13. Christian

THIRTEEN

CHRISTIAN

Not a lot felt different in the days that followed, and yet nothing was the same. Milo worked six days a week, but I helped him out with as much as I could. It wasn’t a lot. I had never been a chocolatier, and it was too late to become one now, but I could wash things and greet customers and clean tables, and, after a few false starts, I could make a mean espresso.

It wasn’t the shop or Milo’s need for help that drew me there. It was the simple joy of being near him. He was, as he had always been, a modest person. Every little compliment—and I rarely flattered him, rather choosing to tell him the truth as I saw it—made his ears red. His happiness affected me in the nicest, warmest ways. It was just another thing that was different, and I kept a pointless list of things that were better with him than with any girl I’d ever dated.

The conclusion, of course, wasn’t that my ex-girlfriends had been bad in some way but that I hadn’t been good. That discovery came to me near the end of our first week together. Laura, Hannah, Maddie…they had never done a bad thing to me except for leaving me. And the way I had been, leaving me had been the right thing to do. I didn’t understand it then, but I understood it now.

I had lived my life as a model boyfriend at face value. I did all the right things, said all the right words, and exhibited all the passion of a wet towel. I had wasted their time if we were being honest.

And yet, when I looked at Milo, the infinite well of gratitude and affection brimmed so high that I didn’t know how to contain it. So I never did. My feet carried me to his shop, my arms reached for him, my lips longed for his lips, and I surrendered myself so fully to the utter bliss that kissing him was. It didn’t require thinking.

Everything was better with Milo.

We visited The White Elephant for wine-tasting night and the ice-skating rink the day after to see if we still had the chops we had once had as boys. We didn’t. After a great deal of falling flat on the ice, we retreated to Jolly Java for coffee, then to Milo’s place to play cards.

The topic we often talked about was the past. It felt as though some small parts of us still lived in the past. We talked about the ways it could have played out, only to ultimately agree that neither of us had been ready for these things even if we had stayed in touch.

“Maybe you’d have ended up resenting me,” I said one evening. “Seeing me try so hard to fit into the societal norms would have hurt you over and over again.”

Milo didn’t say anything to that. Instead, he kissed me soothingly, and we soon forgot what we had been talking about.

I grew so fond of Milo’s adorable clutter in his studio that it felt like stepping into a dream whenever I entered his place. The drying ink for his calligraphy, the cut-out papers, the envelopes, the labels he drew by hand, and the ribbons he formed into elegant little bows for his chocolate boxes never failed to make me smile.

Milo tested new recipes every other day, and I assumed the unofficial title of the chocolate tester. It was a delicious job, far tastier than any amount of marketing I would ever get to do in the city.

We roamed the streets of Christmas Falls, snow crunching under our feet and people carrying bags upon bags of gifts. We visited the festival, tried all the flavors of coffee in town, and ate cakes off each other’s plates on any given evening. Things were good. Things were so incredibly good that I often woke up wondering if I had dreamed it all.

One morning, I found a text message from Laura in my notifications. It was a simple, sweet thing she had written, saying that she saw a man turning a corner who looked just like me from behind, with the “same melancholic slouch,” as she’d put it. “I hope you’re well wherever you are, Christian. And if there’s anything I can ever do to help you be well, I will. Remember that I am still your friend.”

On the second Friday since Milo and I got together—I was the kind of person who counted things unnecessarily—my parents insisted on hosting Milo for dinner. They didn’t know anything other than that I had reconnected with my old friend, and it hadn’t crossed my mind to sit them down so soon and tell them. Yet, when I brought the idea for Milo, he was excited to visit.

Mom made a roast chicken and mashed potatoes with her famous gravy, Dad selected wine, I cleaned up, and Milo, unsurprisingly, had spent the day crafting a particular box of chocolates tailored to my parents’ interests. The shapes of the chocolates were all related to Christmas, which made nobody gasp in shock, yet my parents melted over the shapes. “How marvelous,” Mom said. “Did you really make this yourself?”

“It’s what he does, Mom,” I said.

Mom swatted a silencing hand in my direction. “I know that. It’s just so elaborate. My, my.” She explored the delicate chocolates, each wrapped individually and labeled by hand. “What intricate work, Milo. You must be proud.”

Milo beamed. “I’m glad you think so, Mrs. Underwood.”

“Call me Joan, darling. You’re all grown up now.” Mom smiled as she closed the lid on the box of chocolates and then placed it on the coffee table for after dinner. “I’ll be savoring these, I can tell you that.”

