Page 19 of Nicky

But knowing it didn’t stop me from wanting it.

The call from Kyle came just as I was about to give up on the day and crawl into bed. I’d spent the evening in my living room, the TV playing something I wasn’t watching, my mind looping back to Markus no matter how hard I tried to distract myself. His voice, his steady presence, his everything—it was maddening.

When my phone buzzed, I almost ignored it, but Kyle’s name flashing on the screen tugged me out of my haze.

He was my BFF from high school, along with the rest of the gang: Brianna, Faith, Wyatt and Parker. They’d left the state to attend college, and now they were all successful, living in different parts of the country, but every year they spent the holiday season at the Hollow. I usually hung out with them a couple of times when they were here since we were super busy at work this time of the year.

“Nick!” His voice came through loud and clear, full of energy and that easy charm that had always been his hallmark. “You’re not bailing on me tonight. Everyone’s at The Copper Kettle. You’re coming.”

“I don’t know, Kyle…”

“Don’t start. Get dressed. Put on something that doesn’t scream ‘responsible older brother’ and let’s go. You need this.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The Copper Kettle had always been a Juniper Hollow institution, and the name itself was part of the town’s quirky charm. According to local lore, the great-great-grandfather of the current owner of the pub, Mrs. Roberts, , , had been a prospector who had struck it rich during the Klondike Gold Rush—or at least that’s how the story went after a few rounds of whiskey. Supposedly, the only treasure he brought back was an old copper kettle, which had somehow become a family heirloom. That same kettle sat proudly behind the bar, dented and tarnished, its story exaggerated with each telling. And over the years, the Copper Kettle had become the only queer-friendly pub in our small town.

Inside, the typical Friday night crowd hadn’t reached its peak yet, but it was buzzing, a mix of locals and visitors home for the holidays. The air was thick with the smell of pine, spilled beer, roasted nuts, and the faint sweetness of spiked cider. Strings of fairy lights lined the bar, and sprigs of holly adorned every free surface—a perfect mix of festive and familiar. The laughter and chatter blended with the low hum of classic rock playing over the speakers.

Kyle spotted me as soon as I walked in, waving me over to a booth near the back where the gang was already assembled.

The greetings were boisterous. It had been a year since we’d seen each other. Brianna and Faith’s attention turned to their phones, probably looking at photos. They were already laughing about something, their voices rising above the music. Wyatt and Parker were at the bar to get our drinks. For a moment, I let myself relax. These were my people, my lifeline back to a time when life felt simpler.

Kyle nudged me. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Nicholas. You’ve been dodging my calls.”

I snorted, despite myself. “It’s nothing, Kyle. Just… busy with work.”

“Busy with work,” he mocked, leaning closer. “Or busy–”

Kyle didn’t finish because at that very moment Wyatt and Parker returned to the booth with drinks. Wyatt had his signature mischievous grin, while Parker balanced our drinks with the precision of a surgeon, his expression as calm and serious as if he were diffusing a bomb. Classic Parker.

“Alright, people,” Wyatt announced while Parker plunked the tray onto the table. “We’ve got the goods including an eggnog martini, a gingerbread Old Fashioned, and—wait for it—a peppermint hot chocolate spiked with Bailey’s for Mr. Holiday Cheer over here.” Wyatt did the honors and slid the last drink toward Kyle with a smirk.

Kyle held up the mug and sniffed it. “Okay, okay, I see you,” he said, grinning. “This is actually pretty thoughtful. Maybe there’s a heart in that sarcastic little chest of yours after all.”

Wyatt just laughed, taking his seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Parker slid into the seat next to Faith, cradling his own cranberry Moscow mule in its frosty copper mug. “I don’t know how you drink that syrupy mess,” he said, eyeing Wyatt’s candy cane margarita with theatrical disdain.

Wyatt raised the drink, red and white swirls catching the light. “This, my dear Parker, is holiday spirit in a glass. Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Brianna rolled her eyes but leaned in to snag a sip anyway. “Tastes like a candy cane threw up.” She shuddered but laughed, her golden hoop earrings catching the light.

I clutched my own gingerbread stout, the spicy warmth of cinnamon and nutmeg rising with the foam. It was my usual choice this time of year; something about the holiday vibe in the Copper Kettle made it feel right.

“All right, all right,” Brianna said, raising her glass of mulled wine. “Enough of this bickering. I think it’s time for a toast.”

We all groaned good-naturedly, but Wyatt raised his drink in solidarity. “Go on, Bri.”

Brianna ignored the ribbing, her hazel eyes bright with a combination of amusement and sincerity. “To us,” she began, looking around the table. “To showing up for each other, even if it’s just for one night out of the year. And to keeping this crazy, ridiculous friendship going no matter where we are.”

“Cheers to that,” Faith chimed in, clinking her glass against Brianna’s. “I’m impressed with us."

"Here’s to us being disasters in our personal lives, but absolute legends as a squad," I chimed in.

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