Chapter 6

“See? I told you it’d be over at ten,” Anthony told Martin as they watched the crowd stream toward the front door.

Martin nodded. “Cool.”

Anthony ducked back into the kitchen to double-check no food had been left out. Cool? What did Martin mean by that? Was he happy they’d have more than an hour at his place alone before midnight? Or had he changed his mind about Anthony after learning so much about him?

Anthony found his coat and slipped it on. As he pulled out the keys, Betty materialized as if from nowhere.

“Go for a ride?” he asked her, as if the answer weren’t obvious. She wagged her tail and woofed, bouncing on her forepaws.

Outside, he and Martin found most of the family dancing in the front yard, the children dashing about like crazy. Giant flakes drifted from the sky and swirled in the gathering wind.

“It’s a white Christmas, Uncle Anthony!” Emma shouted as she sped by in her new fuzzy red earmuffs. “Thank you!”

“Do they think you can make the weather?” Martin murmured to him.

“Meteorologists get blamed for bad weather all the time, so I’ll take the win here.”

They waved to the departing trucks and SUVs, then Anthony let Betty romp in the snow while Martin cleaned the windshield.

“I can drive, by the way,” he told Martin. “I barely touched my dinner wine, and that beer was three hours ago.”

“I said I’d be designated driver.” Martin folded his seat forward so Anthony could lift Betty inside. “So I’m gonnae be designated driver.”

The snow streamed across the windshield as Martin drove hunched over the steering wheel, face stiff with concentration, as though he were driving that lost Mars lander himself. His speed barely topped fifteen miles an hour.

“Why isn’t this road gritted?” he asked Anthony as they went around a curve.

“Gritted?”

“Where they put down the salt and sand to melt the ice and snow.”

“Sometimes the county gets around to salting this road, but usually only on school days. Plus they have to pay the salt-truck drivers more on holidays. All about budgets, you know.”

Martin nodded, still gripping the steering wheel for dear life. “In Scotland they give the gritters funny names, like Gritty Gritty Bang Bang and Sir Salter Scott. My favorite is Gritsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Anti-Slip Machine-y.”

“Your people are very funny.”

“Aye, well, we have to be. The weather, you know.”

“Careful starting a conversation with me about weather.” Anthony let himself relax a little. Talking seemed to distract Martin from his unease over the road conditions. “Speaking of names, I keep thinking about Pumpkin Spice. None of my animals ever had middle names, but there’s Pumpkin Spice Flaherty, and Betty’s middle name is Blue for some reason.”

“Probably Betty Blue , the French film from the eighties.” Martin drew in a shaky breath as he navigated a turn onto a rougher road. “Basically, the title character descends into madness with many adventures along the way.”

“What kind of adventures?”

“Like setting her boyfriend’s house on fire, stabbing a random pizza eater with a fork—and loads of sex, of course, cos it’s French.”

“Ah. Sure.” Anthony looked out of the passenger window, a zing of anticipation coursing through him. Surely Martin wouldn’t have mentioned sex if he was planning to give Anthony the brush-off. Right? “Does Jarvis have a middle name?”

“Aye, and like P-Spice, he’s called by it. His full name is Jack Jarvis Gibson.”

“And Jack Jarvis is…”

“One of the main characters in this Scottish comedy Still Game . It’s not for everyone, but I think you’d like it.”

“Would I need subtitles?”

“Probably,” Martin said. “The English do.”

The truck fell silent again. Anthony started to worry Martin’s overly cautious speed would get them pulled over on a suspected DUI. Worse, the lengthy trip was cutting into their potentially naked pre-midnight time. “You sure you don’t want me to drive?”

Martin glanced from side to side. “There’s nowhere to pull over for us to swap.”

“We’re on a straightaway, so just stop in the road and put your flashers on. We’ll be quick.”

“That’s madness. I’ll keep driving.”

Anthony shut up for a moment, then decided to put it all out there. “I’m nervous too.”

“About my driving?”

“No, about what’s going to happen when we get to Pockaway.”

“Oh.” Martin downshifted while speeding up a tad. The tires maintained their usual dependable traction. “For example…”

“I worry you’ll kiss me goodnight and send me home. Or worse, not kiss me goodnight and send me home.”

Martin whooshed out a cross between a laugh and a sigh. “I wish you could stay the night. I wish I could kiss you good morning instead.”

Anthony was flooded with happiness and relief, every particle bouncing off one another like molecules in a warming air parcel. “Me too.”

They rode on, in what would have been the utter magical silence of a fresh snowfall were it not for the Helmholtz resonance throb of air against the back window. Anthony wondered if he’d forever think of Martin when he heard it.

At last they reached Pockaway. The lights on the trees flanking the driveway had switched on according to schedule, turning the snowflakes into glittering diamonds.

“Cannae remember the last time I saw a white Christmas.” Martin’s voice was low and reverent as he turned into the driveway.

“Me neither,” Anthony said. “The snow should stick to the ground, since it’s been so cold lately. The question is, how many inches and how long will it last?”

“Depends how well you beg me.”

Anthony’s face flamed. “Dude.”

“You walked into that one.” Martin shifted down into first gear. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You cheeky bastard, you.”

“ Cheeky bam is more Scottish. Bam is short for bampot—a crazy person, but more obnoxious-crazy than mentally unwell-crazy. So, what’s your guess as to how many inches and how long it’ll last? The snow, I mean.”

