Page 7 of A Christmas Harbor

“I bet you wore it well, though.”

David tugged at his shirt collar and shifted on the wobbly barstool. Was it getting hot in here? Was he letting down his guard too much? Christmas Eve wasn’t meant to be spent alone, according to all the songs. But solitude was safe, right? Solitude was sound. And with a top-secret security clearance, solitude meant never having to say you’re sorry.

But every detail David had offered was available via Wikipedia or SubmarineSailor.com. If Paul started poking deeper, inquiring about exact specs or schedules, this conversation would end.

“Sorry.” Paul held up a hand. “I can be too much sometimes.”

“You’re fine.” It was true as soon as he said it. Sometimes—tonight, at least—too muchwas just right.

Jackie arrived then, with two glasses of the ocean-aged bourbon and a basket of homemade spicy holiday Chex Mix. He set a tumbler in front of each of them and gave Paul a knowing smile as he picked up their empty shared glass. Then he walked off, this time without a word.

“Dude was paying attention,” Paul said.

“Jackie’s uncanny.” David lifted his napkin. “See this little knot in the wood? For some odd reason, I always put my drink there to cover it. Eventually Jackie noticed, and now he leaves it right on this spot.”

Paul raised his new glass, making the bar’s little white Christmas lights dance on the surface of the dark liquid. “Shall we drink to observant bartenders or to your secret disdain for wood knots?”

“Both.” David touched his tumbler to Paul’s, took a sip, then pulled the Chex Mix basket between them. “Have some. Jackie’s snacks are as good as his mulled wine is bad.”

Paul scooped out a handful onto his bar napkin. “I’m gonna need something to soak up this very special bourbon.”

David reached for the mix himself, his stomach growling. With the Academy on winter break and his normal schedule disrupted, he sometimes forgot to eat three meals a day. But being around Paul made him hungry. “So, have you always been a teacher?”

Paul shook his head as he crunched a red tortilla chip. “It took a while to figure out it’s the only job with benefits that I’m halfway decent at. Wow, cayenne pepper.” He gaped at the rest of the tortilla chip before popping it in his mouth. “Plus, a university position allows space for my real work, the only thing I have talent for.”

“Chatting up strangers in bars?”

Paul pointed at David. “Close. Iama professional bullshitter, i.e., novelist.”

“Well, now we’re even, because I’ve never met one of those. Have you written anything—”

“That you’ve heard of? Doubtful. I make a half-decent living, but I’m not famous.”

“I’ve read a lot of books by non-famous people.”

Paul looked down at the brass bar railing, sliding his fingers back and forth over it as he spoke. “See, this is how it goes: I tell you my novel titles, then you make a pity face and say you don’t know them. Then I feel bad, even though I know ahead of time that you don’t know them. And thenyoufeel bad for makingmefeel bad, and soon we’re looking at our watches and finding an excuse to exit via different doorways.”

David took off his watch and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Does that help?”

Paul swiped a hand over his face, which might have been blushing, then rested his cheek on his fist and regarded David. “Seriously, though.”

“Seriously, though, what?”

“That’s the name of my first novel:Seriously, Though. It’s about a comedian who falls in love with someone who, as a result of a traumatic brain injury, has zero sense of humor.”

David laughed, then covered his mouth. “Sorry, that’s hilarious. But also tragic.”

“As is the book. Then there wasMarriage of Inconvenience. TheInhas parentheses around it, just so people are aware of the irony. I argued with my publisher for weeks about those fucking parentheses.”

“Were you arguing for or against?”

“I’ll never tell. Then I took a more solemn turn, hoping to be taken seriously. ButSongs of Innocent Experiencewas a sales flop. It’s still my favorite, though.”

“A William Blake riff. I like it.” When Paul made an impressed face, David added, “Just because I’m an engineer doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy literature.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t assume you only read tech manuals and magazines likeNuclear Fuckery Weekly.” Paul tapped his ring finger, still counting off. “My last novel fell smack dab in the middle of the comedy-tragedy scale, which turned out to be the sweet spot, commercially speaking.”

“And it was called…”

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