She’s not alone, this time. Nick feels his eyes itch and his chest tighten as he watches the couple on screen meet in a magical, perfect kiss, having made it through the shenanigans and miscommunications that all of these movies seemed to have, while some old white guy with a beard who had somehow been pivotal to the whole thing winks into the camera before it fades to black.
If only it were that simple.
But his life is not a Christmas movie. It’s not any kind of movie—he and Matt aren’t in love, and Santa isn’t real, and there is no magic that will fix what Nick has broken.
Without hockey to distract him, Nick falls back into bad habits, his phone often in hand and his thumbs justslippingtheir way to Matt’s Instagram.
Matt’s Christmas certainly looks like it’s straight out of a Hallmark movie: his three siblings are home with their spouses and kids, and they all went to see Santa at a Christmas tree farm even though the tree at his parents’ house has been up since after Thanksgiving; they went carol singing to raise some money for the homeless shelter his mom volunteers at—videos of that end up on YouTube, once people realize that an actual professional singer has joined the group, and Nick gets surprisingly choked up at watching Matt do a beautiful a cappella rendition of “The First Noel,” Santa hat perched jauntily on his head and black wool coat buttoned tight to his throat. His gloves have skeleton hands on them like they’re from Hot Topic circa 2005. It’s nauseatingly endearing.
Nick’s melancholy Instagram-stalking is disrupted by a pointy elbow digging deep into his ribs. He yelps, and Lindsay cackles. “Come on,” she prompts, tugging him in closer. On her other side, Marco has his iPad on his lap. “Family phone call time.”
Nick groans, but her grip on his arm is too tight to escape. Before he can complain, the screen is filling with familiar faces: Marco’s parents are hosting half the kids on their ranch in Arizona, and they all try and cajole the three of them into hopping in the car and making the drive. “You can still make it by Christmas morning!” Mama Perez—the only name she will allow Nick to call her—insists jovially, eggnog in hand.
“Mama, we love you, but none of us is sober enough to drive right now,” Lindsay tells her, and a crackling array of laughs pours through the speakers. Nick’s spent Christmas with them before—twice now—and he’s pretty sure Marco’s older brothers think the three of them have some kind of polyamory situationgoing on, just like their cats. But even if they do think that, they’re all still welcoming of him, slotting him right in with the mess of in-laws and grandkids and everyone else that makes up a Perez family gathering.
Personally, Nick prefers that to the last time he went back to his mom’s for Christmas, sitting through an awkward dinner with her and Amy and Trevor and Trevor’s two kids—who he had never met before that day—getting asked why he couldn’t just“apply for a transfer”to a New York team like they were different branches of the same department store.
They’re all in good spirits when they hang up the call, and Lindsay declares that she wants to bake Christmas cookies, which goes exactly as you’d expect for three drunk people, only one of whom has any talent in baking.
It takes twice as long to clean up as it did to make the cookies in the first place, and they’re exhausted but triumphant when they return to the living room with the platter held proudly above Lindsay’s head. The cats have claimed the armchair and Dolly looks up at Nick, her chin propped on Billy’s shoulder while Mandy’s fluffy tail drapes across both of them like a blanket. “I can’t believe I’m jealous of my cat,” he remarks, taking a picture of the three intertwined felines. He almost texts it to Matt out of reflex, then pauses. Hell. He’s gonna have to break the seal eventually.
With the courage of alcohol buzzing in his veins, he forges onwards, sending the picture with a simple,
Nick
Merry Christmas, hope you’re having a good time.
He has to stop himself adding emojis; he doesn’t think they’re in that kind of place right now.
To his surprise, Matt texts back almost immediately.
Matt
Aww, cuties. Thought you’d be elsewhere for Christmas, but glad you’re getting rest.
What’s that supposed to mean? Was he expecting Nick to be out clubbing, finding some anonymous fuck for the night?
He stares at the message, quietly hoping another one might come through. But his phone is silent, and the screen soon goes dark. Nick sighs, slumping onto the couch beside Marco, letting his head flop onto his best friend’s shoulder.
He doesn’t have it in him right now to worry about deciphering that message for some hidden meaning. He’s achy, and tipsy, and so damntiredof letting the hollow feeling in his chest consume what little festive joy he can scrape together. He drops his phone to the carpet before he can do something stupid—like send some cheesy text about how all he wants for Christmas is Matt to be with him.
Instead, he shoves all thoughts of Matt Hudson from his mind and focuses on his best friends, and how grateful he is to have them in his life. That’s what Christmas is really for, right?
Chapter Sixteen
[Video Description: All four members of Sticks+Stones squeezed into a featureless room, performing a cover of Fall Out Boy’s “Yule Shoot Your Eye Out” in their own style.]
@SticksStonesBand: Happy Holidays. Or not. #falloutboycover #emochristmas
@SticksB1tch_: This slaps but YIKES which one of them got dumped for the holidays
—TikTok, December 25th, 2022
It’ll be a brand-new year in around six hours, and this is not how Nick wanted to spend the last of this one.
Matt’s back in Vegas. Nick knows that much—from Instagram-stalking, not from actual communication. Matt hasn’t texted him since Christmas.
He’s a big boy. He can handle it. He just needs a little time to lick his wounds, then he’ll be back to normal.