“Normally I could forecast using my own measurements and observations, but I’ve been preoccupied the last couple of days looking after a hot Scot cursed by a mall elf.”

“Fair.” Martin parked the truck in front of the house and turned off the engine. “We did it. We’re here.”

“Never doubted you for a second.” Anthony pulled up the parking brake, snapped off his safety belt, then leaned over for a kiss, because he couldn’t wait until they were inside.

Martin gave it to him eagerly, and Anthony felt a surge of gratitude that they’d met, that he’d joined the family for the Seven Fishes, and that they hadn’t slid off the road into a ditch getting back to the tiny home. Whatever happened before Martin’s departure, they were alive here and now, and?—

Betty licked their faces with one big swipe. Martin let go and rubbed her big furry head. “Who are you jealous of, me or him?”

“A lady never tells,” Anthony said. “Right, B?” She replied with another face lick. He looked at the truck’s dashboard clock, which now read 10:40. “Let’s go inside.”

Betty had other plans. As soon as they were out of the truck, she stopped, dropped, and rolled like she was on fire. Her tongue lolled out as she thrashed back and forth in the snow, having the time of her life.

“Looks too fun not to join in.” Martin flopped on the ground beside her and started making a snow angel. “’Mon, Anthony, you know you want to.”

He did. “My jeans’ll get wet.”

“Obviously.”

Right. He’d have to take them off and…

Anthony sank down on Betty’s other side to make his own snow angel. The cold water soaked through his pants in an instant. An exhilarated holler was his only defense.

Betty sprang to her feet and started running back and forth between them, her bright eyes filled with concern. Laughing, they declared her the goodest dog and thanked her for the rescue. Then the three of them shook the snow off themselves before going inside.

Anthony toweled off Betty, who went to her designated spot on the sofa. Martin put away his leftovers, then brought Anthony a towel and one of the bathrobes. “I’ll change up in the bedroom. Let me know when you’re ready for me to come down.”

“Okay.” It was kind of adorable, this British decency or whatever it was that kept Martin from watching while Anthony shed his wet clothes. It made Anthony feel…honored?

He shivered as he peeled off his clothes and put on the bathrobe. Then he draped his wet things over the back of the couch and tried not to think about putting them on again in an hour and ten minutes. Finally he went to the door and gazed out at the dark, snowy forest.

The snow was on the wet and heavy side, but hopefully not so much it would break tree branches and down power lines. If a warm layer of air was wedging its way into the lower troposphere, the snow could turn to rain or?—

“I’ve got these if your feet are cold,” Martin said behind him.

Anthony turned. Martin was holding up a pair of rugged-looking green woolen socks that matched the ones on his feet. He’d put on a long-sleeved olive henley shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants.

Anthony took off his glasses and laid them on the kitchen counter. “I know where my feet won’t be cold at all.”

Martin watched through the back door as Anthony filled the soaking tub. With faerie lights strung round the terrace, the space became like a clearing in an enchanted forest—steam rising from the tub like mist, snowflakes skittering over the flagstones like pixies, and bare-branched trees leaning close like guardians of their moment.

With no regrets for leaving his cozy clothes, Martin stripped down and put on the second dressing gown. He returned to the door just in time to see Anthony sinking into the tub, but not in time to catch more than a glimpse of his naked body.

Martin checked the clock on the tiny microwave.

10:51

Just to be safe, he slipped his phone into his dressing gown pocket. “Be back soon, Betty,” he called out, then shut the door behind him.

Anthony was occupying what seemed a precise 49.99% of the tub, his knees pulled tight to his chest.

“Are you comfortable?” Martin asked.

“I’ll be more comfortable once you get in and we can arrange our feet.” He gestured to the other end of the tub. “Go on, I won’t look. Can’t see much, anyways, without my glasses.”

“It’s nothing you’ve not already seen, besides.” Martin reached for the dressing gown’s tie, then stopped. “Just please make no judgments without accounting for cold-air shrinkage.”

“I have both a personal and professional understanding of the effects of cold air on a…what did you call it? A badger?”

“You mean tadger ?”

“Yeah, that.” Anthony closed his eyes in an exaggerated wince. “Well, now I’ll never think of badgers the same way again.”

Martin whipped off his dressing gown—this time placing it safely on the deck, where it would get snowed upon but at least wouldn’t fall to the forest floor—and stepped into the tub.

He let out a groan as he sank into the heavenly heat. “Oh my God, what a brilliant idea you had.”

“I’ve been known to have those once in a blue moon.”

Snow dotted Anthony’s dark hair, the flakes in the center of his head remaining whole while the ones on the side and on his fringe melted in the steam from the tub.

“How are we doing for time?” Anthony asked.

“Gonnae no worry, my phone’s got a very intrusive alarm set for ten minutes to midnight.” Martin rested his right arm on the edge of the tub to keep his bandaged hand dry, which left the entire limb exposed to the cold air.

“Was there ever a year where nothing bad happened on Christmas?”

Martin hesitated. Did he really want to go into the whole wedding story? “No. Never.”

“Surely some years were worse than others.” Anthony propped his chin on his drawn-up knees. “What’s the least-bad thing that happened to you on Christmas?”

An easy question. “When I was twenty, a cashpoint ate my debit card. I couldn’t get a replacement because it was Christmas, and Boxing Day is a bank holiday, so it was two days before I could pay for anything. There was no paying with your phone in those days.”

