Page 45 of Must Love Christmas

As they progressed through the book—and the vodka—their narration grew more sloppy and out of sync with the music, until they finally gave up and simply invented new storylines, upping the chaos for each other’s amusement.

“Andthat’swhy the duck can’t fly,” Garen said in conclusion before downing his latest dram.

“Wait, stop, stop!” Karen lurched out of her chair, stumbling as her feet hit the floor. “If I don’t go to the loo this instant, I’m seriously going to pish myself laughing.”

“Udachi!” Garen called out to wish her luck, one of the handful of Russian phrases he remembered.

Just then, his phone chirped the ring tone reserved for Simon, so he checked the screen to see a new message:

Finally moved to a cute rehab unit. Last step before total freedom

Garen chortled into his glass. Later he would reply to ask how cute this rehab unit was, if he still thought it funny when he was sober.

He poured himself another dram to fight off the mixed feelings the text message had sparked. While he was thrilled for his friend’s continued recovery, he knew it meant they’d soon be parting.

Simon had told Garen that his family was urging him to spend his post-discharge recovery at home with them. His mother especially wanted to make up for not being by his side every day while he was in hospital. When Garen had asked him,“What do you want?”he’d said he wasn’t sure.

Perhaps Simon was just trying to spare Garen’s feelings. Why wouldn’t he want to go back to Liverpool and be with his family, friends, and entire community? Here in Glasgow, Simon had nothing but a flat he’d barely lived in and a job he’d just begun—a job he’d be telecommuting to for several weeks anyway.

The only real thing keeping Simon here was Garen himself.

They’d shared so much these last few weeks, talking for hours or just chilling in silence. Garen would never have thought himself capable of such devotion for another human being—especially one he wasn’t sleeping with. Yet something kept drawing him back to Simon’s bedside three nights a week. More incredibly, Simon wasn’t sick of him yet.

But no matter what lay between them, Garen was still only one person. Could he be enough—couldtheybe enough—to make Simon stay?

* * *

28 Days UntilChristmas

Simon sat by his window Sunday night, gazing out across the city of Glasgow. The skyline north of the Clyde was mostly obscured by a veil of falling snow, but he could just make out the dark, massive Finnieston Crane and the radiant, squat SSE Hydro Arena.

The thing Simon loved most about the view was the fact it wasn’t the ceiling. He could now sit up on his own, even move haltingly across the floor in the wheelchair. He could lean forward—without falling—to glimpse the Clyde Arc Bridge, aka the “Squinty Bridge,” glowing a festive Christmas green.

Compared to Simon’s previous hospital rooms, this one in the acute rehab unit was downright hotel-like. Gone were the beeping machines and “magical mystery tubes,” as Garen called them. Even the staid, wipe-clean visitor chairs had been joined by a comfy cloth love seat and armchair.

“Guess what? It’s snowing!” came a voice from the door behind him.

Simon turned in his wheelchair to see Garen enter. “I know, I’m looking at it right now.”

“Ooh, check this view you’ve got.” Garen started to head over, then stopped and looked round at the room. “I love the new place.”

“Me too. How’d it go today in Aberdeen?”

“It was a total car crash. We placed sixth.” Garen took a takeaway container from a plastic bag. “Thought I might drown my sorrows in halloumi souvlaki-pita. You want some?”

“You’re an absolute legend.” Garen had been buying Simon’s favorite Greek food from a nearby Mediterranean café. Though it was far from traditional, they both liked the way this restaurant served the chips inside the wrapped bread instead of on the side.

Garen sat on the love seat at the end nearest to Simon, opened the container, and started carving the stuffed pita dish into bite-size pieces with a black plastic knife and fork.

“So what happened with the tournament?” Simon asked him.

“It was my fault.” He handed Simon a second fork. “I’ve lost my touch.”

“How?”

“Dunno, it just happens sometimes. My main disappointment is missing the Christmas parade today in Glasgow.” He held out the takeaway container so Simon could help himself to the food. “Nice to be able to feed yourself, aye?”

“Yeah.” Simon held the fork in his fist and stabbed at the souvlaki, nearly knocking the container out of Garen’s hands. “More or less.”

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