Chapter 5

“Just one thing,” Anthony said as they stepped up onto the wraparound porch of his parents’ understatedly elegant Victorian house. “Please don’t drop the sea bomb in front of my mother.”

“The sea bomb?” Martin asked. What did he mean by that? “Like a bomb for boats?”

“Not sea like the word. C like the letter. Don’t say the C word.”

“Christmas?”

Anthony gave him a look that could cut steel, which was dead cute with his glasses on.

“Carol?” Martin guessed, genuinely baffled.

“No, don’t say…C-U-N-T.” The letters came out in a bare whisper.

“Ah.” As Anthony reached for the doorknob, Martin said, “Well, now I really want to. I didn’t before, but now that I cannae say it, I suddenly need to shout it to the sky.” He opened his mouth to pretend.

“Shh!” Laughing, Anthony lunged forward and pressed a finger to Martin’s lips. Then he replaced that finger with his own mouth.

The front door opened. “Merry Chris—oh, Anthony, not again!”

A fifty-something brunette in a green “Make Merry or Else!” apron stood in the doorway with her fists planted on her hips.

“Wh-What?” Anthony stammered. “Mom, no, it’s not-it’s not what it?—”

“Not what it looks like. Uh-huh.” She flapped a tea towel at them. “Get in here before you freeze your little fannies off.”

Martin choked back a laugh. Anthony’s warning glare couldn’t hide his own mirth.

She led them into the foyer, where the tree he and Anthony had poached sat covered in so much silver tinsel and so many silver baubles, the greenery was barely visible. “Lovely tree,” Martin said.

“Thank you.” She hugged Anthony, though surely she’d seen him less than an hour earlier. Then she beamed at Martin and extended her hand. “I’m Loretta. We met over text.”

He went to shake her hand, then remembered the fresh bandage.

“Oh no, how’d you do that?” she asked. “Not at the house, I hope.”

“No, the house is perfect.” He told her an abridged version of the Pumpkin Spice Saga.

She sucked in a wincing breath. “How awful. So you like our little Pockaway?”

“It’s great.” She was clearly waiting for specifics, so he added, “The bed’s the comfiest I’ve ever slept in.”

Loretta put a hand to her heart. “I’m so glad. Of course, the mattress delivery men weren’t too thrilled about hauling it up that ladder.”

“I brought these. Hope you fancy them.” Martin held out the bottle of Riesling and the bag of cheddar Goldfish crackers he’d found at the supermarket.

Loretta took both, then did a double-take at the crackers. She laughed hard, her head tilted back. “You’re silly. I like you.” She held up the white Goldfish bag. “And now if one of my dishes doesn’t turn out, I’ll have a replacement.”

Martin smiled, grateful to remain in her good books after the apparently scandalous porch kiss.

“Speaking of, I gotta get back to the kitchen. Anthony, get your friend something to drink, then see if anyone else needs a refresher.” She gave Martin a one-armed hug and kissed his cheek. “Enjoy yourself, and don’t let my son mess with your head, okay?”

She hurried off, leaving behind a waft of rose-scented perfume, the tap of her heels on the hardwood floor blending with the party noise in the next room.

“So.” Anthony clasped his hands together. “Drink?” He started to move off.

Martin caught him. “Hold on. What did she mean, ‘Anthony, not again’ when she saw us kissing?”

“Oh.” Anthony shifted his weight from foot to foot, not meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t at Pockaway, but there was—and it meant nothing—a guy in August.”

Martin found himself equal parts shocked and amused. “So I’m part of a pattern.”

“Two people does not make a pattern.”

“Two people in four months makes a bit of a pattern. Did he give you five stars?” he added, just to tease.

“He gave the house five stars.” Anthony rubbed his reddening cheek. “He had a positive experience.”

“And what about your experience?” It was fun to needle him. “Was he a successful project?”

“Stop.” Anthony’s earnest gaze met Martin’s. “You’re not a project, and you’re not part of a pattern. You’re just…you’re you.”

A sudden truth hit Martin like a punch to the gut: He would miss this man when he left. He would miss him very much.