“I remember those dark times.” Anthony drew his arm out of the tub and held his palm up to the falling snow, the flakes vanishing on impact. “That does sound like the most boring possible calamity.”

The last thing Martin wanted was to be boring. “There actually was a year where nothing bad happened on Christmas.”

“Ooh, tell me more.”

Martin tried to work out a sane-sounding way to share the story, but decided on the raw truth. “When I was seventeen, I worked for a caterer. We had to do a Christmas wedding. I asked to have the holiday off, but it was either work Christmas or get sacked. I should have quit.”

“Why? I thought you said nothing bad happened.”

“Not that day. I was ever so careful. Not cutting myself. Not spilling anything. Not knocking over candles and setting the place ablaze.”

“And?”

“Everything went fine. Then two months later, the bride and groom divorced.”

“Oh, come on.” Anthony sent a light splash his way. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I can, and I did. But for those two months, I thought I was free. I utterly forgot about the Curse, I was so busy preparing for exams and applying to universities.” A gust of wind made him shiver, and he shifted down to get the hot water over his neck, nearly curling into a sitting fetal position. “The night before Valentine’s Day, one of my coworkers told me about the couple’s divorce. I pulled a sickie, went home, and scarcely left my bed all weekend. We’d just read Camus’ The Plague at school. I felt like I was the plague, one naebody could see coming. A misery bomb waiting to detonate.”

“‘A misery bomb.’ Listen to you.” Anthony slid his toes over Martin’s. “For what it’s worth, I’m not afraid of your curse.”

Martin swallowed hard, at this statement but also at this touch of warm, slick skin. “Why not?”

“Good question.” Anthony furrowed his brow, collecting his thoughts. “You’ve heard of the doldrums?”

“Sure. It’s like when you’re stuck in a rut.”

“Yeah, those are figurative doldrums, but they’re also an actual physical phenomenon.” His toes moved to caress the arches of Martin’s feet. “Where the trade winds converge near the thermal equator, the air moves vertically instead of horizontally, so there’s hardly any wind. It’s brutally hot.” One foot slid up over Martin’s ankle. “Sailors say the horizon never changes, and it feels like sunset’ll never come.”

“What’s this got to do with the Curse?”

Anthony’s foot went still. “I’ve been in the doldrums ever since I left Pittsburgh. You’re the first breeze I’ve felt in six months.”

“A breeze, aye?” Martin blew on the water in front of him, creating ripples that crested over Anthony’s submerged knees.

Anthony laughed through the purling cloud of steam. “Exactly. Ever since we met, I’ve felt unstuck. Like things are moving—maybe not my circumstances, not yet, but definitely on the inside. I feel ready to try again.”

“As a TV meteorologist?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll go back for my PhD in atmospheric sciences.”

“In Pittsburgh?”

“That would be easiest, since I’ve got friends there. But I want to see more of the world. And since the atmosphere is a planet-wide thing, I could go almost anywhere to study it.”

Their eyes met, and Martin tried to hide the way his mind was turning over the word anywhere .

He cleared his throat. “Still, it’s a shame to waste a face like yours in an ivory tower.”

Anthony smiled demurely. “All I know is I’m ready to explore what’s ahead. I might make a wrong turn, but that doesn’t scare me anymore.” His foot moved again, traveling up Martin’s calf. “That’s why your curse can’t hurt me. Even a small disaster would at least be movement. I’ll survive it and keep going.”

Martin reviewed the last two days, how Anthony had jolted him out of his certainty of the Curse’s inevitability. Maybe this man could dislodge his fear once and for all. And if Martin stopped being afraid…

Anthony’s other foot slid forward, toes tickling the back of Martin’s thigh. All thoughts fled.

Martin parted his knees. “I’m trusting you not to kick me in the baws.”

“Kicking is not what I have planned for them.” Anthony licked his lips as his foot trailed inside Martin’s thigh, sending a dozen shivers stampeding up his spine.

“Fuck…” Martin clung to the sides of the tub, the curved metal rim snug in the webbing between his fingers and palms.

Anthony repeated the maneuver with his other foot. “Is this okay?”

Martin couldn’t think of another word, much less speak it, so he simply nodded as fast as he could. Then he tilted his head back to rest it on the rim of the tub. The illuminated snowflakes streamed toward his face like stars in a hyperspace film scene. They were coming faster and wetter now, no longer wafting in fluffy flutters. The thought of the snow turning to rain made his heart ache, even as Anthony’s feet were setting him on fire.

“One more question,” Anthony said, “and then I’ll shut up.”

Martin’s pulse pounded. “Fire in.”

“Is the Curse worse when you’re naughty?”

Martin opened his eyes. “I never thought about it.”

“Really? That would be my first thought.”

“Not sure how I’d…” he swallowed hard as Anthony’s toes traveled over a particularly sensitive spot “…quantify my naughtiness.”

“True. We’d have to run experiments just to determine parameters.”

“I’d fancy that. A lot.” He ran his unbandaged hand up over Anthony’s knee and partway down his thigh, which sadly was as far as he could reach. “I want to try something risky now.”

“What’s that?”

“To kiss you without getting out of the tub.”

Anthony’s eyes widened. “That’ll be an engineering challenge, given the lack of space, but I have faith in you.”