Dad shook Milo’s hand and immediately said, “Don’t even try that ‘Mr. Underwood’ thing with me. We’re practically the same age.”

“Only twenty-four years apart,” I muttered.

“Your father stopped aging at thirty-five, and nobody’s been able to change his mind for nearly two decades,” Mom, who let her grays shine as a sign of maturity and wisdom, said kindly and with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

“Enough about that,” Dad said, running his fingers through his hair. I had never thought of my parents as people with looks . Good looks or bad, it was all the same to me. They were my parents. Yet now, if I squinted just the right way, I was able to see why others thought of them as beautiful. It was a reassuring thing, knowing I’d get to keep my hairline like Dad and the smooth, ageless face like Mom. It was vanity on my part, of course, but an image of myself aging gracefully next to Milo—in all my visions, Milo was ethereally beautiful—made me happy. It made me happy to think I’d keep up with him. It made me happy to see myself in a nice apartment in the city, mixing us a drink, existing in our golden years, and looking back at a lifetime of joys, big and small.

Dad’s exclamation that he was starving pulled me back from my daydreaming. I blinked and found myself looking at Milo, my heart rising higher in my chest, a feeling of weightlessness lifting me off the floor.

“Come on,” I said to Milo, pulling a chair for him around our dining table.

Dinner with my parents was a quiet ritual I’d fallen out of in recent years, but tonight felt like slipping into a comforting rhythm I hadn’t realized I missed. The clink of plates being set, the faint hum of Mom’s favorite instrumental playlist in the background, and the scent of roasted chicken filling the dining room all made the moment feel warm and timeless.

Mom placed the roast chicken at the center of the table with a flourish. “Ta-da! The only recipe your father never critiques.”

“I don’t critique it because it’s perfect,” Dad said, already reaching for the carving knife.

“Let me help,” Milo offered, but Dad waved him off.

“Absolutely not, son. You’re a guest. Just sit back and enjoy.”

I nudged Milo gently, shoulder to shoulder. “Told you they’d spoil you.”

Milo chuckled under his breath, the sound sending a pleasant warmth through me.

I glanced at him as he sat at the table, his slender fingers tracing the curve of the wineglass Mom had set in front of him. His smile was small but genuine, the kind of smile that softened his features and made his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looked at ease—at home, even. That struck a chord somewhere deep in my chest. It wasn’t just that he belonged here tonight but that I wanted him to.

Dad poured wine, filling our glasses with an easygoing chatter about how he’d found the bottle during a recent sale at the local wine shop. He had a way of making every small thing sound like an adventure. I noticed how Milo leaned in slightly, listening intently as if Dad’s mundane story were the most riveting thing he’d heard all week. That was Milo, though. He didn’t just listen; he absorbed, took people in, and made them feel seen.

Mom was bustling in and out of the kitchen, bringing dishes to the table, and each time she emerged, her smile for Milo grew wider. “Now, Milo, I don’t know how you remember everyone’s favorite chocolates, but that box you made for us is pure magic. Where did you learn to do all of this?” she asked as she finally sat down.

“Oh, I started experimenting as a teenager,” Milo replied, his tone modest. “My parents were endlessly patient with the messes I made in the kitchen.”

“Sounds like they knew they had a prodigy on their hands,” Dad said, raising his glass. “You know, Joan and I aren’t nearly as artistic, but we always appreciated a good chocolate.”

Mom gave him a playful nudge. “You appreciated it a little too much last Christmas when I caught you sneaking half the box before we’d even unwrapped gifts.”

Milo laughed, his shoulders shaking with the sound, and I found myself watching him more than participating in the conversation. His laugh had this way of filling the space around it, making everything seem brighter. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so comfortable bringing someone into my family’s world. With Milo, it wasn’t just natural—it was inevitable. It always had been, yet it had taken losing him altogether to learn this lesson.

As dinner went on, I found myself reflecting on how different this felt compared to introducing past girlfriends to my parents. I’d only done it a few times over the years, but it had been odd. It wasn’t just that Milo and I had years of history, though that certainly played a part. It was the way he carried himself, how he blended seamlessly with them. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He wasn’t worried about saying the wrong thing. He was just…Milo.

And I? I was just Christian. For the first time in years, I wasn’t wearing some imaginary mask, trying to convince the world—or myself—of who I was. With Milo, I didn’t need to be anything but the boy who once swore he’d protect his best friend from every bad thing the world could throw at him. A promise I had abandoned when losing him hurt too much.

“You must love working with chocolate,” Mom said, bringing me back to the present. “Christian tells me the shop is simply gorgeous. I must find some time and come by. But that must be a dream come true.”

