Chapter 4

The next morning, Martin practically danced to the door when he heard the low roar of Anthony’s engine approaching the house. Even if he and Anthony actually watched the football instead of snogging—or more—it would still be a thousand times better than the empty Christmas Eve he’d originally planned.

He opened his door, and a familiar furry face pushed inside.

“Betty!” Martin exclaimed.

“I’m here too. Hi.” Anthony let go of her lead so she could bound across the threshold. “Be right back. Gotta get stuff from my truck.”

Martin crouched down to come eye to eye with Betty. “Thanks for bringing him, wee lassie. I owe you.” He offered his right hand for inspection as he unclipped the lead from her collar. She sniffed the fresh bandage, nose twitching. “A cat did that, but it’s okay.”

Betty delicately licked his fingertips protruding from the bandage, then wagged her tail and gave his chin a not-so-delicate lick. Then she brushed past him, stepped up onto the couch, circled twice, and flopped down, her head coming to rest on one of the little red cushions.

The door opened again, and Anthony squeezed through, burdened by a giant brown dog bed with paw prints embroidered on the side. “I brought this so we could”—he stopped when he saw Betty’s location—“take the couch. Shit.” He set the dog bed on the lounge’s minuscule floor. One end of the bed curled up against the wall, making the room look like a partially padded cell.

“Right. Let me confirm something.” Martin sat on the thick dog bed. There was just enough room to stretch out his legs. “Aye, it’s dead comfy.”

Anthony gaped at him. “You want to hang out on a dog bed while the actual dog takes the couch that you are paying to use?”

Martin patted the bed. “It’ll be fun, like a daytime sleepover.”

“I did just wash the cover. Okay, one more trip.” Anthony hurried back outside.

Martin switched on the wall-mounted TV—its small size was fine, as it was barely three feet away—and found the channel with the Premier League Match of the Week replay.

Anthony returned carrying a large box under one arm and two auspicious-looking paper bags in his other hand.

“First off, I’m replacing your countertop stove with a less shitty one.”

“Nice.”

“Plus, I brought you breakfast as a thank-you for the football pointers.” He sat down on the dog bed, with more grace than Martin thought possible. “It’s an egg, cheese, and sausage biscuit, but if you don’t like it, I’ll trade for mine on a bagel.” He moved the bag out of range of Betty’s ambitious snout. “And yes, I know biscuit means cookie where you’re from.”

“I’m open to new taste sensations.” He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Then he chewed for a long time. “It’s like if flour was made of butter.”

“Too dry?”

“The cheese makes up for it.”

“Cool.” He held up the other bag. “Also, apple-cider doughnuts. They’re a specialty of my favorite bakery.”

Martin pulled one out, took a tentative bite, and felt his entire face melt with pleasure. “Fuck.” He chewed and swallowed the fluffy sweetness. “That may be the tastiest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

“Oh.” Anthony’s cheeks flushed, as did the tips of his ears. God, it was good to see him again.

“So…” Anthony turned to face the TV. “Who’s playing?”

“Manchester United hosted Cardiff City. I won’t spoil the final scoreline, but you’ll soon see why it was lopsided.”

“Is one of them your favorite?”

“Naw, Kilmarnock’s my team, from where I was born. They’re having a pretty good season.” He didn’t elaborate, lest the Curse harm his beloved Killie just by discussing them on Christmas Eve.

They watched the first half sitting side by side on the dog bed, shoulders and thighs not quite touching but close enough Martin felt the heat radiating between them. His spectacles absent, Anthony wore a soft-looking blue chambray shirt that Martin’s fingertips itched to touch—and eventually remove.

Occasionally Martin paused and rewound to show the buildup to a United scoring play or to analyze where the Cardiff defense broke down. Anthony seemed to understand, and he asked thoughtful questions, so Martin hoped he could turn these insights into a better season for his niece’s team.

At halftime, Anthony muted the TV and turned to Martin. “I’ve got some ideas about the Curse.”

Och, not another person who wanted to fix him. Martin put his face in his hands. “Please don’t suggest a salt bath.”

“That wasn’t what?—”

“Waving a selenite wand over myself?”

“No, I was thinking?—”

“Burning a black candle in salt water? Making a mirror box to send the negative energy back to the one who cursed me?”

“Uh, no,” Anthony said. “I assumed you either tried those woo-woo methods or you knew they were bullshit.”

“Both.” Martin massaged his eyebrows with his fingertips. “I tried them, knowing they were bullshit.”

“That’s why I was looking for a curse breaker supported by science.”

Martin looked up, a rebellious hope rising within. “Go on.”