“Okay.” Martin examined the layout of their limbs and chose his target. “Hold still.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not moving.”

Martin rose up and shifted forward, planting one knee between Anthony’s. There was no room for his other knee, so as he leaned in he held it aloft within the water in some sort of ballet posture he didn’t know the French word for.

Their mouths met, and it was well worth the chill as the wind whipped over his bare, wet shoulders, for the heat between their lips was enough to sustain him. Anthony clutched at Martin’s lower back, then his hands slid down…

Martin broke the kiss with a low growl. “Inside. Now.”

“Definitely.” Anthony looked at Martin’s outstretched position, balanced on one knee. “Need help?”

“Yes.”

Anthony steadied Martin until he was back in his original position. “Now we can get out of the tub.”

Neither of them moved.

“It’s gonnae be so cold when we stand up out of the hot water.”

“A serious boner killer.”

“Aye. But we could sort that, once we’re inside.”

“True. Okay, one, two, three!”

Neither of them moved.

“Coward,” Martin said.

“‘Coward’?” Anthony reached down, rummaging for something under the water. “Would a coward do this?” He held up the bathtub plug by its chain.

“Ohhhh ya bam.”

“Ready?” Anthony took Martin’s hand and held on tight. “We’ll jump together. On three.”

“Three!” Martin lurched to his feet, dragging Anthony with him.

The cold air was like a million tiny knives piercing him all at once. Every inch of skin shuddered, as though it wanted to escape his body and dive back into the tub’s warm refuge.

“Fuck! Fuck! Oh my God! Fuck!” was the general nature of their shared monologue as they grabbed their dressing gowns and fled naked through the snow to the door.

Inside Pockaway’s kitchenette, they scrubbed themselves with the last dry towels from the shelf. On the sofa, Betty arched an eyebrow at them, then returned to indifferent snoozing.

“Dry but still cold,” Anthony said, teeth chattering.

“Bed’s warm.”

“Yes.” Anthony slung the towel over his shoulder and started up the ladder, two rungs at a time.

Martin took a moment to admire the view of him from below, then followed. When he got to the top, Anthony had switched on the faerie lights lining the pitched ceiling and was now pulling back the covers. He dived in, then let out a wee shriek.

“Sheets are cold!” Anthony said. “I should’ve put on flannel ones.”

“It’s all right.” Martin climbed into bed with him and tugged the downy duvet up over their heads. “I promise not to deduct a star.”

The moment Anthony pulled Martin close—with nothing between them now, no clothes, no water, and only a trivial number of air molecules—a war began to rage within.

One part of him wanted to go slow, to savor every touch, to relish the discovery of each new inch of Martin’s skin, to indelibly inscribe on his memory the sound of each moan and hitching breath.

The other part of him felt midnight bearing down like a freight train. He’d forgotten to check the clock when they’d come inside, and in a way he was glad. Better to dwell in the uncertainty and all the urgency it brought to this moment.

After all, the urgency was fucking hot.

They kissed and writhed, pressing so close it felt like they were trying to get inside each other’s skin. Hands competed for inches caressed and parts grasped. In an unspoken agreement, their shared destination seemed assured.

And then Martin began to laugh.

Anthony let go of Martin’s waist. “You ticklish there?”

“No. Not ticklish anywhere.”

“Then what’s so funny?”

Martin rolled onto his back. “Och, I cannae get that fucking donkey song out of my head.”

“What, Dominick?”

“Aye, and all I can remember is the chorus, so there’s just a steady stream of ‘Hee-haw, hee-haw’ playing over and over.” He knocked on his skull. “It started when we came inside. I’ve not a Scooby why.”

“I have a surefire remedy.” Anthony braced himself against the impending chill, then threw off the covers. “Be right back.”

He went downstairs, being extra careful on the ladder—not because of the Curse, of course. He grabbed his phone from his coat pocket, then returned to the loft.

Martin held up the covers to let him back into bed. “What’s your remedy?”

“Best way to squash an earworm? Listen to different music.” Anthony tapped the Wi-Fi password into his phone, then opened his music-streaming app. “Except now I’m worried you’ll hate whatever I pick.” From Martin’s conversation with Katrina, Anthony knew which bands he liked, but that didn’t mean he’d find their music sexy.

“Let me choose from the artists you follow. That way we know both of us like it.”

“Genius.”

Martin scrolled through the list, occasionally raising an eyebrow, which Anthony didn’t ask him to clarify. “This album’ll work.” He tapped the screen. “Not too emo, I hope?”

The haunting, sparse tones of The xx’s “Angel” emanated from the tiny speakers above their heads, one on each side of the A-shaped ceiling.

“Love it. Cool but earnest. Romantic but not sentimental.” Anthony set his phone on the floor beside the bed. “Plus it gives me 2012 nostalgia.”

Martin propped his head on his hand. “Do you wish it was then?”

“Hell no.” He drew his fingertip along Martin’s jawline. “I don’t want to be anywhere or any-when but here and now.”

Martin turned his head and kissed the inside of Anthony’s wrist, and the heat of his mouth made it and every other pulse point throb.

The spare, haunting guitar and intertwined voices rolled over them. The songs ached with yearning and sometimes loss, yet they seemed to fit this moment, this episode that should have been pure fun and mindless orgasm-chasing but somehow felt like…more, maybe because they could never be…more. They would part in two days because of circumstance, not because of any rift between them. Their memories would never be bittersweet, but simply sweet.