The noise of the party swelled in a wave, spilling into the foyer and ending their moment of emotional gravity.

Anthony stepped back. “Right. Drinks.”

He led Martin through a back corridor to the garage, where the family had a second refrigerator devoted to beverages. Martin chose cherry-flavored fizzy water—still abstaining thanks to the antibiotics—then Anthony took a can of root beer for himself.

“You’re not drinking either?” Martin asked.

“I have to drive you home later.”

“I can drive your truck to mine when we leave here at ten, so as long as you’re sober by midnight to drive yourself home…”

“True. And you did drive it yesterday.” He looked at the garage ceiling, murmuring numbers and times. “Okay, I can have a beer now and a glass of wine with dinner.”

It was confirmed, then. They would have more than an hour at his place alone together. Martin had spent half his afternoon failing to read a book due to speculation on how they’d fill that time.

They made their way about the house, first meeting Anthony’s father and older sister, Katrina, followed by more than a dozen cousins, aunts, and uncles whose names Martin would never remember. Upon seeing how his injury prevented a handshake, they each pulled him into a hearty hug.

In the basement, they found a quartet of teenagers peering into a large aquarium.

“What’re y’all looking at?” Anthony asked.

A cousin—Gina?—put a finger to her lips and giggled. “Craig stole two crayfish from the kitchen.”

“I liberated them,” said the lanky boy with a mass of black curls. “Grandmom won’t miss them.”

“What a fool believes,” Anthony said. “Don’t worry, we won’t rat you out.”

Martin agreed with a hand-to-heart signal. “Where are they?”

“Back there near the treasure chest.” Craig pointed to the right side of the tank. “The treasure chest with the skeleton wearing a pirate hat, not the one with a skeleton wearing a bandana.”

One of the two drab brown crayfish—which looked like langoustines but less psychotic—ventured out to explore the blue and red gravel at the bottom of the aquarium. Its antennae swerved and whipped as it investigated its new home.

“From a river to a net to a kitchen to here,” Martin said. “That crayfish has had a belter of a journey.”

Anthony gave him a fond look that said, Just like you, mate .

Having heard his Scottish accent, the teens gathered round, asking him to teach them Scots curses and say words with r in them. He gave the consonant an extra-thick roll for entertainment’s sake.

Then it was time for another round of fetching drinks for the older set. As Martin and Anthony entered the wide, fireplace-hotted living room, one of the uncles tossed a small ball of cheese to Betty. She caught it with a deft snap of jaws.

“Oh no.” Anthony hurried over and crouched beside Betty, who was wearing a wobbly set of reindeer antlers. “Give,” he told her, holding his palm beneath her mouth. In response, she swallowed the cheese and licked his hand. “Uncle Frank, I asked you not to feed her.”

“I wasn’t spoiling her. I made her shake hands for it first.” Frank winked at Martin, who tried to keep a poker face out of solidarity with Anthony.

“She’s old,” Anthony said. “Her digestive system can’t take it.” He nudged Betty’s inquisitive nose away from the platter of antipasto on the coffee table. “Besides, dogs aren’t meant to eat cheese.”

“Everyone’s meant to eat cheese.” Frank popped another ball of fresh mozzarella in his mouth.

Anthony removed the dog’s antlers. “Come on, Betty.” He stood up and patted his thigh to signal her to follow. “You’re too much of a mooch to be trusted around party food.”

Martin accompanied them upstairs to Anthony’s bedroom, which was neater than he’d expected from such a cavalier man. Each wall featured art depicting a different sort of weather. Martin was immediately drawn to a large canvas print of a storm brewing over a wheat field.

Anthony slid open the door to a long cupboard. “It’s a teeny bit early.” There came the rustle of a plastic carrier bag. “But I’m gonna give you your Christmas present now.”

“Oh.” Martin turned from the canvas. “Sorry, I haven’t got a gift for you. Yet,” he added, as though he was planning a midnight shop at a service station.

Anthony looked at him steadily as he pulled a cling-wrapped, gristle-filled knuckle bone out of the bag and held it up. “You’ll have to fight her for it.”

“Oh, you were talking to—of course. I knew that. Hah.”