Milo glanced at me, his expression unreadable for a moment before he smiled at her. “It is. There are challenges, of course, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. There’s something special about seeing the joy on someone’s face when they taste something you’ve made for them. It makes all the hard work worth it.”

I felt a quiet surge of pride at his words, even though I hadn’t done anything to help him build that dream. Still, hearing him talk about it with such passion reminded me of how much he’d accomplished. It made me want to be better—someone who could stand beside him and not just watch from the sidelines.

As Mom and Dad asked more questions about the shop and Milo’s life in Christmas Falls, I found myself slipping into quiet observation. Milo’s hands moved as he talked, gesturing slightly when he got excited about a topic, and his voice carried a warmth that drew my parents in. They laughed when he told them about some of the quirkier customers he’d had over the months and nodded thoughtfully when he explained how he came up with new recipes.

I could see it happening—the realization dawning on them, slow and steady like the rising sun. They’d already noticed how easily Milo and I fit together, but now they were piecing together what that meant. I saw it in the way Mom’s eyes softened every time Milo looked at me and the way Dad’s smile grew just a little wider whenever Milo mentioned something about us spending time together.

“So,” Dad said eventually, leaning back in his chair with his glass of wine in hand. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

The question hung in the air for half a beat too long. Milo’s gaze darted to mine, and I felt the heat climb into my face. I wasn’t sure why I was nervous. Maybe it was because, despite everything, part of me still worried about how they’d react.

“About a week,” I said finally, my voice steady but soft.

Mom’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew brighter. “Well, it’s about time, don’t you think?”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

She laughed, a light, musical sound that I realized I’d missed hearing. “Oh, Christian, I’m your mother. I’ve seen the way you look at him. Honestly, I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out since you were kids. And when Milo moved away, it was all the proof we needed.”

Dad looked at her with melancholic softness in his eyes. “I remember what you said, Joanie. ‘He loved that boy.’”

I choked on my wine, coughing abruptly.

Dad chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong. Even back then, we could tell there was something special between you two.”

Milo’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink, and I reached for his hand under the table without thinking. His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady, and I felt the last of my tension melt away. My heart still galloped, although it was slowing down.

“Does this mean you’re okay with it?” I asked, unable to keep the hint of vulnerability out of my voice.

Mom leaned across the table, resting her hand over mine and Milo’s. “Christian, we want you to be happy. And if Milo makes you happy—which, from the looks of it, he does—then we couldn’t be more thrilled.”

Dad nodded in agreement. “You’re a good man, Milo. Always have been. And now that you’re back in Christian’s life, I can see he’s finally got that spark again. So yeah, we’re more than okay with it.”

Milo’s grip on my hand tightened, and I turned to see the way his eyes glistened ever so slightly. I knew what this meant to him—to be accepted, not just by me but by the people I cared about most.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “That means a lot.”

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of laughter and warmth. We talked about old memories and made tentative plans for the holidays. By the time dessert rolled around—Mom’s homemade apple pie—it felt as though Milo had always been a part of these dinners. And once upon a time, he had, but it felt like a wholly different lifetime.

“Do you play that piano, Joan?” Milo asked later in the evening.

Mom looked at the piano in the living room and waved her hand. “Not really. I’m so rusty, darling. It’s been close to twenty years since I played.”

“Nothing a few lessons wouldn’t solve,” Milo offered.

Mom smiled softly, but there was a trace of melancholy present in her eyes. “That’s true. And yet, I never came around to doing that.”

Later, as we said our goodbyes and stepped out into the crisp night air, Milo turned to me with a soft smile. “Your parents are still wonderful.”

“They’re not bad,” I said with a grin, pulling him close. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He didn’t reply, not with words. Instead, he kissed me under the soft glow of the porch light, and in that moment, I knew. This wasn’t just a good chapter in my life. It was the beginning of something extraordinary.

Days melted into one another, pouring slowly like Milo’s chocolate fountain. A lazy, festive rhythm set into our lives. Milo came around and was showered with adoration by my parents. The awkwardness that some small part of me had expected to follow the first dinner together had never entered our lives. Mom and Dad took the news in their stride and made it incredibly clear that it made no difference to them who I was dating so long as the person was the right fit for me. And so long as I was the right fit for them.

“That sweet girl you brought here last time had her hopes up,” Mom had said one afternoon over a cup of tea. “And it was clear even then that she would be disappointed.”

“It wouldn’t have played out that way if I’d been more honest with myself,” I admitted.