It felt like freedom.

They moved against each other now, which chafed a bit, but Anthony barely minded. All he wanted, needed, was to come with this man, and each kiss and breath and thrust brought them closer to?—

A siren blared. Martin bolted upright, wresting himself from Anthony’s embrace.

“What the fuck is that?” Anthony’s words came out high and tight from being on the verge.

“My alarm. Ten minutes to midnight.”

“Already? Are you sure you set it for eleven-fifty and not, like, eleven-thirty?”

“I triple-checked it.” Martin threw back the covers, letting in a merciless draft.

The alarm paused for a moment, then blared louder than ever.

Anthony covered his ears. “Is that the Star Trek red-alert sound?” It would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t wrenching him in two with each blast.

Betty let out a long, low howl to accompany the siren.

“Sorry, lass,” Martin called out to her as he descended the ladder.

With a wince, Anthony rolled over and picked up his own phone. It truly was 11:50.

He blinked. 11:51 now.

This here was the real test. If Martin weren’t a hundred percent committed to the Curse, now would be the perfect time for doubt to surface.

The alarm was silenced. Anthony held his breath. Would Martin return to him, ready to trade his lifelong superstition for what they could share right here and now?

Downstairs, Martin cleared his throat. “You need to go.”

Anthony closed his eyes for a long moment, weighing a dozen counterarguments. But the certainty in Martin’s voice left nothing to debate. “Okay.”

With each step down the ladder, his feet wanted to cling more to the smooth wooden rungs. How could he leave now? How couldn’t he?

In the living room, a bare-chested Martin was buttoning his own trousers. He handed Anthony his jeans and underwear. “Please hurry. Sorry.”

The words Don’t worry about it and It’s okay stuck in Anthony’s throat. His pants slid on cold and damp, destroying what was left of his arousal. “Can I…” He gestured to the bathroom.

“If you’re quick.” Martin avoided his eyes, checking his phone screen. “I’d rather you be as far from here as possible by midnight.”

“Right. Never mind.” Anthony grabbed his shirt and slid it on inside out, not that it mattered. “Chop chop, Betty Blue. Time to skedaddle.”

Martin picked up Anthony’s coat. “Are you angry?”

Anthony shook his head, though probably not hard enough to be convincing. “Just frustrated, and not with you. Never with you.” He pulled his sweater over his head, then let Martin help him into his coat. As he snapped Betty’s leash onto her collar, he said, “I can come back tomorrow after midnight if you want, unless you need a good night’s sleep before your flight.”

“Please come back. I don’t care if I sleep at all tomorrow night.”

Anthony stepped close to him so they were chest to chest. “Then I’ll see you in twenty-four hours and ten minutes.”

“Six minutes now.”

“On the dot.” Anthony kissed him, and it took all his will power not to turn it into a please oh pretty please let me stay kiss. “Can I wish you a merry Christmas, or is that like telling an actor ‘good luck’ before they go onstage? Like, is there a Christmas-Curse version of ‘Break a leg’?”

“Don’t wish anything.” Martin pressed his forehead to Anthony’s. “Just come back to me.”

His tone was so serious and intense, Anthony sensed all he had to do to be invited to stay was ask. But that would drive Martin batty. “Three feet of snow couldn’t keep me away.”

Martin gave a crooked smile and opened the door. As he crossed the threshold ahead of Betty, Anthony pivoted for one last kiss. “I hope your—aaaugh!”

His feet slipped out from under him. He bounced off the doorjamb and into Martin. Together they tumbled back into the house, limbs tangled. The floor came up fast and hard, as did Martin’s knee near Anthony’s groin.

The pain was both blinding and deafening, and he was only dimly aware of Betty bouncing around them, snuffling their faces and woofing her concern. He focused on clutching her leash as tightly as he could.

Martin began to extricate himself from their pile of woe. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Anthony gasped. “Nothing broken, though.” Thank God it wasn’t a direct hit to the family jewels, but his gut still felt twisted like taffy.

Martin sat up. “Oh fuck.”

Anthony managed to roll over. As his senses returned, there came the unmistakable snare-drum rat-a-tat-tat against the tub, against the roof, against the snowy ground.

“Sleet?” He pushed past Betty to look out the door, his eyes still watering. “Shhhhhhit.”

“That’s not sleet, mate. That’s ice pellets.”

“That’s what sleet is.”

“No, sleet is a mix of rain and snow.”

“I’m a motherfucking meteorologist, I think I know what motherfucking sleet—” Wait. This was another of those two-nations-divided-by-a-common-language thing. “We’re both right. Here, in the good ol’ US of A, sleet is what we call this nightmare.” He grabbed the porch railing and dragged himself to his feet. “It was snowing when we went inside. I can’t believe I didn’t hear it on the roof when it changed to sleet.”

“Must have been the music.”

“That and our heavy breathing.” Anthony fished his keys from his pocket. “I’ll take it slow on the roads.”

“Are you off your head?” Martin seized his arm. “You cannae drive in this mess. Ice is ten times as dangerous as snow. You said they don’t even grit some of the roads between here and your house.”

“What choice do I have?” He stepped out onto the porch and turned to Martin. “If I stay, something bad will happen. Right?”

“But if you leave now in this—” Martin put his face in his hands. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuuuuuuck!”

