Page 3 of A Christmas Harbor

Paul approached slowly, surfing his palm over the red vinyl–upholstered barstools as he passed, noting a few holes from ancient cigarette burns. “Hey, are you okay?”

Sandy Hair opened his eyes. Wow, they were blue. Like, blow-your-mind blue. “What?”

“You looked distraught, so I figured—”

“Who are you?” the man snapped.

“Nobody. I was standing over there and saw you angsting out.” Paul took a single squishy step back, slipping his hands into his coat pockets to look more at ease than he felt. “Never mind. It’s cool.”

“Wait.” The guy glared into his empty glass. “What happened to the bartender?”

“Jackie? He went to get my mulled—”

“How do you know his name?”

“He told me.”

“You’ve been in this bar less than two minutes and you’re already on a first-name basis?”

Maybe this was a bad idea. Or maybe it was a good idea that just needed a skosh more time to reach its potential.

Paul shrugged. “I guess I have that kind of face.”

Sandy Hair tilted his head to examine him. Then his expression softened a fraction, like butter over low heat. “Yeah. You do have that kind of face.” He nodded to the empty barstool beside him.

Paul sat quickly, whipping off his coat and scarf and tossing them over the next stool to dry. “I’m Paul, by the way.”

The guy hesitated, a wisp of uncertainty shadowing his face. “David.”

“Hi, David. So what just happened that got you so vexed?”

He made a dismissive wave. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care if it’s stupid. And you don’t know me, so why would you care if I know something stupid about you?”

David opened his mouth, clearly taken aback by Paul’s forwardness but maybe just tipsy enough not to care. “I’ve lost Whamageddon.” He looked at his watch. “With two hours and eleven minutes to go.”

“Sorry, what-ageddon?”

“Whamageddon. It’s an internet thing. Starts December first, and the goal is to make it to Christmas without hearing this goddamn song.” David made a chopping gesture toward the piano. “Supposedly cover versions don’t count, but I think that’s a copout. Go big or go fuck yourself, as my grandma used to say.”

That last sentence sounded like a story all its own. “What happens if you hear the song before Christmas?”

David lifted his empty glass in a mock toast. “You join your fellow fallen warriors in Wham-halla.”

“You’re right, that is stupid. But in a good way.”

“Told you.”

The fact they were both sitting on the corner of the bar—rather than side by side—meant Paul could check him out without looking overly intense. Now that they were closer, it became clear that David’s eyes weren’t pure blue but rather had a green undertone, like the ocean far from shore. The same blue and green colored his flannel shirt, which, despite its coziness, looked as though it had been carefully ironed.

“So is Whamageddon like fantasy football?” Paul asked. “Did you have money riding on it?”

“God, no. I would never sully Whamageddon with a bet. It’s a matter of pride between me and my friends in the neighborhood. You can’t put a price on bragging rights.”

“Well...” Paul leaned closer and spoke behind his hand. “I won’t tell your pals if you won’t.”

David gave a theatrical gasp of mock shock. “Do I look like a man without honor?”

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