“First, let’s lay the theoretical groundwork.” Anthony reached for his coat and pulled out a folded stack of paper from its inside pocket. “You were cursed at an age where belief in luck naturally peaks. Little kids think luck is simply when something good happens. They don’t necessarily ascribe any meaning to it. And by the time kids are ten years old, they’re usually more skeptical. But around age six or seven, kids can pick up on patterns and apply causes to effects: ‘My team won twice in a row when I ate pancakes, so now I gotta eat pancakes before every game.’”

“Well, pancakes are loaded with carbs, so it’s a good pre-game meal.”

“Which is exactly the conclusion most adults and even older kids would come to.” He sifted through the papers. “This study says that our belief in luck is stable throughout life. So it makes sense that someone like you—someone who formed a clear connection between luck and outcomes at age seven—would keep believing in that connection as they age.”

“I don’t believe in luck in general, just the Curse.” Martin looked over Anthony’s shoulder at the papers to see if they’d been published in reputable journals. “I’m an engineer.”

“As you’ve mentioned. But, hear me out—what if you became an engineer as a reaction to the Curse? What if you wanted to do something that was hyperrational and ordered so you’d feel more in control of your life? And then when Beagle 2 was lost, you realized it hadn’t worked, so you started teaching math and?—”

“Maths.”

“—now you’re telling kids that there’s always a right answer and a wrong answer, and that they can work out which is which if they follow the rules and know the process.”

“Pish.” Martin hadn’t been clear enough with Anthony, and now the man was jumping to conclusions. “You make it sound as though I center my entire life around the Curse. Most of the year I don’t think about it at all. I don’t think about luck at all.”

“But the Curse has taken so much from you. I mean, it’s Christmas Eve, and you’re five thousand miles away from your loved ones. That’s a huge cost.”

“A cost I’m happy to pay to protect them.” He rubbed the tightening spot over his breastbone. “So, have you got a solution for me, or did you just come here to do amateur psychology? And please don’t say the solution is optimism.”

“It’s not. Optimism can be as bad as pessimism if it’s always the default reaction.” Anthony flipped through the pages, turning the last one over to read the reverse side. “The key is flexible thinking.”

Martin snorted. “Fuck’s that mean?”

“It’s not just one thing.” He leaned over to show Martin an article from Psychology Today . “Flexible thinking means seeing other people’s perspectives, examining your biases, understanding that how you feel right now isn’t how you’ll feel forever.” He ran a finger down over the orange-highlighted sheet. “Most important seems to be not applying the same hard-and-fast rule to every situation.”

“Ah.” They’d arrived at Anthony’s favorite modus operandi. “Basically, it’s about accepting uncertainty.”

Anthony grinned. “Exactly! So?—”

“Look.” Martin took his hand. “It’s lovely what you’re trying to do, but I’ve already got my own plan to break the Curse.”

“Great. Tell me how I can help.”

Martin hesitated. “By keeping your distance all day tomorrow?”

Anthony looked unfazed. “Sure thing. And what’ll you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I’ll turn my phone off, I won’t shower or have a bath in case I slip and fall or drown myself, and I definitely won’t use any appliances.” Christ, he sounded mad as a hatter. “Might leave the lights on during the day so I don’t have to touch the switches.” He motioned to the couch. “I’ll probably sleep here to avoid using the ladder to the bed.”

Anthony gave a gruff laugh. “Better not eat or drink, then, in case you choke.”

He hadn’t thought of that. “Fair point. I’ll add it to the list.”

“Martin, don’t be ridiculous.” Anthony made a sweeping gesture encompassing the tiny home. “ This is your genius plan to break the Curse? By having a Christmas where nothing happens?”

“Where nothing bad happens.”

“And nothing good, either. I can’t believe you flew five thousand miles to do jack shit. Wouldn’t it be better to break the Curse by making good things happen on Christmas?”

“I have tried that.” Cheeks burning, Martin fought to keep his volume below a shout. “I have tried that so many times. Surrounded myself with people I love, making all the merry we can, and something always goes wrong. Someone always gets hurt.” His voice broke on the last word.

Betty’s ears pricked at the sound of his distress. She shifted toward Martin and nudged his arm with her graying muzzle.

Something inside him melted at the concern in her eyes. “Sorry, lass.” He rubbed her big broad head at the spot where her white racing stripe ended. “You’re all right.”

Anthony pulled in a low, slow breath. Martin tensed, sensing the next question would weigh more than all the others put together.

“Martin,” he said, barely above a whisper. “What happened last Christmas?”

Martin’s hand froze on Betty’s head, and Anthony knew he’d hit another nerve. But he had to know what had led to such an extreme move.

Martin frowned. “Why do you ask?”

