Page 38 of Comfort Read

“Yeah, well,” Kit says, casting a hopeless, sidelong glance at Sage. He can’t exactly tell Rick that he’ll be single again for their next Thanksgiving, and is technically speaking still single now. He takes a sip of his drink instead, and then shrugs and tries: “The best-laid plans, you know?”

“Mmm. I sure do.” Rick claps Sage on the back again as another child dashes by screaming about spit. “Hang in there, kid. Probably another ten minutes before the exodus commences. Great meeting you, by the way—loved you in Windowframed.”

He walks off before Sage can reply, and sure enough, ten minutes later the crowd has thinned considerably. The group that remains to ring the table by the time dinner is served has been whittled down to Sage, Seline, Cheryl, Tom, Rick, Kit, Kit’s siblings, and their families.

It’s still a loud group, and dinner is raucous and spirited, everyone shouting to one another across the table as they pass the green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and gravy. Kit’s amazed to find himself less self-conscious with every passing minute, not sure if it’s just that he’s getting used to the situation or how obvious it is that Sage is enjoying himself. Emerson had always found Kit’s family to be a bit much, the drive home from every gathering full of little digs and complaints which Kit had tried not to take too personally. After all, he’d always found Emerson’s family stuck up and snobby—they never seemed to get through a whole meal without someone making an offensive comment.

But Sage, once the Humplestiltskin of it all has faded to a dull roar, seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. He jokes with Mitch about his chickens, and asks Maggie about her woodworking videos, and suffers one of Rick’s long-winded fishing stories while giving every impression of being interested. He teaches Riley and Wallace a series of vocal warmups full of odd sounds that give them the giggles. He talks to Kit’s father about filming the Red Vector movies, and with Nancy, a real estate agent, about the impossible LA housing market. He even spars a little with Justin, going back and forth for nearly ten minutes on the ethics of producing fictionalized biopics about people who are still alive. Kit would have torn out his hair and screamed in Justin’s face after about fifteen seconds of this discussion, but Sage, amazingly, seems to enjoy it.

And he talks to Kit, too. That might be the most incredible thing, the way that their post-kiss awkwardness seems to have drifted away on the breeze. He keeps leaning over into Kit’s space to whisper things like, “How many times did Rick say the word ‘slippery’ in there? It was at least ten,” or “Do you think if I ask nicely, your brother will let me unleash him on a few unsuspecting production executives? I know a couple people who really, really deserve it.” Kit attended more than a decade of these with a partner at his side, but Emerson had always been more a stressor than an ally, a vector for trouble on which Kit had to keep a careful eye. Sage, on the other hand, seems to make everything flow more easily, allowing Kit to relax more than he was able to even last year, when he came on his own.

It’s one of the better Thanksgivings Kit can remember, and as he settles back in his chair, overly full and not mad about it, he lets out a deep, relieved sigh. He’d been nervous about tonight, but for all intents and purposes they’ve made it through—all he has to do is get them through dessert without any carnage, and then Sage can peel off in his beautiful expensive car, none the worse for the experience.

Naturally, it’s at exactly this moment when Rick glances at his phone, then out the window, and comments, “Hoo boy. Tommy, my man, while you’re up—you might want to turn the weather on.”

The weather’s news is dire. What was forecast as a few flurries has taken a sharp turn over the course of the afternoon, and is now set to hit them like a ton of bricks. Even as they watch the report, the lightly falling snow outside begins to come down thicker and harder, whiting out their view even of the homes across the road. The local weatherman, wearing a hat shaped like a turkey and an expression that suggests he’d like to be at home with his family, advises the audience sternly not to drive unless absolutely necessary, warning that the roads will get worse before they get better, especially since most of the staff that would handle clearing them are likely off work for the holiday.

“Well, that’s that,” Cheryl says, dusting her hands together and then turning off the television with a brisk click of the remote. “You’ll all just have to stay here tonight, wait it out. Seline, obviously, you’ll take our guest room; Rick, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to camp out on the couch. Kids, you and your partners can all stay in your old bedrooms. And as for you rascals,” she turns to her grandchildren with a grin, “how would you feel about a basement party?”