Anthony smirked. “Don’t worry, Martin, you’ll get something special later tonight. I have a feeling it’s the same thing you’ve got in store for me. Hand me those scissors?”

It took Martin a moment to recover from this blatant promise of sex to work out where Anthony meant. He found the scissors on the desk and gave them over.

While Anthony cut the cling wrap off the knuckle bone, Betty sat before him as straight and still as a soldier at attention. A line of drool began to descend from her left jowl.

“So what do you think of the family?” Anthony asked as he unwrapped the bone.

“I love them. Very huggy, though.”

“Do your people not embrace after knowing each other for 1.5 seconds?”

“Sometimes not even after 1.5 decades. Is it an American thing?”

“It varies.” He gave the knuckle bone to Betty, who took it with an almost delicate grasp that belied her yearning. “With my family it’s an Italian thing. Sorry for all their boundary invasion.”

“Actually, it was rather nice after the first one or two…dozen.”

Betty flopped down on her dog bed with the knuckle bone between her forepaws. They quietly retreated, closing the door behind them.

As they reached the foyer downstairs, Martin’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out to see a new text message.

Mum

Wanted to send our love before you cut us off for 24 hours. We miss you!!

His phone’s clock read 6:55. Nearly midnight at home.

Two pictures were attached to his mum’s text. In the first, his entire family—both parents, all four siblings, two brothers-in-law, and three nieces—had gathered round the hearth for a smiling group photo. Jarvis’s brindle arse appeared slightly blurred as he exited stage left. A lump rose in Martin’s throat, and he wished he could leap through the screen into the picture—if he could bring Anthony with him, that is.

The second photo was much the same, apart from everyone, including the children, making a silly face and giving him a two-fingered salute. His laughter dispelled the throat lump in an instant.

He sent back a quick Christmas greeting, then showed the photos to Anthony.

“See?” Anthony said. “That’s a transatlantic bear hug right there.”

A waving motion caught Martin’s eye. Loretta was signaling from the kitchen doorway. “I think your mum wants you.”

“I better go see what she needs.” He touched Martin’s elbow. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I can just about speak the language now.”

“Then wish me luck.”

“For what?”

He blew Martin a kiss as he turned away. “Not getting killed.”

“What can I help with, Mom?” Anthony asked as he followed her back into the kitchen, hoping that that was the reason she’d summoned him. “Want me to watch the sauce while?—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She executed a precision towel-flick against his side. “The rental site could kick us off if they found out you were messing around with a guest. Then we’d be ruined. How could you be so careless—again?”

A fair question. “I don’t know. I brought him muffins and we hit it off.” No need to tell her about walking in on Martin naked. “He helped me get that big tree for you.” He pointed toward the foyer.

“Oh, well, that makes it just fine and dandy, doesn’t it? What if things go bad between y’all? He could give us a one-star review—or worse, file a complaint.”

“There aren’t ‘things’ between us that can go bad. We’re just pals.”

“You kiss all your pals like that? You look at all your pals like that?”

Were his feelings that obvious? “Look at him like what?”

“Like your eyes are big hearts, going all ah-OOO-gah like a cartoon character’s. You’re smitten, baby, and you’ve got it bad.” She cupped his face in both hands. “Anthony, I want you to find somebody, or however many somebodies who’ll make you happy. You know that.”

“I know, Mom.” He didn’t try to pull away, because that would make her hold on tighter. “Thanks for your support.”

“But don’t mess with our business, okay?” She let go but gave his left cheek a firm pat that was halfway to a smack. “Okay?”

“Okay, okay.”

Aunt Josie stepped into the kitchen just then. “Loretta, why you gotta push this sweet boy around?” She put her arm around Anthony’s waist. “That man of yours? He’s not bad to look at, but when he opens his mouth—woo!” Josie picked up the laminated capesante recipe and fanned herself with it. “That accent awakens my loins.”

“For God’s sake, Josie, calm down.” His mom snatched back the scallops recipe. “And quit messing with my system.”

“System, hah. It’s chaos in here,” Josie said, running a disapproving fingertip over the chip in the Santa-belly cookie jar.

