20. The Decision

20

THE DECISION

PATRICK

"This was exquisite. We have to do it here again next year," Mom says as she hugs me goodbye. The wool of her coat scratches at my palms.

I catch Quinn's bewildered expression over my mother's right shoulder.

He was up in our room for a while on that call. I wonder what he and his mom were talking about. I hope it wasn't anything like the conversation I overheard him having with Veronica. After last night that would crush me even more.

"We'll see," I say before kissing Mom on the cheek. Even with the help of the elves, this evening was exhausting. Granted, last night I expended more energy than ever before.

My aunt, uncle, cousin, and his family all left when the kids started to crash. Now it's just my immediate family and Nan saying their goodbyes.

Dad sets a hand on my shoulder. "Call me if you want to talk out this job opportunity without being so cryptic. We gave you a good head on these shoulders. Use it."

The star of the Hargrave brood hugs me next, making me feel like an overwound clock about to shoot off its springs. "Merry Christmas. Good to see you. Be well." All my life, Bradley has outshined me. But it's not until he hugs me that I realize he's even got a couple inches on me, height-wise, giving a whole new meaning to overshadowed.

If only he'd seen me last night. If only they'd all seen me last night.

Nan hip-checks Bradley out of the way. "My turn."

"We're going to go warm up the car," Dad says. He, Mom, and Bradley step out into the cold night. "We'll pull the car up, okay, Mom?"

"Sure." Nan waves her hand at them as they go. "Thank you for a lovely Christmas, Patrick and Quinn. I probably don't have many more left in me, so it means a lot. Even if I had to wear this stupid necklace." At some point during dessert, the batteries must have died. It's lightless around her neck now, which makes it look more ridiculous. "If this ninety-year-old can gift you one thing on this special holiday, it's to remind you that life only gives you so many chances for adventure. If this new job and moving to a new place are going to bring joy and adventure, then don't listen to your parents. Do it!"

She hugs me as tight as her short, frail arms can manage, then sees herself out.

Quinn shuts and locks the door, presses his back into the wood, and sighs. "That was a lot."

The past twenty-four hours have been a lot. That much we can both wordlessly agree on.

We make our way back into the dining room to inspect the mess left behind. Quinn insisted my parents not pitch in to clean up. Probably out of pride. But now we're staring down vacuuming, laundry, and multiple runs of our barely-working dishwasher.

"Do you think the elves will come and take care of this? Because if not, I don't have the energy right now," Quinn says. He waves a hand at the wreckage of a holiday well spent.

"Me neither," I say. "Hot chocolate?"

"Yes, please."

When the last of the Swiss Miss has been used up, we settle on the couch in the living room. For a while, we stare silently into our mugs. Wisps of steam swirl up around the globs of whipped cream and tickle my nose. My mind races with a million and one ways to begin this conversation.

The ticks of the second hand on the wall clock over Quinn's head grow louder. I haven't been this nervous to talk to Quinn about something since I was about to propose.

Our relationship hangs in the balance of our next choice.

I see how hard teaching has weighed on Quinn these past months. I want to be able to turn to him and say, "If it's not bringing you joy anymore, let it go."

But we don't have the savings to do that.

And I don't have the guts.

Because if I plant the idea, and our relationship is no longer bringing him joy, who's to say he won't use the same sentiment to let me go, too?

I can turn this around. I can be the man Quinn and my family need me to be.

I must be wearing a look of consternation while I'm thinking hard because Quinn covers his mouth with his hand. "I have a whipped cream mustache, don't I?"

"No." I shake my head.

"Then, what is it?" Quinn asks.

"I'm just trying to find the words to tell you that I think we should go to the North Pole," I say finally.

"Those words were pretty clear," he says.

"Okay. So, I think it's a good idea," I say. "We had fun last night, didn't we?"

"The most fun, but we can't just leave. You heard your dad. What about the house?" Quinn asks.

"The council says they take care of that."

He bites his lip. "My class?"

"I assume they arrange for someone else to take it over."

Quinn's eyes ping downward. "That might be for the best." He doesn't expand on that. We lapse into momentary silence. "I just wonder if maybe you should go by yourself."

My hope falters. "I don't want to go by myself."

"I don't want you to go by yourself, either, but maybe that's what we both need." Quinn seems to be puzzling this out in real time. His expression shifts too quickly for me to put a name to any of his emotions. "What if we need time apart?"

"Like a separation?" I don't know why I keep asking questions I won't like the answers to. I failed at being a junior architect. I refuse to fail at being a husband, too.

Quinn visibly shivers. " Separation is too strong of a word."

"What other word would you use for us living a million miles apart?" I ask. I set my mug down on a coaster on the coffee table and shuffle over to Quinn on my knees. I'm not above begging. "Quinn, I know I messed up by not telling you I got fired, and I know I should've asked you before agreeing to host Christmas, and I know there are a million other injustices I should be apologizing for right now, but instead of telling you poorly, let me show you how sorry I am."

"Pat, I don't want you to be sorry," he says, setting his own mug aside. "I want things—us—to be different." His eyes scan the room. He's clearly documenting the places where, even beneath stunning, elf-done decorations, the decay of this house can be seen.

"It will be different." I grab his knees. "I'll learn how to cook so you don't have to. We'll leave this house you hate. Let's get away from all of this. Let's fall in love again."

Quinn's frazzled expression gradually cracks into a wide, toothy smile. "And you say you aren't good at words."

"Maybe I'm good at them when I have to be." I beam back at him. A compliment seems like a good sign. "It's only one year, and then we're back. One year is nothing in the scheme of a lifetime." But it could mean everything in the lifetime of our relationship, I think. I could pass out from the nervousness bouncing inside me. Quinn must feel how sweaty my palms are through the fabric of his slacks. "Quinn, let's do this."

Quinn's nod grows slowly bigger. "Okay."

"Okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Okay."

We connect over a chocolate-flavored kiss that steals my breath away. I press into it, extending it. Needing to be close to him.

"Shouldn't we start packing?" he asks. Without completely realizing what I was doing, I've straddled him on the couch. I run my hands luxuriously through his curls. "We move across the world in a few short hours."

"That's a problem for twenty minutes from now." I breathe into Quinn's neck. I trail kisses up his soft skin and around his cute, winged-out earlobe. "I still haven't given you your Christmas gift yet."

Quinn melts like a marshmallow against me. "Oh, in that case, what should I unwrap first?" he whispers back. His willingness and growing excitement are straight-up shots of relief.

I'm about to kiss him once more before removing my shirt when we're interrupted by a thud on the roof, an onslaught of gold glitter raining down from the ceiling, and a scandalized elf standing at the foot of our fireplace.

"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!" Hobart shields his eyes with his hand. He turns away with hyper speed. "I didn't mean to interrupt. We knew you made a decision so I arrived as quickly as I could."

I jostle up to standing. I clear my throat and smooth down my hair. "It's okay, Hobart. I guess we'll start getting our stuff together?" Quinn looks at me from the couch. His swollen, plum-colored lips tip into a smile as he places a pillow over his crotch.

"No need," Hobart says. "Like the council told you, everything—and I do mean everything —will be provided for you. All you need to bring is yourselves. The sleigh is up on the roof whenever you're ready."

"Are we ready?" I ask Quinn when he's decent enough to stand without embarrassment.

He lets out an audible exhale. "As ready as I'll ever be."

The two of us plant ourselves near the fireplace. I take one last look around the living room. Goodbye and good riddance. With that fizzing back in my fingertips, I take Quinn by the hand, and say to Hobart, "Let's go!"