Chapter Three

Kent

Thanksgiving Day came quickly. Unlike Christmas, I was excited about it. Every year since I moved here, I spent the holiday at a friend from work’s house with other coworkers. They changed over the years, but I remained steadfast, a couple of times, even bringing a date.

Lori was what the office called the “stray collector.” She gathered those of us without relatives in the area and became our family when we needed it. It was sweet.

The first year I worked there, I didn’t know anyone in the city outside of the office. Not a one. When Lori asked me to come for dinner, I initially declined, not wishing to put her out. She was a sweet old lady, and the last thing she needed was me tagging along.

I soon discovered that having us over made Thanksgiving everything she wanted. She loved entertaining and celebrating with us. Her kids were already grown—two of them on the other side of the country with their small ones, and the third stationed overseas in the military at one time. I don’t know what his excuse was now. I tried to not press.

To her, people were what made Thanksgiving special. When I figured that out, I went back to her and let her know I had changed my mind and hoped the invitation was still open. She hugged me and told me to bring my signature dish. I didn’t tell her I needed to find a signature dish first.

I went to dinner that year unsure if it was the best move. It was, and now it was one of my favorite activities of the season. Even before Christmas went to shit, I loved going to Lori’s house for Thanksgiving.

My voyage into figuring out a signature dish led me to my grandmother’s recipe book. Just seeing her familiar handwriting on the yellowed pages made me warm and fuzzy and lonely for her at the same time. I found her sweet potato casserole directions—she refused to call it a recipe because to her it was a “method”— and now it was my every year dish.

Everyone always raved about how delicious it was—my grandmother’s “methods” were all fabulous—but I was not a fan of sweet potatoes in any form. I despised them. The first year, I was the only one who didn’t eat any. Mark who occupied from the office across from mine asked me if that was a sign he should pass on it. When I told him about my dislike of sweet potatoes, he said it was the same reason he didn’t have any of his green bean casserole. We all laughed and laughed. Now he was the closest thing I had to a friend from work.

Mark was also a member of Chained, but, unlike me, he wasn’t into daddies and age play. He was all about shibari. He didn’t know how to tie the knots, but he loved to be the one in them. I had to admit he was gorgeous all tied up in the presentations I’d attended.

This year especially, it was good for me to get out for Thanksgiving—to be around people, to eat food, to laugh. We had our own little family on that one day. I wouldn’t say any of us except Mark and I were friends at the office, but for that one meal, that was always put aside. You’d never be able to tell by looking in on us eating that we weren’t family.

“Let me help clean up this year,” I said to Lori. It was always her thing that we were company and she would do it all. Normally I respected that, not wanting to push, but this year was different. She hadn’t wanted us to notice, but she’d grabbed her back a couple of times. She was aging, and all the preparation, cooking, and cleanup for such a big dinner was becoming more difficult for her. She was getting help whether or not she wanted it.

“I insist.” I cut her off as she started to decline.

I stayed behind and helped her wash dishes, vacuum the floors, sweep the kitchen—the things you’d do if you were at your family’s house for the holiday. It felt normal. Nice.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” she asked.

She asked everybody that as they left. It was her way of making sure that we were okay and wouldn’t go home and be sad and lonely. She was such a little mother hen. I loved it.

With me, the plans were always the same. This was the day I usually put up the main tree. My house was normally all decked out and ready to go, by now. I’d have probably had a small tree in the foyer, but the big one I saved for Thanksgiving. I’d always be excited about it and tell her all about the ornaments.

Only, this year, I wasn’t doing any of that.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe grab a movie.”

“No tree this year?”

“Nah.” I wasn’t wanting to explain to her what I fool I’d been and how I was still hurting.

“You haven’t gotten there yet?” She saw right through me. Of course she did. This was Lori.

“Something like that.”

“You want to help me with mine?”

I don’t know if she saw that I needed this or if she was just worried about her back and getting it out of the garage— probably the first. Either which way, I agreed. The two of us spent the next three hours getting her decorations out of the garage ,as well as a tree that was older than I was. It had a thousand pieces that needed to be inserted into the trunk and one another, but I managed to make it look as good as it could given its age.

As we worked, she told me about each ornament and where she got it. In return, I told her about my gnome Christmas village and how that began. By the time I left, I felt, for the first time, that I was ready—full-on ready—for Christmas.

Fuck Thomas. He wasn’t going to ruin my favorite holiday just because he hurt my feelings. My first mommy had been right. I was allowed to feel my big feels, but I didn’t need to let them or anyone else control what I did with them.

As soon as I got home, I went straight to the attic and grabbed everything Christmas. No slow reveal this year—I was getting it all up tonight. Except an advent calendar I’d ordered on a whim that had not yet arrived. And the tree. That, I was going to cut myself.

If I was doing Christmas, I was going full-out holiday. Heck, I was going to buy my own presents. If a little wanted some toys, he could buy them himself, and that would be okay. No, it would be better than okay. I was doing this.

It took hours and hours to get everything set up. Just like always, I started with the gnomes. By the time I went to bed, my home looked like North Pole Village, and I was exhausted.

The tree farm’s website said they were limiting numbers today due to staffing, and I had to book a time slot. There were two left—one late at night and the other early in the morning. I opted for the early one, waking up ahead of my normal holiday vacation time to head out.

It wasn’t quite the experience I expected. I thought there would be Santa for pictures, a hot cocoa stand, maybe spiced apple cider. Instead, it was just walking through the rows, chopping down a tree—or, for a few dollars extra, picking a tree and having them cut it down for me. But that was okay.

It was a new tradition, just for me. By me. I was taking back this holiday.

I shoved the tree into the back of my car as carefully as I could. I didn’t want to mess with tying it down like some of the other people there, risking ruining my tree—or, worse, having it fly off and cause an accident. Thankfully, I picked a small tree, and it fit. I also purchased the self-watering stand the older man sitting on a chair outside the office trailer recommended.

When I got home, I pulled into my shared driveway, surprised to see my neighbor on my steps. He had moved in pretty recently, and I didn’t know him well. We’d say hi once in a while, but mostly I’d get nervous because he was so freaking hot. Then I’d blush and leave.

I didn’t think he noticed. If he was straight, he definitely didn’t notice. And if he was into men, he probably did, but had been polite about it. I couldn’t get a read on him either—he was an enigma.

There had been a moving pod on his side of our shared driveway since he got here—something he’d apologized for, even when I assured him it wasn’t blocking me at all—but it was gone now. I popped out of my car. “Hey, Barrett, what’s up?”

“Don’t be mad.” He came over with a box, one folded closed instead of taped. He grabbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I opened this, not realizing it was for you. They left it on my steps. Looks like it’s a present for somebody.”

My heart beat rapidly in my chest. Was it my onesie—the one I bought for me? There would be no thinking that was for a child, that was for sure. I’d ordered one of those with Santa’s Little Helper written on it as part of a fundraiser at Chained. If it was my onesie, there was no way I could explain that away.

But when he handed it to me and I looked inside, it was just my Advent calendar filled with rubber duckies. Nothing too little about rubber duckies dressed like elves.

“Oh, this is for me,” I said. “I got them for my gnome Christmas village.

He grinned. “You have a Christmas village?”

He didn’t sound judgy—he sounded interested.

“I do.”

“Maybe I can help you in with the tree and you can show me.”

And, suddenly, the holiday felt a lot warmer.