“Mom’s system works great,” Anthony told her, “and you know how I know? Because every year the food knocks all our socks off.”

“You’re such a good boy.” Josie pinched his cheek like he was five. “So loyal to your mother, and she never appreciates it.”

Mom made a dismissive noise and gesture as she spooned a bay leaf out of the marinara. “He knows he’s in trouble, he’s just trying to get back into my good graces.”

“He ought to know you don’t have any of those to get into.”

“Jo. Out.” Mom brandished her wooden spoon, sending a splotch of red sauce onto the spice cabinet. “Both of you. Anthony, send in your sister.”

He found Katrina in the game room on the edge of the kids’ party, where “Dominick the Donkey” was playing for what seemed like the ninth time tonight. She was talking to Martin, whose brows were lowered and the corners of his mouth, tight. What was she telling him?

As he walked up to them, they both laughed.

“Mom needs your help in the kitchen,” Anthony told her.

“Did you even offer?”

“What am I, an asshole? Of course I offered.” He turned to Martin. “Then she gave me shit for hooking up with a guest.”

“Awwww, Anthony’s in trouble,” Katrina hummed. “And not just with Mom.”

“Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” the children sang, stomping their feet in time to the words.

Anthony leaned in to hear over the cacophony. “Who else am I in trouble with?”

“Well.” Martin picked up a familiar trophy from the board-game bookshelf. “Katrina was telling me how her daughter’s soccer team were division champions this year.”

Uh-oh.

“And I explained,” Katrina said, “that her team’s coach was you. Which was huge news to Martin, because you told him they sucked.” She punched his arm as she headed off for the kitchen.

He took the trophy from Martin. “I never said they sucked. You asked how they did this season, and?—”

“And you said, ‘ ugghgugh .’” Martin did a decent impression of him.

“I was being modest. You assumed I didn’t know shit about soccer because I’m American.”

“Ooh!” Emma, the nine-year-old champion midfielder herself, bounced over, red-scrunchied ponytail swinging. “Gotta borrow that for a sec, Uncle Anthony.” She grabbed the trophy, gave Martin a quick, “Hi,” then scooted off to the far side of the game room.

“Shit, she’s on a bragging kick.” Anthony gestured to Emma, who was holding the trophy aloft and doing an obnoxious victory dance in front of her cousin Bobbi, whose team they’d thrashed in the semifinals. “I thought I taught her better.”

“I don’t get it,” Martin said. “This morning you asked me so many questions during the United-Cardiff match.”

“I was genuinely interested in your insights.”

Martin shook his head. “I still feel tricked. You also lied about the tree we cut down. You said the owner was a friend of the family who wouldn’t mind.”

“I did lie about that, and I’m sorry.” As Anthony searched for a justification for his truth-bending, he pushed a Jenga box—which was fittingly teetering on the edge of the bookshelf—back into its secure place. “If I’d told you we were going on a Christmas-tree heist, would you have come along?”

“No. Maybe.” Martin rubbed his jaw, now clean-shaven. “Aye, I would’ve gone anywhere with you. You were cute and kind, and I was absolutely gagging for human contact.”

“I thought you came here to be alone.”

“I did, but once I met you, I knew it was rubbish.” He gestured to the dancing, hee-hawing children. “This is what I’m missing by being away from my family at Christmas. All the music, all the games, all the love and the funny ways people show it.”

“Does it make you sad, being here?”

“Just the opposite. I feel rather at home.”

“Despite the lack of Christmas crackers.”

Martin nodded. “And the total lack of blootered people. Honestly, I’m floored by how little booze is being necked in this house. In Scotland, the second of January is a bank holiday cos we’re all still hungover from Hogmanay.”

“Hogmanay, is that New Year’s Day?”

“New Year’s Eve.”

“And it takes two whole days to recover? That’s dedication to partying. So you’ll be home for that?”

“Aye, with a few days to get over the jet lag.” Martin’s smile faded. Maybe he was thinking the same thing as Anthony: Since Christmas was a no-go, they had only a half a day remaining together: Boxing Day, when Martin would leave.

