Bruce shakes his head. “We don’t want money. This is a hobby for us. We’re all nine-to-five guys—mailmen and delivery drivers—who do it for the fun of it. Any chance to play is pay enough in our books.” He laughs. “Plus then we don’t have to go home to our wives that night.”
I fight the urge to cringe. Heterosexuals have no sense of humor.
After a painful beat, he asks, “We get the gig or what?”
Bruce and I shake on it to seal the deal.
Chapter 20
Grandma wasn’t kidding about the tree-trimming party. As soon as we return from our full day of planning, we’re adorned with jangly felt reindeer antlers and slugged with barf-worthy polyester blends. My grandparents stand before us in matching crewnecks. My eyes are almost burning from the repeating bright colors and mismatched patterns.
“Don’t fight us on this, Matthew. Everything’s more festive in an ugly Christmas sweater,” Gramps says.
I ruined a cashmere cardigan today, so with the fashion overlords already angered, I heed his advice. I slip out of my jacket and slide the monstrosity over my head, hair going all staticky.
I check myself out in the mirror without cringing. I think I wear such expensive designer pieces because if I can cover myself in beautiful clothes, maybe I’ll start seeing what’s underneath as beautiful too. Even the imperfect parts.
Hector’s seen through the armor since day one, calling it exactly what it was—a way to keep people out. I think I might be ready to let people see me in all my messy glory.
In many ways, I already have.
“Gramps set aside all the little ornaments you made for us back in the day,” Grandma says.
“You kept those?” I ask. The silly pipe-cleaner and Popsicle-stick creations fill me with nostalgia. I had teachers at New York’s most prestigious preschool who emphasized the homemade gift as a tiny piece of the heart. Mom and Dad were not the types to appreciate a portrait done entirely in eco-friendly crayon and plant-based glue. Grandma and Gramps, on the other hand, would display any Daliesque product of my imagination. So, come Thanksgiving every year, I’d pack up all my crafts in a box and I’d trek them to Massachusetts.
I place my boots on the shoe rack and come over to the couch. Gramps has made a neat collection on the coffee table. There are snowflakes and mini sleds, pom-pom snowmen and a clay reindeer that looks more like the poop emoji than an animal capable of guiding Santa’s sleigh.
“Matthew was quite the artist when he was a kid,” Grandma says to Hector, who hangs back.
I can’t tell for sure why he’s hesitating. Maybe it’s because he’s not sure if joining in is overstepping. Or maybe it’s because we haven’t spoken candidly about our kiss yet.
Either way, I can tell he’s missing his own family, his own Christmas tree, and his own traditions that don’t involve his professor, his professor’s wife, and the rich boy he’s tolerating—andtonguing—for the time being.
I hand him the clay reindeer turd as a peace offering.
“Not my finest work, but deserves a special spot anyway,” I say, imbuing my voice with a saccharine quality. He takes it with a slight, squished smile.
He inspects the open branches like a scout on the hunt for a perfect camping spot. His commitment to getting everything right is immeasurable. I’m starting to see how it benefits him.
Baz worked hard when inspiration struck. He’d spend whole days holed up in his studio with his instruments and innumerable energy drinks fueling his creativity. Spencer was a delegator—the big boss to the little bosses. When there was a fire, he wasn’t the one to put it out. Bentley is an influencer and makes most of her money through YouTube partnerships and Instagram sponsorships. Not like I learned the value of a dollar from any of them.
Now, my parents work hard. I know that. But they are at the top of their fields respectively. Hard work looks different when you’re standing at the summit. You make your own schedule. You choose your deadlines. The world realigns itself to spin when you say spin and stop when you say stop.
The three people standing before me are prime examples of hard workers. I know it sounds overdramatic, and I haven’t been here that long, but I’m starting to see the upside of humble pleasures, of the joy that comes from setting your mind on something and successfully completing it. I know the gala isn’t finished yet, but the work we’ve done so far is worth being proud of.
Full of festive glee, I bite the bullet on Noelle’s request. “Do you want to go to the Lights of Wonder Spectacular?” I ask Hector quietly as Grandma and Gramps ready the spiked eggnog in the kitchen.
“Together?” He holds one of my misshapen ornaments at a standstill.
Our eyes meet over the pom-pom snowman. “Yeah. Sunday night. With Noelle and Siena.”
He must have some inkling about what Noelle and Siena are to each other because his cheeks turn rosy, and it’s not from the fireplace blasting. “Oh, uh, we’ve got auction baskets to arrange and name cards to fold…”
It’s like he hasn’t noticed I’m a walking checklist of responsibilities these days. “I’ve planned out our schedule, and if we pull some late nights next week, we can afford to treat ourselves.” A new idea sprouts up. “Maybe we can even get the manager to add some sparkle to the gala!”
“Are you sure, dude?” he asks.
“You know, for someone who studies English, you sure say ‘dude’ a lot.”