Anthony waited, the ice pelting the top of his head. He wouldn’t push Martin toward one side or the other of this agonizing choice, but it would be first-degree dumbassery to drive in an ice storm unless it was an emergency.

And that there was the million-dollar question: Was this an emergency? How far could this madness go? Far enough to risk life and limb, not just Anthony’s but Betty’s, too?

Martin dropped his hands. “This is stupid. Come inside.”

This was it. Everything Martin had dreaded. Everything he’d flown across the ocean to avoid. Despite all his plans and efforts, he would not be alone on Christmas.

He could have played it safe and not gone to the Bellos’ party. Or he could have sent Anthony and Betty home straight away instead of inviting them in. He’d played it too close to the edge. He’d wavered in his quest to be a hermit, and now there would be consequences.

But he wasn’t sorry. No matter what happened in the next twenty-four hours, he’d never regret sheltering Anthony and Betty from the storm.

Anthony took off his coat and sat at the other end of the couch. Betty hopped up between them, looked at them both in turn, then settled down with her chin on Anthony’s thigh.

A clear, cutting memory hit Martin, of Jarvis a year ago, after they’d been reunited. He’d laid his needle nose on Martin’s leg just like that, gazing up with what looked like an apology but was likely a mere examination of Martin’s emotional state—or even a plea for treats. Then he’d become a “Velcro dog” for two weeks, following Martin around the flat, his hound-y independence temporarily stifled by the Curse.

Or maybe it had been the other way around. Maybe Martin had followed Jarvis.

Here and now there was the silence of anticipation.

Anthony switched on his phone screen, which showed 11:58. “So what happens at midnight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does a dark cloud descend upon you? Or maybe three spirits roll up, one at a time, to show you the error of your ways?”

“Yes, precisely at midnight we shall be visited by the Ghost of Christmas Fuck You.” He scratched the side of his face with his middle finger to illustrate.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t make fun.”

“It’s okay. The Curse deserves mockery.”

The silence stretched out again.

“I could stay up until it turns to rain,” Anthony said finally. “ If it turns to rain.”

“Nonsense. You’ll stay the night. If you want.”

“Of course I want. There’s nothing I?—”

Martin’s phone vibrated in his hand. Then it sounded a long goooooooooong .

Anthony stared at the device. “Is that Big Ben?”

“No.” Martin cut short the alarm in the middle of the second gong.

“That is definitely Big Ben.”

“Shut up.” He looked at Anthony, and they started to laugh. “God, I’m so ridiculous.”

“No comment.” Anthony’s phone bleeped, and he pulled it out. “It’s Mom just getting home from Mass, wondering if I’m dead in a ditch. I’ll let her know the situation.” He thumbed in a response with one hand, stroking Betty’s head with the other. Then he put his phone aside. “Do you want to stay up or go back to bed?”

Martin stared up at the loft. His face felt tight and twisted, so he was probably doing a shite job of hiding his concern. “What if-what if something goes horribly wrong?”

“We’ll be careful on the ladder.”

“I mean, what if something goes horribly wrong in bed?” The potential catastrophes were limitless.

“Not sure what could go horribly wrong with a couple of hand jobs. Because that is all I’m prepared to do at this juncture in our acquaintanceship.”

“‘Acquaintanceship’?”

“Sorry, that sounded meaningless. Friendship. No, not friendship. Whateverthisis-ship. Obviously not a relationship.”

“Obviously.” Martin rubbed his eye to hide the flinch of disappointment. “Dunno if I can relax enough for sex just now.”

“Then we can sleep. Or talk. Or…” Anthony gestured to the cupboard built into the wall below the TV “…play Backgammon or something.”

“Backgammon. Christ. It’s been decades.”

“Good, I’ll kick your ass.” Anthony got up and went to the cabinet. “Especially since it’s Christmas, which means you’re never gonna roll doubles.”

“I didn’t say I had bad luck every moment of the day.”

Anthony held up the folded wooden board. “Prove it.”

Five minutes later, they were hunched over the board in bed, eating the pizza Martin had ordered the previous night. Anthony wore Martin’s long-sleeved Nice ’n’ Sleazy T-shirt, along with his extra pair of tartan sleep trousers.

Thanks to lucky throws—and probably skill—Anthony quickly formed a wall of men in his home board, stranding Martin’s two lonely 24-point men. Martin, for his part, repeatedly rolled the weakest combination, a 1 and a 2.

“Has anyone tried to adopt Betty yet?” he asked Anthony after another anemic roll.

“A bunch of people have applied. BMDs are a popular breed right now.” Anthony rattled his dice in his hand. “The applicants weren’t a good match for her, so I said no, and they adopted other dogs. The foster gets the last word, since we know the dogs the best.”

Martin frowned as Anthony pounced on his lone man at the 11 point and placed it on the bar to start its journey all over again. “Is it possible that nobody but you is a good match for Betty?”

A warm smile lit up Anthony’s face, but he shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair to adopt her when I don’t know how long I’ll be here. She deserves a stable home.”

Martin rolled the dice but couldn’t bring his piece off the bar and thus had to pass. “I don’t think I could foster. I’d never let them go.”

“Everybody says that. But when you watch them prance out your door with a family who’ll love them the rest of their lives, and you know you made all that happiness possible? It’s worth the short-term heartbreak.” He rolled the dice. “Hell yeah, double sixes again!”