Anthony kept his voice gentle. “After all this time, you’ve picked now to escape to another continent. Something must have happened last year. Something that maybe…broke you?”

Martin turned his focus back to Betty, scratching the white ruff at the top of her chest. “I lost my dog.”

Sudden tears burned Anthony’s eyes. “Oh my God. Oh, Martin, I’m so sorry. What was it? An accident? Cancer?”

Martin shook his head quickly. “No, I mean I literally lost him for two days. We went for our morning walk in Glasgow Green. I wasn’t paying enough mind. Checking my stupid phone, switching off notifications so I wouldn’t see bad news. Then something caught his attention. I still don’t know what, but greyhounds can see prey far away. Suddenly he yanked the lead right out of my hand. I chased after him, calling his name, but he was so fast, so fixated on whatever he was hunting, he was gone in two seconds. I searched all over the Green, in every street nearby. My family and friends all helped. We put up signs, phoned the RSPCA and every veterinarian, in case someone had turned him in.”

“That’s my worst nightmare, losing a pet and knowing they could be anywhere, hurt or…” He wouldn’t speak the word dead .

“It was hell. I couldn’t sleep that night, or the next night. I just stared at the wall, imagining him running halfway to Cumbernauld, or getting hit by a car or attacked by one of those bully dogs. I hated myself. That fucking Curse had finally taken from me the most important person—erm, being—in my life.”

“How did you get him back?” Anthony asked.

“The morning of the twenty-seventh, a bin man found him in an alleyway hiding behind a rubbish skip. Jarvis must have got scared and huddled up where he could scavenge a meal or two. He still had his collar and ID on him—Christ only knows what happened to his lead—so the bin man phoned me. I would’ve wept with relief, but by that point I’d no tears left. When I got Jarvis back, I swore I’d never let the Christmas Curse hurt anyone again.” Martin tapped the edge of the couch with one finger. “And that’s why I’m here.”

Now it all made sense: Martin’s devastation, his drive to save Pumpkin Spice, his unshakeable belief in the need for solitude. In his place, Anthony might have sequestered himself too.

He brushed his fingertips over Martin’s knee. “Got any pics of Jarvis you want to show me?”

A smile crept onto Martin’s face, then he pulled his phone out of his shirt pocket. “Only about a hundred and four.”

Jarvis was a big brindle boy with a goofy-ass grin and a penchant for sticking his long, pointy nose right up to the camera. “Thick as a brick,” Martin said, “but I cannae live without him.”

“Who’s watching him while you’re gone?”

“My mum.” Martin’s smile widened. “She’s got a big fenced garden and a golden retriever he’s mad about. He won’t miss me at all.”

“Now that I don’t believe.”

Martin squeezed his hand. “Do you understand now why I need to be alone tomorrow?”

“Of course I understand.” Anthony squeezed back. “I just don’t think it’ll work.”

Martin’s jaw dropped. “Why not?”

“I mean, it could work temporarily. Maybe this Christmas you have no calamities, as your mom calls them. But what about next year? Do you have to spend every Christmas in exile for the rest of your life?”

“I’ve not thought that far ahead.”

“Obviously. See, you’re not really breaking the Curse by coming here, you’re just avoiding it.”

“Why can’t it be the same thing? Why can’t having a single not-bad Christmas break the Curse?”

Anthony racked his brain for a way to explain it. “Did you ever hear that saying, ‘Wherever you go, there you are’?”

“Aye.”

“It could be the same with the Curse. Maybe you can’t break it without changing yourself.”

“Why should I change? I’m not a bad person.”

“It’s not about being good or bad. It’s about the way you let this fear run your life. You could be causing these calamities with your fear.” He held up a hand against Martin’s protest. “Last year, your dog got away because you were busy looking at your phone, trying to block out bad news. And the time with your boyfriend—he broke up with you because you let the fear keep you from spending Christmas with his parents, something that was really important to him. Martin, that cranky elf may have started the Curse, but these days, it’s definitely on you.”

“Nice victim-blaming, thanks.”

“Right there, that’s your problem. You see yourself as a victim of this mysterious force, even though you allegedly don’t believe in mysterious forces. Whether the Curse exists or not, it’s got power over you.”

“You think I don’t know that? It’s been ruining Christmas for thirty years. And maybe you’re right about one thing: that I’m not truly trying to break it, because maybe I no longer dare think it possible. I’m here to escape it, and most of all, to keep it from hurting the ones I love.”

Anthony studied his face. Despite Martin’s objections, there seemed to be a glimmer of hope under that cloud of resignation. “But what if you could break it? What if we could break it together?”

