Clayton wanted the morning sitting at the foot of the tree to go on and on, but the sun was moving in the sky, and the snow would soon start to melt. The roads would get plowed, and soon he'd have to be on his way. He didn't want that. He wanted this moment, this moment right now, to go on forever.
But of course it could not, so he got up when Kyle got up, and unwound the scarf from around his neck, placed it on the back of the couch and followed Kyle into the kitchen. There, Kyle made pancakes and bacon, while Clayton puttered about bringing butter and syrup to the table.
Kyle made a fresh pot of coffee, and when everything was ready, they sat down to eat. Which was its own kind of pleasure, with the sun streaming in the windows, the sticky, sweet smell of maple syrup in the air, the warm swallows of coffee. All of it wound its way inside of that spot of joy that had started the moment Clayton had arrived on Kyle's doorstep, and made it grow and expand until the only bleak thought that remained was the idea of leaving.
"You like those?" asked Kyle, as he served them each one last pancake. "They've got buckwheat in them, which makes them taste kind of nutty."
"They are delicious," said Clayton, doing his best to talk through a mouthful of pancake. "But really, they are just a mechanism to get more butter in my mouth."
Kyle laughed at that, mouth open, head tilted back, andClayton looked and watched and knew he wanted more of that laugh, more of that expression in Kyle's eyes, more of all of it.
Only he didn't really know how to say any of that, let alone work his way through what he was feeling to get to actual words, and so when the meal was over, he silently followed Kyle to the sink and helped with the dishes. Then, mostly silently, he joined Kyle in putting on boots and coats, and donned his new red wool scarf, wrapping it around his neck with his bare hands before putting on his gloves.
They went out into the sun-streamed world, the white and yellow light bouncing off the smooth layer of snow that covered everything. Their breath puffed in ragged clouds in the air in front of their mouths while they shoveled the front steps, dug out Clayton's car, and gritted every bit of walking surface.
When they got cold, they went inside, stomping the snow from their boots, and Kyle made hot cocoa from scratch, of course, and after they had drunk it, filled with sugar and warmth, they went outside again to make a snowman in the yard. Which wasn't easy, as the snow was up to their knees and wasn't the kind that stuck very well together, so they made a small snowman and decorated his face with larger bits of grit, which gave him a very lopsided expression.
Each moment, blazoned with white and blue and cold, was etched in Clayton's brain, traced by Kyle's smile, and the arc of the sun in the sky as it made its way westward. He'd be glad to get to Sarah's to share presents and food and company, more so than he'd ever thought possible, but he'd miss this. Didn't know how to make it slow down so it might feel like he could keep it.
CHAPTER 11
In the afternoon, when the sun was getting closer to the horizon, they went inside, shucked their outdoor things, and played Scrabble with a football game on the TV with the sound turned low. Then, after they'd each won a game and declared the third one a tie, Kyle rubbed his belly and announced that he was hungry.
"I make a mean grilled cheese," said Clayton, offering one of his few cooking skills.
Kyle's smile in response was one of those sweet ones, with one corner of his mouth turned up and the other one turned down.
"That sounds perfect," he said. "Shall we drink some of your French wine with it?" he asked.
"I thought about taking it down to my sister's," said Clayton, too late realizing that what he should have said was,yes, great idea. Only he wasn't sure why what he'd said was wrong.
"Oh," said Kyle. He got up and went into the kitchen.
While Clayton saw him going to the fridge, Kyle's face was hidden by the door, and the echo of his response to Clayton was tinged with something that he couldn't identify. Not easily, atany rate. He put away the Scrabble game, changed the football game to something else, something innocuous, and went into the kitchen to make grilled cheese.
There, he found Kyle leaning against the counter by the stove, arms crossed over his chest, one foot crossed over his ankle. Clayton could still see the hole in the heel of his sock, and wondered why he didn't just race into Kyle's room to get him a new pair from the drawer, one without a hole in it.
But he didn't. Instead, he went to the stove and started assembling the bread, layering each slice on the outside with mayonnaise while a little bit of butter bubbled in the frying pan. He placed two slices of bread mayo-side down and then layered them with cheese, and topped each one with another slice of bread, mayo-side up. After which, he placed a lid on the pan and nodded.
"You need to leave those alone so they can melt nice and slow," said Clayton. He stood there with the metal spatula in his hand, pretending he was a guard at the castle gates: none shall pass!
"I'll remember," said Kyle, smiling. He said it in such a way that Clayton wondered whether, like himself, Kyle would ever be able to not remember that moment, the two of them standing in the kitchen, cooking together. Or was that only in Clayton's head?
When the grilled cheese sandwiches were ready, Clayton sliced them diagonally, the way they were meant to be sliced, and they sat at the table to eat them, not with French wine, but with tall, cool glasses of goat's milk from the fridge. Having food to focus on instead of his own thoughts made it easier for Clayton to make sure that when Kyle bit into his grilled cheese, he was enjoying it.
"Yes," said Kyle, his mouth full, nodding. "Very good,verygood."
The goat's milk was delicious, though that was somethingClayton never thought he'd be saying. It was thick and creamy on his tongue, but he would probably never drink it again. Not with the memory of sitting across the table from Kyle, who was looking more glum as the evening sky grew dark outside the window. Time was racing forward with such dangerous speed that Clayton felt like he was again driving around a curve in the highway with the blizzard all around, and whiteout conditions that blurred his vision and made it hard to see where he was going.
"You know what I could do," said Kyle as he finished up his sandwich and drained the last bit of goat's milk from his glass.
"What's that?" asked Clayton, his attention focused on Kyle, which thankfully pulled him away from his memories of driving in the blizzard.
"I've got plenty of paper and ribbon," said Kyle. "I could wrap the knife and sheath for your nephew, so you don't have to do it in a hurry when you get there."
"Thanks," said Clayton. "I can wrap a present, sure enough, but it would have been awkward the second I got there to ask to borrow tape and scissors and stuff."
He had a thought in his head, and it was a little like a vision, soft-edged and sweet. Him and Kyle at the front door of Luke and Sarah's house, him slipping the present to Kyle to hold while his nephew Shawn leaped at him for a hug. Beyond the open door the house gleamed with the promise of a Christmas held back until Clayton could get there, white and gold, with blinking lights, and the glitter of garland and shiny wrapping paper where the presents were piled beneath the Christmas tree.