The game proceeded to its obvious crushing end. “Can we play something with no luck involved?” Martin asked.

Anthony flipped the board over to the chess side. “Voilà! But it’s gotta be blitz chess with a timer or I’ll fall asleep.”

Martin downloaded a chess timer app onto his phone while Anthony set up the pieces and put away their pizza plates. For the first game, they each had ten minutes, and Martin won in nine. They set the second game’s limit to five minutes per player, and chaos broke out, hands colliding, pieces scattering, and their laughter echoing against the low ceiling. This game, Martin won with ten seconds to spare.

“Yaaaaaassss!” He tipped over Anthony’s king. “Checkmate, motherfucker.”

“Oh my God, you make that word sound adorable.” Anthony leaned over the board and kissed him.

It was their first kiss in more than an hour. Their first kiss on Christmas.

Martin cupped Anthony’s face with both hands and kissed him back. All at once the absurdity struck him like a shovel to the back of the head. Why was he playing board games when these lips were right here?

“Gonnae let’s put this away.”

“Yep. Here.” Anthony held the velvet drawstring bag open. “I don’t want to take a bishop up the ass while we’re rolling around.”

Martin stuffed the pieces into the bag, then Anthony placed them inside the board, which he folded shut and set on the floor in the tiny space between the bed and the wall.

He must have seen hesitation in Martin’s eyes, for he said, “It’ll be okay.”

Martin let out a long breath. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Anthony grazed his lips over Martin’s, a contact so electric it set every nerve alight. Then he took Martin in his arms and lowered him to the bed. “I won’t let anything bad happen.” He drew the backs of his fingers over Martin’s cheek. “Just good things.”

“Okay.” Martin closed his eyes and willed his muscles to relax, every curve and angle of his body melding with the mattress beneath him.

“First I’m gonna get us naked like before.” Anthony started unbuttoning Martin’s shirt. “Because things might get messy, and judging by the size of your suitcase, you didn’t bring a ton of extra shirts and PJ pants.”

“Aye, what you’re wearing is the last of them.” He sat up halfway so Anthony could remove his shirt. Then, to save time, he took off his sleep trousers while Anthony did the same.

They reunited under the covers, like before, but…not like before. Not hasty and desperate, trying to beat the clock into submission. For once, time was on their side.

When Anthony finally took him in hand, his touch was gentle, not grasping, and this tenderness was somehow more stimulating, made Martin’s blood surge swifter than ever. He came hard and fast as Anthony whispered wordless encouragement.

Martin opened his eyes to the slanted ceiling, his swimming vision making the faerie lights dance.

“See?” Anthony murmured, brushing his lips over Martin’s cheek. “Now don’t move. Let me find the towel I so genius-ly brought upstairs earlier.”

“’Kay.” He stretched his arms overhead and gave a happy sigh.

Anthony returned with the towel, which was cool and damp but in a good way.

Once he was tidied up, Martin tossed the towel aside. “Your turn.”

Anthony lay back on his pillow. “Careful. I don’t have one of those sweet foreskins that make jerking off so convenient.”

“Nae bother.” Martin shifted down in the bed. “I can help with that.”

At the first feel and taste of Anthony’s smooth, rigid length, Martin let out a moan of longing. Anthony echoed him with his own incoherent cry, and by the time he signaled he was ready to come, Martin had made him so slick it took but a few firm, rapid strokes of hand to carry him over the edge.

Martin eyed Anthony’s glistening abs, wishing he could lick him clean. But they didn’t know each other well enough for that, not yet.

As he reached for the towel, Martin stopped. What was that thought, not yet ? They had no not yet . Not yet was for people with a future beyond the following day.

“You okay?” Anthony asked.

“Fine.” How had he noticed Martin’s momentary pause when he should have been in a hazy oblivion? “I couldn’t find the towel, but I’ve got it now.”

Anthony watched as Martin wiped him clean, using enough pressure to not tickle. “Okay, now come warm me up.” Martin pulled the duvet over them, and Anthony slung an arm over his chest, soothing but not smothering. “So far, so good, yeah?”

Martin smiled as he closed his eyes. “Yeah. So far, so very?—”

The lights went out. Downstairs the refrigerator’s hum turned to a rattle, then silence.

“Fucking hell.”

“Well, that’s not great.” Anthony reached over the side of the bed. A moment later his phone screen gleamed. “Wi-Fi’s out, but I’ve got mobile data. I’ll report the outage on the electric company app and see how long it’ll be.” He put an arm behind his head as he tapped through the screens with his thumb. Then he made a twisty face. “They estimate four to six hours.”

“So no heat either?”

“Nope. But we can make our own heat,” he said, shifting closer so they were hip to hip.

“What about Betty?”

“Her kind come from the Swiss Alps. She’ll be fine.”

“Aye, she’s fluffy, but she’s also old.”

“You’re right.” Anthony sat up. “Luckily for all of us, that couch folds out into a bed.”

Somehow in the dark, Anthony made up the futon—which was intended for at most two people, ideally children—adding the pillows and duvet from upstairs.

Meanwhile, Martin went around the house, checking the locks on the door and windows, then double-checking them.

“Why are you doing that?” Anthony asked.

“So Betty won’t escape. Cannae believe I didn’t think of it earlier.” He spread his hands over the kitchen counter. “No food she can nick, either.”