But before that, they had tonight. Maybe they could sneak out early and go back to Martin’s, make the most of their hours together.

Alas, dinner was late, so instead of eating at eight, they sat down for the first course at quarter to nine.

Everything was delicious, as always, and Martin seemed to be having a blast with the family. He chatted about indie bands with Katrina, answered a slew of questions about life in Scotland from the uncles, and gamely sampled every dish Anthony’s mom put in front of him, even the scungilli that few others were brave enough to try.

“I love your birthstone ring,” Martin said to her in the middle of the main course. “My mum’s got one too, a stone for each of her five kids.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Suddenly subdued, Anthony’s mother slipped her hand under the table to adjust the napkin in her lap, but then left it there.

The table quieted, until the only sounds were silverware clinking against plates and the chatter coming from the kids’ table in the next room.

Martin seemed to notice. He looked up and down the long table, maybe just now realizing that while there were three birthstones in her ring, only two of her children were present. He gave Anthony a help-me look.

Anthony’s dad cleared his throat, then turned to Uncle Eddie and Uncle Frank. “Can you believe the Steelers at New Orleans? The way they crumbled at the end?”

“It’s like their whole season in miniature,” Uncle Eddie said, punctuating the statement with a cackle. “Ravens are gonna take the division title, since your guys obviously don’t want it.”

The conversation picked back up, dispelling the tension. Anthony sent his dad a grateful smile and received a wink in return. The topic of Sunday’s disastrous game had been verboten, especially around Eddie and Frankie, who supported the Steelers’ archrivals, the Baltimore Ravens. Yet his father had brought it up, opening himself up to ridicule, just to distract everyone from Martin’s accidental awkwardness.

Martin leaned over. “I stepped in it,” he whispered, “but I don’t know why.”

“It’s okay.” Anthony brushed his fingertips over Martin’s elbow. “I’ll explain later.”

After dinner, Anthony insisted he and Martin would clear the plates and put away leftovers, which gave them time to talk privately—plus earned him brownie points with his mom.

As he set the final platter on the kitchen island, he said, “So here’s the deal, if you’re still wondering.”

“I am.” Martin put down the last stack of dinner plates on the counter and opened the trash can with the foot pedal.

“My oldest sister, Vanessa, has always had a shaky relationship with my parents. She’s a good person, but when I was growing up she was what Mom called a real hellion.” He opened the “Tupperware cabinet”—named that despite not a single container being actual Tupperware—and pulled out an armful of plastic storage containers and lids. “She said and did things my parents claimed they couldn’t forgive. Then she couldn’t forgive them for not forgiving her.”

“Where is she now?”

“St. Louis.” Anthony started pairing containers with their lids, a task he found oddly soothing. “Katrina and I went out to see her earlier this year. She’s really got her shit together: good job, plus a steady boyfriend who has an adorable five-year-old daughter and an even more adorable two-year-old Great Dane. One of these days she’ll be part of our family again.”

“You cannae make that happen,” Martin said as he scraped a pair of empty crayfish tails into the trash can. “You know that, right? You cannae fix your family any more than you can fix my curse.”

“I know.” This reality check dampened Anthony’s thrill at finding a lid matching the largest Country Crock tub. “I think Vanessa’s the reason my parents support me completely. When I came out to them, they hugged me so hard…” He swallowed to ease the quaver in his voice.

“They didn’t want to lose you, too.”

Anthony bit his lip. “I’m lucky to have them.”

“No,” Martin said. “They’re lucky to have you .”

Anthony’s cheeks flushed warm. “Dude, that is so sappy. But it’s a holiday, so I’ll allow it.”

“Cheers for your indulgence.” Martin did a little bow.

“You’re welcome.” He tapped a stack of small containers. “By the way, I’m making you a set of leftovers for your Christmas dinner.”

“I shall remember you fondly as I eat them in my jim-jams tomorrow.”

“What about your family?” he asked Martin. “Judging by that photo you showed me, they’re big fans of you.”

Martin’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “In my family, everyone is, erm, quirky in a different way, like a wee circus. When I came out, my parents were like, ‘Sure, whatever, just set that on the pile of Gibson Unorthodoxies,’ and that was that.”