All four children shriek in delighted unison, thrilled. The adults in the room know that Cheryl’s “basement parties,” a regular tradition for years now, are just her setting up sleeping bags for the kids downstairs, to allow their parents to experience things like space, silence, and sleep. The children, however, are still young enough to consider these evenings rare, brilliant fun, and are beside themselves with excitement to have one sprung on them unexpectedly.

They’re already dashing downstairs to claim sleeping bags and spots when Seline murmurs, “Oh, Cheryl, that’s so kind, but we couldn’t put you out⁠—”

“I can get someone to come pick us up if I can’t get the Porsche out,” Sage says in the same moment. He and his mother glance at each other, startled and clearly unsettled to have had the same thought at the same time, but don’t have time to say anything else before Cheryl waves them both silence.

“Nonsense. You’re not putting anyone out—and Sage, I’m sure you know by now how Kit worries. He’d just drive us all crazy fretting about you out there in a blizzard, and I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you, Seline. It’s our pleasure. Everyone stays.”

There are a few more token protests, but nobody fights too hard. Sage and Seline seem too surprised to mount more of an argument, and everyone else in the room knows better than to argue with Cheryl once her mind’s made up.

This is how, a few short hours later, Kit finds himself standing in the doorway of his childhood bedroom, using his body to prevent Sage from stepping inside.

“Just give me five minutes,” Kit begs, glancing nervously over his shoulder and wishing like hell that his parents had turned the room into a home gym, a craft studio, anything. Even a shrine to Sage’s mother would be better than what is in there: absolutely everything Kit left behind as a teenager, plus a few boxes of stuff he left here for storage when things with Emerson fell apart. “Let me do a sweep for anything mortifying! The last time I spent any real time in here was like ten years ago, okay? My teenage self was a lot of things, but I’d describe him primarily as very embarrassing.”

“Everyone thinks that about their teenage self.” Sage casts a speculative eye over Kit’s head into the room, and then smiles down at him. “But some of us had that teenage self filmed before a live studio audience and beamed into households across the country, so I think it’s only fair to let me in. I mean, your adolescent embarrassments are contained to this room, but you can stream mine on whichever platform has the rights to Gowanus High right now.”

“But you weren’t embarrassing in Gowanus High!” Kit cries, clinging to the doorframe as Sage attempts to step past him. “You were⁠—”

“Covered in pimples?”

“An international heartthrob, and⁠—”

“Insanely awkward in my body?”

“Beloved by the nation! And⁠—”

“Couldn’t act my way out of a paper bag?”

“You literally won multiple Emmys,” Kit gasps, scandalized. “Holy shit, is this really how you think of that period of your life? That makes me feel worse, Sage, oh my God. If by your standards you were an embarrassing teen, then I was, like, the living embodiment of shame. I had all kinds of mouthgear! For my stupid jaw! I used a pocket protector⁠—”

“Not really?” Sage says, grinning on the question. When Kit, too ashamed to speak, nods, Sage’s smile widens. “I didn’t think anybody used those anymore. What, did you time travel here after attending high school in 1955?”

“No,” Kit moans, “I was just weird, and liked writing with fountain pens, and ruined a lot of shirts! Seriously, don’t⁠—”

Then he stops talking, because Sage reaches out and, so gently that Kit can’t even be mad about it, pries his fingers off the doorframe.

“It will be fine,” Sage says softly, still gripping Kit’s fingers in one warm, elegant hand. “I’m not going to judge you, and like I said, I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of me as a teenager. If anything, we’re evening things out. Please?”

It’s the please that gets Kit. It’s so heartfelt that he’s helpless, and he steps back with dread thick in his throat, trying to remind himself that Sage is right. He has seen plenty of Sage as a teenager, and it is evening things out to let him have a glimpse of who Kit was back then. Hasn’t Kit been agonizing over this imbalance between them for weeks now, ever since that night at Tinamous? Hasn’t he spent hours ruminating on how unfair it is, that he knows so much about Sage—or, at least, the version of Sage he presents to the public—when Sage knows so little about him?