“Unless she figures out how to open the fridge to indulge her calamari obsession, she should be safe.” Anthony climbed into the middle of the bed, which wasn’t a tenth as comfy as the one upstairs, then patted the space to his right to beckon Betty. “But I understand why you need to check.”

“Thanks.” Martin came in, now wearing a heavy sweatshirt in addition to his “trackies,” as he called them. “Sorry you’ll never know the me that’s not daft.”

A dull pang settled into Anthony’s chest at the thought of saying goodbye. But then it passed. “Never say never , Martin.”

Martin paused briefly as he lifted the covers. “Okay,” he said in a tone Anthony couldn’t interpret but that intrigued him just the same. He lay down between Anthony and the left edge of the bed.

“Now I’m super toasty.” Lying on his back, Anthony put out a hand on each side to pat his companions. As he touched them, he thought about Martin asking if he could let go of Betty when she was adopted. His instant answer had been of course , and it had been the truth. Temporary loves were all the more meaningful, as long as one appreciated them in the present instead of waiting until they were gone to miss them.

And right now, he was appreciating the heck out of Betty and Martin.

He turned his head to the latter. “Does Jarvis sleep with you in bed?”

“Naw, he likes his space. I think it’s because racing greyhounds each have their own sleeping area when they’re at the track or in the kennel. Plus he’s so bony I don’t think he’d be a good cuddler.” Martin let out a long sigh. “I miss him, though.”

Anthony reached under the covers and found Martin’s hand. “You’ll see him again soon. And you said he loves staying at your mom’s.”

“Aye. Here, look.” Martin’s phone screen glowed in the dark. He opened his messaging app, then tapped on a conversation and brought up an image. “He’s having a pure mad carry-on with his favorite blonde.”

The photos showed Jarvis and a golden retriever playing tug-of-war with a rope toy, then lounging together on big adjacent oval dog beds. In the third photo, Jarvis wore a red bandana with Christmas trees on it and had his nose nearly touching the camera, giving his entire head a goofy distorted view through the fish-eye lens.

Anthony gave back the phone. “I bet he misses you, though, deep down in that oversized heart of his.” He scratched Betty behind one ear. She gave a soft groan and leaned her broad, heavy head into his hand. Before his love for her could burst him open, he asked, “What would you be doing right now if you were there?”

“It’s half six in Scotland, so ideally still sleeping. But on Christmas Eve my family always watches the snowman.”

Another bewildering British tradition. “Watch a snowman do what? And what if there’s no snow?”

“It’s a program, ya numpty,” Martin said with a laugh. “You don’t know The Snowman ? Based on the children’s book?”

“Nope.”

“Channel 4 shows it every Christmas Eve. Millions gather round their tellies every year. YouTube has the version introduced by David Bowie, so watch it if you have the chance.”

“I will.” Hearing the wistfulness in Martin’s voice raised another question in Anthony’s mind. “Do you wish you hadn’t come here?”

“I’m glad I came.” Martin put his phone away and rolled to face him. “And not just cos of the Curse.”

Anthony wished he could see Martin’s expression better in the dark. How weighty were his feelings right now?

“Me, too,” he replied, since that covered all bases from I’m glad you feel good about your decision to My life is so much better with you in it . Both were true, but one was chummy while the other verged on full-bore romantic. “And now that the bad thing has happened, you can relax for the rest of Christmas.”

Martin gave a short grunt. “Dunno that this power outage counts as the bad thing. This is fun, kipping with you and the goodest girl in the world.”

“Sorry it’s so crowded.”

“If I was claustrophobic,” Martin said with a yawn, “I’d never have rented a tiny home. Talking of which, why’s it called Pockaway? Is that a Native American name, like Potomac and Shenandoah?”

Anthony would have laughed if he weren’t so drowsy. “It’s a mashup of pocket and hideaway . When Mom named our rental homes, she used a thesaurus to find synonyms for tiny .”

That was the last thing Anthony said before he fell asleep. He woke some time later to find the house still dark, as was the sky outside. Sleet still peppered the living room window above him, though less torrentially than before.

Lying on his right side, he reached out for Betty. Nothing met his hand but a cold duvet.

Aw hell. Had Martin been right to worry about her traipsing off while they slept?

He called her name softly. The bed shifted behind him, and a moment later a long tongue licked the back of his ear, bringing with it a waft of dog breath. “Jesus, you scared me,” he whispered.

Wait a minute.

Anthony turned over. Betty was now ensconced between him and Martin, who had been relegated to the very very verrrrry edge of the mattress. “Why, you big old bed hog, you.” He reached over and gently shook Martin’s shoulder. “Wake up, buttercup.”

“Already awake,” Martin said in a clear voice.

“Get over here on my other side. She does not need to be in the middle.”

Martin grumbled his reluctance but got out of bed. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

“Careful, don’t trip.”

Martin slid around the foot of the bed, nearly knocking the TV off the wall, then got back in on Anthony’s right, where Betty had been before.

The maneuver made Anthony think of an old nursery rhyme. “There were ten in the bed,” he sang, “and the little one said, ‘Roll over! Roll over!’”

“You’re impossibly cute, but please don’t gie’s a new earworm.” He snuggled in close to Anthony, giving off a shiver as their body heat combined and spread to encompass them both. “Thank you.”

“For stopping singing?”

“For giving me a place to feel safe. Not just this house, but right here.”

Anthony wrapped his arms around Martin and held him until sleep recaptured them both.