“It’s all that locker-room drama,” Anthony’s dad said as he came into the kitchen with Uncle Frank, both carrying platters of antipasto. “You don’t call out teammates in the media, no matter how they fucked up. That soap-opera shit shows up on the field.”

“Coulda saved yourself all this heartache,” Frank said, “if you’d just stayed loyal to Baltimore after the Colts left instead of turning traitor as a Steelers fan.” He snatched one last mozzarella ball and popped it into his mouth as they walked out.

Anthony surveyed the platter’s salmon, anchovies, cheese, and veggies, which had been sitting out for hours. He’d have to be quick and stealthy about throwing it away, as his mom believed that holiday food was magically immune from bacteria.

“Are you the youngest like me?” he asked Martin.

“I’m smack bang in the middle of five.” Martin set the scraped plates beside the dishwasher. “Two older sisters and two younger brothers.”

“Same as my mom. Does everyone in your family still talk to each other?”

Martin scratched his head as he considered it. “Some more often than others, and some more gladly than others, but basically, aye. Why?”

Anthony checked both kitchen entrances to make sure no one could hear. “This thing with Vanessa, it’s a pattern.”

“How?”

He took the deep breath required to elaborate. “I mentioned my mom has two sisters and two brothers. Aunt Josie doesn’t talk to my Aunt Rosemary, and Uncle Eddie—the guy in the Santa beard who was making inappropriate nutcracker jokes?—he doesn’t talk to my Uncle Johnny. And because Josie and Eddie and my mom are allies, they adopt each other’s grudges, so Rosemary and Johnny are persona non grata to all three of them. That’s why they’re not here tonight, and that’s why I’ve got first cousins I’ve never met.” It sounded so irrational when he said it out loud, but it was just the way things were, the way they’d always been.

“The grudges started before you were born?” Martin brightened as Betty wandered in, looking far too nonchalant to be up to anything good. “What happened?”

“Originally? You’ll have to ask them—only, please don’t ask them, under any circumstances.” Anthony moved to block Betty from the open trash can. “Katrina says she heard that the aunts’ vendetta started with Rosemary taking credit for Josie’s zeppole one year on San Giuseppe.” He held up a finger. “Remind me in March to mail you some. They’re life-altering. Anyway, Dad says the Eddie-Johnny thing was because Johnny had two tickets to the Colts ‘Ghost to the Post’ playoff game in ’77—which turned out to be their last playoff game in Baltimore ever—and brought his best friend instead of Eddie.” Anthony lifted his palms and shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “But who knows? The truth is lost to time.”

“Okaaaay.” Martin tilted his head, then inhaled like he was about to say something more. Instead he shut his mouth.

“What?” Anthony asked.

“Nothing.”

“You have an observation. I can tell.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I want to hear it.” Anthony poked him in the arm. “Tell me.” He poked again. “Tell me.”

“Gonnae stop it. Christ, you’re a textbook youngest child.”

“Yep. The most beloved and most likely to get what I want.” He held out his finger for a third poke.

“Fine, fine.” Martin raised his hands in surrender. “These vendettas are your family curse.”

Anthony froze, his finger still stuck out straight. “Wh-whaa?”

“And what you said about my curse, how it’s self-fulfilling—it’s also true for your family. They could fix it if they change.”

Anthony lowered his hand. “Shit. Martin. Fuck.” He watched as Betty slurped up a wayward piece of fried calamari from the floor. “Shit.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have stuck my neb in. It’s not my place to judge.”

“No, it’s…fine.” Anthony took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Something to ponder, for sure.”

He brought the empty serving platters to the kitchen sink for handwashing. As he ran the hot water, he noticed an empty cereal bowl containing a layer of cheesy residue and a few shards of fluorescent-orange fins and tails. The half-eaten bag of Goldfish crackers Martin had brought sat beside the bowl, held shut with a chip clip shaped like a Christmas elf.

In just a few hours, Martin had left his mark on the Bello family in ways both large and small. Even if they had only these few days together—a thought that grew harder to bear with each passing minute—Anthony knew he’d never be the same again.