I love my friends.
I’m lyingon the floor in Blaise and Jordan’s house—we usually hang out here because it’s the nicest, thanks to Jordan’s Major League Baseball contract. Blaise is widely regarded as the up-and-coming costume designer to watch, and he’s made goodmoney on his last few projects, but not the kind of money that can pay the rent on a three-bedroom bungalow in Echo Park without roommates. None of us are there yet. Xera probably could swing it if she dipped into her trust fund, but she and Butch have this thing about only using it for extras, not daily essentials. Besides, of all of us, she comes the closest to matching Jordan and Brad for income. Shockingly, creative fields don’t pay as well as finance and pro ball—not when you’re just starting out, anyway. Calla and I aren’t doing too badly, but we feed every cent we can back into the business; Harold makes a reasonable living as an interior designer but blows most of it on shoes and clothes; and Butch, after a few huge arguments, agreed to let Xera support them both while she gets established as an artist. She’s getting there—her most recent show got some great critical reviews and some even better sales.
But yeah, we’re mostly living in shitboxes, and Harold has a couple of roommates he says are “questionable.” I’m too scared of the answer to ask what that means. Blaise keeps telling him to leave San Diego and move up here so he can live in their spare room, but as much as Harold bitches about his non-creative boss, he’s reluctant to leave the firm.
I smile at the ceiling. I have some suspicions about Harold and his boss, but I’m not brave enough to bring them up. Not yet, anyway.
Someone laughs, and I tune back in to the conversation, but it seems to have hit a lull.
“What are everyone’s plans for the holidays?” Calla asks. “Phil and I are staying in town, if you want to hang out. We’ll be ordering takeout and playing a ‘that line is cheesy’ drinking game while watching Hallmark movies on Christmas Day, but we might have a party on New Year’s.”
I lift my head just enough to quirk a brow at her, since a party is news to me. I don’t mind, though. A lot of peoplethink it’s weird that I don’t hate parties, what with the whole can’t-talk-because-of-anxiety thing, but it depends on the party. A huge party in a strange place with nobody I know? Hard pass. A party somewhere familiar to me with a lot of friends and acquaintances who don’t care if I go nonverbal? Sign me up. Most of the time, I won’t go nonverbal at a party like that, anyway—maybe low-verbal, but I’ll still be able to speak.
Calla grins unrepentantly. “Don’t give me that look. I’ll plan everything. All you have to do is put on something fabulous, turn up, and look pretty.”
I laugh along with everyone else but still flip her the bird as I put my head back down on the floor.
“You should come here for Christmas,” Blaise says. “Jordan’s dads are going to Philly to visit his sister and the baby, but I can’t take time off work until January.”
Jordan rolls his eyes. “You should have heard the drama from Uncle Luke when he realized we weren’t all going to be together for the holidays. I swear it took me hours to convince him Blaise and I were going to be fine. You should definitely come here so I can tell him we won’t be all alone.” Despite the words, I can hear the fondness in his tone—and the tiniest undercurrent of uncertainty. I’m pretty sure I remember Blaise telling me that Jordan’s celebrated every Christmas with his uncle and sister since his parents died when he was five, even when they were all living in different states.
Turning my head, I meet Blaise’s gaze inquiringly, and he pulls a slight face and gives a tiny nod.
“Sure, we can get drunk here just as easily as at home,” I say. “Right, Calla?”
She shrugs. “If we’re not hosting, we don’t need to clean the house after. But we’ll bring the liquor.”
“Free liquor and someone else cleaning up?” Harold asks. “I’m in. Can I crash in the spare room?”
Jordan snorts. “Dude, just move here already.”
“That’s a yes,” Blaise adds. “Polly? Can we convince you to come back for the holidays?”
“Nah.” Polly shakes his head. “I promised my mom I’d go for Christmas and stay until Spring Training.”
Calla sighs. “Normally I’d be laying a bet on how soon your mom drives you nuts, but she’s one of the few parents who wouldn’t.”
“She’s the best,” he agrees.
“Butch and I are spending the holidays with my family,” Xera says in a tragic tone. “Since we went to hers for Thanksgiving.” She turns to her wife. “How many years do we have to do this before we tell everyone we’re establishing our own traditions as a family?”
The vibration of my phone going off distracts me from Butch’s answer, and I dig it out of my pocket. It’s a work email—not surprising, since most of the people who’d text me are in this room—and I sneak a guilty look at Calla. This doesn’t really count as work, and I’m low-key desperate to see if it’s Griff emailing me back finally.
It’s not, sadly.
Dear Phil,
I’ve just been introduced to your work, and I’m reluctantly impressed! Not my style at all, but I can see why people think it’s pretty. Good for you!
Best wishes from a new fan,
Mary
I blink at it a few times, re-reading to make sure I didn’t misunderstand the first time, then snort.
“What are you looking at?” Butch asks, and I shake my head.
“Fan mail.”