As if speaking of her somehow invited her, Laura phoned me the following morning. Milo was particularly busy that day with some secretive scheme he and Nicholas Willoughby were plotting—every attempt at finding out more only earned me tight-lipped smiles and kisses designed to distract me; they worked deliciously.

I stared at the screen of my phone for a few heartbeats before answering. Aside from the nice text message from a week ago, I hadn’t heard from Laura since the breakup. And frankly, she had no reason to call me. Or not the one I could think of.

“Hello?” I said, clearing my throat.

“Christian?” Laura’s voice was soft and warm, far sweeter than it had been in the final weeks of our relationship. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked.

“Oh, you know…” She trailed off.

I let the silence last a few moments before speaking again. Truthfully, I said, “I don’t resent you, Laura.”

“Are you just saying that because you’re nice?” she asked.

“No. I swear I’m not,” I said.

“Good. That’s very mature of you. Because I…” She trailed off again, and my heart sank a little. Please, don’t say you miss me , I thought. But Laura steadied her voice and said, “I feel bad about the way I left. You see, I only needed to get out before I let myself feel anything else. And now I feel rather selfish.”

“Laura, it’s okay. Seriously, things turned out for the better,” I said.

Again, that silence lingered between us. “You say that, but I can’t help the way I feel.” She gave a little laugh, a sad one. I hoped to God she wasn’t calling because she regretted her decision. I really wasn’t such a catch that she should. But as we spoke, I understood that she was happy with her choices and merely worried about the loser she’d left alone. “It was sort of sudden,” Laura admitted. “I just couldn’t go on, so I had to cut all the ties, Christian. But the more I think about it, the more I realize how thoughtless all that was. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“Laura, I promise that I am doing fine. I’m back home. I…I’m dating someone,” I hazarded.

“Oh?” Laura was caught off guard for only a moment. “Well, I hope she’s a much better match for you.”

A grin split my face. It always did when I thought of Milo. “You know, I think he is.”

“He? Christian, that…” She stifled a shocked laugh. “Wow, I don’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, I think a lot of things make a lot more sense now,” I said.

She thought about it for a moment. “They do, don’t they? Well, I’m happy for you regardless, but that doesn’t change the fact that the way I handled things could have screwed you over. And had, if we’re being honest. So. If you remember Uncle Roy, he’s scaling up his company. They’re still small, practically indie, but they scored the rights to this comic book thing he loves, and they’re developing a game.”

“Which comic book?” I asked.

“Uh, Broken Horizon?” Laura’s voice rose higher as she struggled to remember.

“ Shattered Horizons ?” I asked, gently correcting her just to make sure.

“Yes, I think that’s the one. How many can exist out there?” She laughed. “You know it?”

“Growing up, I wanted to be Vex. Milo and I used to reenact scenes from the early volumes. God, they’re making a game?” I couldn’t wait to tell Milo. We would get a console as soon as the game was out. Wouldn’t that be a dream date? Well, for the two of us, of course.

“They are,” Laura said. “And they have some ideas on early marketing strategies, but the man running that division has some old-fashioned ideas about who plays games. Apparently, he thinks it’s just young boys. He’s going to leave the project.”

My heart climbed into my throat as I told myself not to hope. This could easily just be gossip between old friends and former lovers. “Okay.”

“Uncle Roy didn’t hear about us splitting, you see. He asked me if you’d consider the job. He remembers you raving about some comics last Thanksgiving. And even after I told him we were no longer together, he said he would like to speak to you. If you want to, of course.” Laura hurried to the end. “If you’d like, I can set up a call with him. It’s just a formality because Uncle Roy isn’t considering any candidates. It’s basically an offer.”

“Laura, that’s…I don’t know what to say. It’s incredible news.” I needed my heart to slow down and my brain to consider things before I said anything. Yet I couldn’t hold it all in.

Luckily, Laura spoke. “I hated myself for leaving without considering where that put you. You had to leave the apartment. So if this helps you get a foot back in the city, it would be my pleasure.”

“I…yeah. I mean, offers like this don’t fall out of the sky every day. I’d love to talk to Roy. And thank you. Honestly.”

Laura said that it was no big deal. She was just a messenger, and it was ultimately no favor at all since Roy wanted me regardless.

My hands trembled for ten minutes after the call. I wanted to run straight to Milo and tell him everything, but Milo was busy, and it was still too soon. I needed to hear it from Roy before hyping everyone else up. For now, if all fell apart, it would only be my hopes that suffered. I sure as hell couldn’t deliver more disappointments to the people I loved.