Noelle hugs me good night and the physical affection doesn’t feel labored. Instead, for a change, it feels nice.
I could get used to this.
Chapter 18
Hector and I guide the winning tree inside the house. It only takes a few tries to get it into its stand. Grandma and Gramps successfully deconstructed the fake monstrosity and stored it away where no one will have to look upon its garish greenery again.
Once the new one is wrapped in classic white lights, the four of us stand back to inspect our work. For a quick turnaround, we made something quite beautiful to behold. A Christmas calm washes over me for the first time this year. I don’t feel the urge to run.
“Tree-trimming party. Tomorrow night. Attendance is mandatory,” says Grandma right before a big yawn.
My heart does a funny dip. I half expected this to be a one-and-done scenario that would prove to Hector I’ve gotten bitten by the holiday bug, but alas, the spirit of Christmas keeps tugging me along on a tinsel leash. I’m practically radiating emotions of olde or some shit.
I kind of like it—okay, Iloveit—but I’m afraid that if I fall too hard into the jolly and joyous feelings, I’ll end up crushed when they go away again. Next year will only wallop me harder when my life returns to normal.
But Gramps is smiling so widely at me right now that the future anxiety fades to black.
“I’ll make my famous spiked eggnog and we can get all these ornaments up,” Gramps says.
“I expect all hands on deck,” Grandma adds.
Hector and I nod in time with each other. Gramps finds Grandma’s hand at the inlet to the hallway. The tenderness nearly repairs my rusted, mechanical heart. Together, they withdraw to their bedroom for the night, and we do the same.
It’s only a little past ten and Hector’s slipping into sleep clothes, but a second wind has overtaken me. Hector, however, seems to be crashing hard after the distraction of the farm. The open wounds he shared with me in the truck are still stinging, and, surprisingly, I want to soothe them in a special way.
“Any chance you want to watchThe Muppet Christmas Carol?” I ask, trying not to make the offer sound as awkward as it is. Two grown men watching a children’s movie together.
He sighs with a volume that could knock down a little pig’s house of straw. I’m all for dramatics, but even this display is too much for me. It’s not like he’s the first person to ever get his heart broken. I offer him the best I’ve got: “I’m freshly out of a relationship too, so I know how you’re feeling. Probably worse because I got doubly dumped.”
“You were seeing more than one dude?” he asks after an excruciating beat.
“Well, thosedudeswere married to each other. We were a throuple. It was nice…for a while.” Though maybe that’s no longer the whole truth.
The truth is that saying how it really was makes it sadder than I want it to be. That mistrust, a lack of boundaries, and a need tosell, sell, sellsocial content for clout killed whatever chances we had at building something that could last. I never could quite tell if my heart was the only one on the line or if we all had something to lose in the end.
“Seriously?” Hector asks. “You don’t have a valid driver’s license, but you had two boyfriends who were already husbands? I’ll say it again: You’re a weird dude, dude.”
I laugh, both at the repetition of the worddude(which has waned away into semi-charming at this point) and the fact that he’s right. In my protest of “traditional” relationships, and in defiance of my parents, I jumped at the chance to play house with people who already had their home and garden in order. They were thriving, not just surviving like I was.
“Yeah, Baz is an indie singer. He mostly writes autobiographical lyric-driven songs about growing up Black and gay in the Bronx. Spencer is the heir to a particular microwave breakfast sandwich company. The optics were optimal. That’s kind of how high-profile relationships are.”
“High-profile relationships are about optics? What about attraction and emotion and trust?” he asks, like they’re essential ingredients in the recipe for perfect romance.
I shake my head. “Those things come later if you’re lucky. Relationships on the planet I’m from have a lot more to do with mutual advancement. First comes lust. Then comes capital gain. A perfect fairy tale.”
He’s not buying it. “That’s messed up.”
I’m thrust back to the night I met Baz at a fancy party. Mom’s publishing house was throwing it to honor career achievements. Mom was accepting yet another ridiculous award she would no doubt cram onto our overcrowded mantel. After the mandatory photo op of the two of us for the press, she ditched me by the massive display of shrimp. I knew no one else in the room.
I talked my way into a cosmopolitan from the cute bartender who totally forgot to check my ID after I complimented how dexterous he was with a cocktail mixer—shaker, whatever.
The buzz was setting in and Baz was eyeing me across a very crowded Upper East Side members-only club. His hair was in waves and a low fade, and he sported a well-groomed beard, clipped close.
He’d written the title theme for Mom’s TV series. It became a big hit, and they’d gotten him to come and play the acoustic version as part of the celebration.
I’ll admit I had stalked him once or twice, watching his music videos and scrolling through his Instagram. I knew he was married to a very handsome, wealthy, White, Jewish businessman. Also that they both looked exquisite in matching Speedos.
His first glance turned into a long chat over the state of the music business, the benefits of connecting with fans over social media, and the even better benefits of an open relationship. Obviously, the last one was why he’d come over, and as soon as he performed and I joined Mom up onstage to accept her award, we slipped out the back doors and rushed to his place for a nightcap and a night of uninhibited fun.