“Why, when so many others have failed? My family, close mates—they all tried and ended up hurt. One Christmas, my sister Caitlin lost her engagement ring down the sink. When Uncle Gary opened the pipes to look for it, he flooded the kitchen.”

“Okay, okay.” Anthony didn’t need another installment of Christmas Calamities: A Documentary . “You said that hardly anyone knew about the Curse. But you told me after knowing me for less than a day.” He poked Martin in the side. “Because you wanted help.”

“I’ve given up on help.” Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “All I want is to be left alone one day of the year. I thought crossing the Atlantic would accomplish that.”

“And then I ruined your plans.” Anthony couldn’t suppress a smile. “Now you gotta deal with it, because you like me too much to tell me to fuck off.”

Martin opened his mouth, but no rebuttal came out. He held Anthony’s gaze for a long moment, then glanced at the TV. “Halftime’s over.”

“Martin—”

“No.” Martin touched Anthony’s shoulder. “Thank you. Really. It’s brilliant that you care enough to do all this research.” He gestured to the stack of paper. “But I don’t want to be your project.”

“You’re not a project to me.” He kissed Martin, then wondered how the hell he’d been here nearly an hour without kissing this man.

On TV, the second half was starting, but Anthony didn’t care and he got the feeling Martin didn’t either.

He slid a hand beneath the open collar of Martin’s button-down shirt, drawing a line parallel to his collarbone that made him shiver.

Martin pulled back a little to say, “Sorry, but on this dog bed, I cannae do more than snog.”

Anthony nodded. “Doing more on a dog bed would be weird, right?”

“Aye.” He glanced toward the ladder. “We could go upstairs.”

“To your bed?”

“If you want.”

Anthony looked away to regain some scrap of self-control. “I do want. But also I don’t. Not yet.”

“Okay.”

“I’m up for snogging on a dog bed if you are.”

“A snog bed, as it were.” He kissed Anthony again, and this kiss, this moment, felt like the least cursed thing in the world.

It had been at least ten years since Anthony had spent an hour “merely” making out, fully clothed, all hands above waists. But that’s exactly how the next forty-five minutes, give or take, went for the two of them. It did get progressively, um, harder not to drag Martin toward that ladder and up to his bed. They could go there later, Anthony kept telling himself, though he wasn’t sure when later would occur, given the fortress Martin had built around Christmas Day.

The final whistle of the match shook them out of their kissing trance. Reluctantly Anthony pulled away and sat up. “I gotta get home and help with the party. I promised.”

“Okay.” Martin’s face looked as flushed as Anthony’s felt.

“Say, do you want to come?” When Martin cocked a hopeful eyebrow, Anthony added, “To the party, silly. It’ll be over at ten, since that’s when the older folks head off to Mass, so I can bring you back in time for your twenty-four-hour banishment.”

“I do love a party.” Martin wavered, chewing his lower lip. “Would your parents want me there? Won’t it be weird, me being a guest?”

“They invite guests to their barbecues in summer. And there’ll be plenty of food. They do the Christmas Eve Vigilia , the Seven Fishes. Oh yeah, I hope you like seafood, because that’s all there’ll be.”

“I like seafood. What if we cannae get back in time? I heard it might snow.”

“It might, but my truck can handle it.” Anthony got to his feet. “If you don’t wanna, that’s okay too. I’ll see you on Boxing Day.” He reached for his coat.

“Wait. I’ll come.”

“Yes!” Anthony high-fived himself, like the dork he was. “I’ll pick you up at five. Bring a bottle of white.”

Martin followed him and Betty to the door. “Talking of bringing things, is there a shop where I can buy Christmas crackers?”

“Like Wheat Thins?”

“Sorry?”

“That’s what we always get,” Anthony said, “to go with the cheese logs.”

“No, I meant…” Martin made a mysterious pulling gesture that looked like he was giving a double hand job. “Christmas crackers. That you pull and they snap and you get a prize and a riddle and a hat.”

Anthony blinked at him. “Are we from the same planet?”

“I was told I couldn’t bring them on the plane, even in checked baggage, I suppose because they’re ever so slightly explosive.”

“Oh. Yikes.”

“I’ll just bring wine, then.”

“Good call.”

As Betty peed in the front yard, Martin set her doggie throne in the flatbed, then came back to Anthony. “Thanks for…you know.”

“The stellar snogging session?”

“No, although that, too.” He touched Anthony’s arm. “For caring enough to want to help me. Sorry I was prickly about it.”

“Sorry if I was pushy.”

“‘If’?

“Okay, sorry I was pushy.” He took Martin’s hand. “I think you did good coming here, and I think you’re gonna be okay.”

Martin’s wry smile held a twinge of sadness. “We’ll see.”