Page 38 of Must Love Christmas

“Are we real mates now? Not just flatmates?”

Simon smiled for what felt like the first time in three days. It made his cheeks feel strange. “I think you’ve earned the title.”

Yet despite this change in status, Simon knew it was time to set Garen free. On Saturday, when he’d begged for his friend’s help, he’d been in a state of near-panic, overwhelmed by his own fear and that of his parents. But it was too much to ask Garen to join him on this long road to recovery.

“You don’t need to keep coming,” Simon said. “Ma has to go home Wednesday for her job, but me da’ll be staying in Glasgow until I recover.”

“He told me.” Garen shrugged. “I want to be here.”

“Because you feel sorry for me.”

“Hah, nae chance. I’m way too selfish to come all the way down to Southside out of pure kindness.” Garen’s eyes widened. “Not that it’s a bother—it’s just one wee direct bus trip.”

“Youarekind. Ma told me you offered to let them stay at the flat, even though you knew it could be for weeks.”

Garen looked away. “I was only being polite. I knew they’d say no, that they’d want to stay in a hotel near the hospital. Also, I really like them, so it would’ve been no hardship.” He straightened up suddenly. “Do you want me to leave? Do I make you feel worse?”

Just the opposite.“I like your company. But it won’t be easy. If you need to stop coming, I promise I’ll understand.”

“Deal. So what shall I bring you from home to cheer you?”

Simon marveled at Garen’s ability to pivot from a difficult subject. “Will you bring me a picture of Poppy?” His heart ached at the thought of not seeing his snake for weeks.

“Absolutely. Hang on, let me make a note.” Garen pulled out his phone and made a few thumb taps. The phone beeped. “Picture of Poppy,” he enunciated into the microphone, then frowned at the screen. “Och, not ‘Hectare of Poppies.’ This thing does not understand Scottish accents. Talking of your wee lassie, I found the jotter you keep beside her vivarium with her feeding and cleaning schedule.”

“And you’ll change her water every day?”

“Already doing it,” Garen said.

“And you know about monitoring the temperature and humidity?”

“It’s literally part of my job, remember? Aren’t you glad you moved in with a zoologist?”

“That was lucky.” Simon wondered what would’ve happened if he’d turned down Garen’s offer to live with him. Would they be in a relationship right now, or would they have drifted apart? In any case, Simon would probably still be lying in intensive care, having caught the flu from the same coworker and thereby triggering the same autoimmune response as when he was three years old.

In a fit of rebellion, he tried to wiggle his toes. But no matter how hard he concentrated, the sheet over his feet remained as still as the dirt over a grave.

Simon closed his eyes, fighting the shadowy surge of annihilation.You’re still real, he told himself.Garen proves it.

But in the end, Garen was like everyone else—Simon’s parents, the hospital workers, any other random visitor. They could walk out whenever they wanted, and there was nothing Simon could do to stop them. His entire existence was at their mercy.

There was still a small chance he could die, and a medium-size chance his body would never be the same. He knew his parents would never discuss those possibilities with him—they couldn’t handle it, and frankly, he couldn’t handle their inability to handle it.

“I don’t want to make it worse for Ma and Da,” Simon said. “So I can’t tell them what this is like, how much it-it hurts.” His voice dropped to a whisper as his breath hitched. “And how scared I am.”

Garen nodded, his eyes glistening. Then he brought Simon’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly. “So tell me.”

Chapter 8

46 Days UntilChristmas

As usual, Garen was the last to arrive at Wednesday night curling practice. He found his teammates and coach gathered with several other Shawlands Rink members in front of the warm room’s wall-mounted TV, which for once wasn’t tuned to a sporting event. The evening news was focused on the thing everyone at the museum had been talking about—and in some cases, crying about: the United States Presidential election.

Garen stepped up next to them and spoke in a hushed tone, as though they were attending a funeral. “How are you?”

“Still in shock,” Ross said. “Been having Brexit-vote flashbacks.”

David turned to them. “I keep thinking 2016 is just one long nightmare, but I cannae seem to wake up.” He punched his own biceps. “Ow. See? It’s real.”

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