his abdomen, “Everybody out there been good or what?” à la Bruce Springsteen. I only catch the reference thanks to the holiday CD collection Dad used to break out when I was little.
Most of those have probably been lost to time—to dust or donations or the trash chute. I was probably ten or eleven the last time we listened to one of those together while baking Christmas cookies or preparing reindeer food.
Almost a whole decade of Christmases has come and gone without much fanfare. Dad dislikes the influx of tourists when getting to work. Mom can’t pull herself away from writing to be bothered with the hubbub.
“Cute,” Hector says, sneaking up on me as the song continues to play. It mixes in with another cover of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” that’s playing on the radio; a female singer this time with a heavy pop production. Isn’t anyone writing original songs anymore? It would at least break up the relentless drivel in the rotation this time of year.
I start away. “I guess, if you like that kind of stuff…”
“Come on, dude. Even if Christmas doesn’t mean anything to you, don’t you still have a soft spot for Santa?” he asks.
