“That’s the one. All fecking day. Might set something on fire just so I can leave.”
It’s probably the worst joke I’ve made in a while. And testament to how poleaxed this thing between us has me.
I don’t joke about fire. It’s not funny, and I’m grateful Sab doesn’t laugh as he ventures into the hallway and zips up my coat for me—andhowdoes he make putting my clothesonso scorching hot?
As I live and breathe I have no idea.
No words either, and it’s him who breaks the spell. “Tam has a stall at the craft fair on Bell Street.”
“You helping him again?”
“If he’s not too busy to have Esme while I do the heavy lifting. Otherwise, I’ll come back after and break it all down for him.”
“You’re a good brother. Last time one of mine came to a station open day, the fecker slipped a fart bomb into my boots.”
Sab snorts. “I wouldn’t survive that. Tam would murder me. As for being a good brother, I have a lot to make up for.”
“Bet he doesn’t think so. You should bring Esme to the trucks when we’ve parked up. We hide sweets everywhere for the kids.”
“You want us to come see you?”
He seems surprised, and whatever else is a mess of lust and reticence between us, that shit won’t do.
I brave loosely grasping his chin, drowning in sensation as my fingers skate through the brushed velvet of his unshaven jaw. “I wouldlove itif you came to see me. No pressure, though. Do your thing. We’ll find each other if the stars align.”
As I kiss his cheek and finally make myself leave, I have to wonder if they already have.
Sab
I’ve never been to the Everwyld Christmas parade before.
Neither has Tam. And even though he’s been knee-deep in festive calligraphy since October, as the sun goes down, the sheer level of forced Christmas joy is too much for him.
“The fuck is that?” He jabs a moody finger at a car-sized paper-mâché reindeer shimmying past on a flatbed truck, a Dubois scowl etched deep and pure on his face. “And what the hell is that noise?”
It’s a brass band murdering We Three Kings and losing pitch with every wavering step, the tubas honking half a beat behind the rest. Truly terrible shit, but I can hack it for as long as it has Tam stomping around like an angry snowman, kicking boxes instead of hoofing them around when he has me to do that for him.
Tiny hands tug at my coat.
Esme’s at my feet, watching the lead floats of the parade get ready to set off. “Papa, pourquoi tonton il fait la tête?”
I crouch to her level and straighten the stolen hat she’d wear to bed if I let her. The one that reminds me green is my new favourite colour. “Uncle’s making a face because Bhodi had to work today. You know he gets sad when he’s on his own.”
“That’s not nice.” Esme’s reply is grave, her little forehead pressed to mine. “Candy floss?”
“Not yet. We need to save the big guns for when he starts throwing things.”
Esme laughs like a tinkling Christmas bell. But I’m not really joking. Tam’s my hero, but there’s not a human alive who doesn’t know he’s a better man when Bhodi’s around, and as I find myself hanging out for a mere glimpse of the fire engines halfway down the parade line, I understand him more than I ever have.
Right.
Because what you’re doing with Galen is the same as Tam and Bhodi? They’re literally fucking married.
Disquiet clenches my gut, reality biting hard. But the Christmas chaos expanding around me makes it blissfully hard to hang onto negativity. I push past the ball of anxiety and take Esme to a better spot to watch the parade head out.
It’s noisy as hell and she loves it.
Lorries rumble by.
