Page 85 of Must Love Christmas

“The night we met,” Simon said, shuffling into the room with his walking frame, “you said we shouldn’t live together because you were carrying a torch for me. You said there wouldn’t be room for the three of us—you, me, and the torch. This proves you wrong.”

“I love being wrong.” He went to Simon and threw his arms around his neck—carefully, so as not to knock him over. “I’m glad we saw the error of my ways.”

Simon kissed him, the scent of rain creating a delicious mix with his aftershave. “By the way, my doctor said it would help to set fun goals. So I’ve decided that next year I’ll do the Santa Dash completely on my feet, even if it means only walking.”

“An excellent goal, but just one thing.” Garen ran his fingers over the shoulder seams of Simon’s pullover jumper. “Whether you’re walking or running, I insist on a piggyback ride as payment for pushing you this year.”

“Deal,” Simon said. “But only downhill.”

Garen kissed him once more, then hurried to his room to change into his work clothes. The museum had a school tour coming at noon, and he wanted to be the one to lead it.

As he dressed, Garen realized that if he and Simon were still together at next year’s Santa Dash, it would be by far the longest relationship of his life. Astoundingly, the thought neither shocked nor scared him. Simon seemed unfazed by the idea—but then again, his past relationships had been far fewer (three) and far longer (thirteen months on average, separated by significant spells of singlehood).

If this Christmas was to be merely their first and not also their last, then maybe Garen could ease up a wee bit and not try to cram every possible tradition into this year’s celebration. Better yet, he and Simon would even create new traditions they could repeat next year.

And maybe even the year after that.

* * *

“I’m sohappy your checkup went well today,” Simon’s mother told him that night on the phone. “I just wish I could’ve been there.”

“It’s okay, Ma. Garen kept me company.” Standing at the kitchen table, Simon sprinkled flour atop a pair of silicone mats. “Not that he’s a substitute for you,” he hurried to add before she took offense. “So when you come up Friday, I thought I’d take you and Da to this Greek restaurant in Sauchiehall Street. It’s got five stars on Yelp.”

She clicked her tongue. “We can get Greek food at home. Glasgow is famous for its Italians. Like the man who plays The Doctor.”

“Okay, I’ll find a good Italian place.” He’d do whatever it took to make sure she was in a good mood Friday, when he planned to tell his parents that Garen was now his partner.

“Did I tell you we’re making a gingerbread house?” Simon eased himself into the kitchen chair and laid out the template pieces he’d downloaded. It had taken nearly an hour to cut them out with scissors, going a centimeter at a time to keep control of his unreliable hands. “We’re cutting the pieces and baking them as soon as Garen gets home from curling practice.”

“Ah, lovely,” Ma said. “Don’t tell your gran—she’d worry you’ll be eaten by mice by sunrise.”

“I’ve got Poppy to protect me from rodents.”

His mother laughed. “That poor sweet snake would hide for days if she ever saw a live mouse.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, then she handed the phone to Simon’s father, but not before signing off with “Give Garen my best!” for the first time. Simon wondered whether his mother had already guessed what was going on.

When he finally hung up, it was past nine o’clock. Simon was already exhausted, and they’d not even started tonight’s work on the gingerbread house. He pulled out his phone, switched the wireless sound system from the latest Bugzy Malone release to Garen’s soothing “Christmas Chillout” playlist, then slumped forward on the table, using his crossed arms as a pillow.

He woke to the sound of Garen crooning along with Low’s “Just Like Christmas” as he walked down the hall. Simon sat up straight, checking his chin for drool.

Garen stopped at the kitchen doorway, kit bag slung over his shoulder. “Hiya.”

“Hey.” Simon blinked hard to dispel the drowsiness. “How was the—” An irrepressible yawn interrupted his sentence.

“Curling?” Garen looked away and nodded for a few seconds. “I’m really struggling.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Erm…” Garen shoved a hand through his hair and puffed out his cheeks as he considered. “Maybe while we roll out the dough. Let me change first.”

While Garen was in his room, Simon took the gingerbread dough from the fridge and unwrapped it on the table. Its sweet and spicy scent made his mouth water as he divided it in half.

“Okay!” Garen slid into the kitchen on feet covered in blue-and-white snowflake socks. “Ready for round two.”

Simon held the silicone mat steady on the table as Garen rolled out the first ball of dough.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Garen pressed the rolling pin over the gingerbread. “The last time I played well was in Edinburgh, just before I took ill with the flu. But I’ve totally recovered physically. I’m in the best shape of my life.”

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