Page 111 of Must Love Christmas

“Does this mean you’ll be staying in Glasgow for Christmas?” Garen asked, afraid to assume.

“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” Simon tucked Garen’s hair behind his ear. “I won’t abandon you the way your parents did.”

“Which parents?”

“All of them.”

“Thanks.” Garen ran his hand down Simon’s bare forearm. “And I’ll try not to make you feel helpless the way this illness did, twice. But if I do, and you get angry, I’ll try not to take it personally.”

“Ta.”

Garen tucked his face into the warm crook of Simon’s neck. “It’s kind of scary to think we can be so messed up by things we can’t even remember.”

Simon nodded, rubbing his chin against Garen’s hair. “But maybe recognizing it is half the battle. It’s one thing to say, ‘This is the way I am,’ but it’s a whole other step to say, ‘This is the way I am because this horrible thing happened to me—this thing that was never my fault.’”

“I know, but it feels like I’m making excuses.” Garen put on anOliver Twist-y London accent. “Like, ‘Oh, I’m a rotten boyfriend cos I was in an orphanage.’”

“Am I making excuses if I say, ‘Oh, I’m a rotten boyfriend cos I was paralyzed as a toddler’?” he asked, using the same bad accent.

“No. But you’re not a rotten boyfriend.”

“Neither are you,” Simon said. “And I am a control freak, which makes me a difficult boyfriend sometimes.”

Garen couldn’t deny this fact. “Sometimes.”

“We can’t promise to sort ourselves out overnight—maybe not ever. But we can promise not to give up on each other.”

It seemed so simple and so complicated at the same time. The only thing Garen could do was follow his instinct, which insisted he stay by Simon’s side even when things got difficult.

And maybe get some therapy while he was at it.

He lifted his head to meet Simon’s gaze. “Deal.”

As they moved to kiss again, a squelching noise came from near the window as another piece of gingerbread house oozed onto the floor.

Garen reluctantly rose from the couch. “I should see to this cyclone before it leaves a permanent stain.”

“I’ll help you.”

“No, I created the mess, so I should—” He stopped himself and held out a hand. “Okay. We’ll do it together.”

They went to the table, where Garen handed Simon the bin bag to hold open so he could toss pieces of the house into it.

“What actually happened here?” Simon asked. “It looks like Godzilla stomped on the house, then pissed on it out of spite.”

Garen related the saga of the wall and the roof and why he’d needed the blowtorch, embellishing a bit for entertainment’s sake. “Then I guess the roof was too dry, because it caught fire. I had to make an extinguisher by shaking my bottle of beer and spraying it all over the blaze.”

“Clever. We’re lucky you weren’t drinking Bacardi 151.”

Garen shuddered at the thought of the flames climbing even higher. “Anyway, then I was out of beer, but the house was still smoldering. So I had to Hulk-smash the rest of the fire.” He formed a fist to demonstrate. “That made one of the bottles fall and shatter on the floor.”

Simon took his hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

“I don’t think so. They hurt a bit, but I think that’s from the punching.”

Simon brought Garen’s knuckles to his lips and kissed them. Then he looked at what was left of the house. “Wait.” He reached over the table and picked up a two-inch piece of gingerbread. “This bit hasn’t been burnt or beered.” He broke it in half and held one near Garen’s lips.

Garen took the piece in his mouth. “I like when you feed me.” He started chewing, then kept chewing, and chewing… “Mmm,” he said, trying to sound diplomatic. It was like eating pumpkin-spice concrete.

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