48. Making Amends

48

MAKING AMENDS

PATRICK

48 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

Nobody in the North Pole knows I have Quinn's wedding ring fastened to a chain around my neck alongside my own. I wear it at all times.

Nicholas handed it over to me after our run-in the other night in the North Pole Headquarters. It feels wrong to put the ring in a box. The band rests against my chest. Bounces in counterpoint to my heartbeat.

That night and many nights since, I've binged memories like they are seasons of my favorite TV show. Revisiting moments from our past has given me more perspective about our future.

Time has changed us. Viewing the memories like that—switching between my perspective and Quinn's—bolded and circled those changes. Made me realize that we're not the same people we were when we met. We act a little different, we look a little different, and that means we need to love a little differently, too.

At turns, I've been selfish. Offering gestures instead of fixes.

No wonder Quinn wanted space.

On the other side of this revelation, I'm reinvigorated to win Quinn back. His trust, his heart, and then some.

I'm in Toy Maker Tower. Six helpful elves unravel the delicate, hefty scroll of the Nice list across my large desk. We're do ing things the old-fashioned way here with a quill pen and ink canister. I'm making handwritten edits as the magic still attempts to reset itself.

I'm only on the G-names when Hobart knocks before entering with a large burlap sack filled to the brim with letters. "Time for a little break from list-checking, Santa Patrick. We've got some wishes to read over and grant."

The six other elves exit. It's just me, Hobart, and a mountain of sealed envelopes. It's our job to read through them, cross-reference the Naughty and Nice lists, and send the approved wishes to production for fulfillment.

Even though it's taxing, and my eyes have to strain, I love it. There's something calming about going through these. Different languages magically translate themselves as I read, and misspelled words rearrange themselves on the page to make more sense. If I focus hard enough, it's like I can hear the voice of the writer as clearly as if they were standing right in front of me.

This pile Hobart has brought us takes several hours to get through. The closer we get to Christmas the more letters come in and the faster production has to work to ensure no approved wish goes ungranted. This can mean long shifts, late nights, and steady streams of coffee with peppermint creamer to keep me going.

We're about to take a break for the day when Hobart slips me an extra envelope out from the front pocket of his dark green overalls. He sets it down on the desk while whistling almost too casually.

The return address draws my eye. It's my childhood home. And Bradley's name above it. The handwriting is blocky and young-looking.

"Bart, what is—"

He's gone. Vanished into thin air. The chair he was sitting in swivels and squeaks in his absence.

Inside the envelope, there's an old wish letter Bradley wrote from when he was a teen. Mom made us write letters to Santa every year. No matter if we claimed to believe or not. A week before Christmas, she'd set out pens and paper after dinner and demand our undivided attention on the task. Even Dad.

When I got older, I always thought she was stealing them away, reading them, and making sure she purchased exactly what we wanted off our lists. I never suspected she was posting them to the North Pole.

It reads:

Dear Santa,

First off, thanks for the many wonderful gifts you brought me and my family last year. Every one of them was greatly appreciated. I hope you had a nice long rest after a busy year of planning.

I laugh. Even at eighteen, he was cordial. And if he was eighteen, that made me… freshly thirteen. The year I began to realize I might not be like all the other boys.

Now for the purpose of my correspondence.

I'm writing to you this year with a wish not for myself but for my brother.

He doesn't care for me much, which is his right, but I've started to notice a change in his behavior.

I stop reading for a second. That statement is hard to swallow.

He comes home from school sullen. He shuts himself in his room. He's grown quieter.

I don't think he'd talk to me if I asked what was wrong, but I'll admit that I'm worried.

Perhaps this is completely out of your purview, but I was hoping you could maybe gift him something—nothing flashy— that shows him how loved he is for who he is. I'm not sure it will fix things, but maybe it's worth a shot.

Thanks in advance for your consideration.

Warmly yours,

Bradley Hargrave

I'm out of my chair before I even finish reading the sign-off. In headquarters, I punch in my own name and pull up that Christmas. For the life of me, I can't remember what I got. I scrub the memory for a moment, a look of elation, a shout of validation.

Instead, toward the middle, there is a quiet moment. My hands unwrap a one-hundred-and-twenty pack of artist-grade colored pencils. Up until then, I'd sensed disapproval from my parents over my affinity for drawing. They saw it as childish, a hobby, a time-suck. I glowed, thinking this was from them.

I read the tagline for the brand: THE RAINBOW AWAITS. I was slowly beginning to understand myself as some flavor of queer. My eyes landed on guys longer than girls at the movies or the mall. I knew the rainbow flag as the symbol of pride. At thirteen, I took that as a sign—even if unintended—that if and when I came out, I'd be accepted.

Now I comb back through the memory record. When I turn the pencil set around to show my parents, there isn't knowingness or support in their expressions. But when I zoom in on Bradley's reaction, the side of his mouth tips up slightly in a smile. Like a teen who knows his wish had been granted.

I'm crying now. Fat, salty tears running down my hot cheeks.

Pulling out my phone, I call Bradley. The call connects after a single ring. He must hear the tears before I speak because he asks, "Patrick, what's happened?"

I sniffle. "Nothing. Or everything. I don't know."

He proffers a small apology to someone on the other end of the line. There are muffled footfalls and a door closing and a soft sigh. "Are Mom and Dad okay?"

"Yes," I say. Though, how am I to know? I've been ignoring them since I got here. Chalking up the neglect to a need for my attention elsewhere.

"Are you okay?" Bradley asks. His voice is sanded down. But still, it pries me open.

"No," I admit. "Not really." He patiently waits for the blubbering and the heavy breathing to end. "I'm sorry. You're probably at work. Busy. I—"

"Patrick, that's not important. Why have you called? You never call." He doesn't say this to hurt me. He's only stating fact.

"That's why I'm calling," I say.

"I don't understand," he says. But there's an undertone of I want to .

"Was I a jerk to you when we were kids?" I ask.

There's a click on the line. Momentarily, I'm afraid he's hung up. "Where is this coming from?"

"I was. It's okay. I know I was. Well, I didn't know until recently, but—" I heave out a breath lodged up in my diaphragm. "I'm sorry, Bradley."

"I, uh— Apology accepted," he says quickly. Like he's been waiting on these words for a while. "But it's really not necessary. I gave you your space because that's what you wanted."

"It wasn't," I say. "You know how Dad and Uncle Luke were always in competition with each other. All those stories Dad would tell about them vying for favorite with Nan and Pop. I guess I thought that's how brothers were supposed to be."

"How brothers are supposed to be?" Bradley asks, confusion audible. "They can barely have a conversation without arguing."

"You're right. I didn't even think about that. I was too busy spending all my energy trying to catch up to you."

"Funny, I always thought you were chasing me away."

I laugh, even though it's not ha-ha funny. More of a sad-funny. "Either way, I was running, and I never stopped long enough to consider how you felt because I was too concerned about what Mom and Dad thought."

"Guess we were both keeping each other at arm's length." He sounds wistful.

I shake my head. "I wish I'd said something sooner. Maybe I wouldn't have been rushing against a clock that was never ticking."

"What's that now?"

"I chose an accelerated architecture program so Mom and Dad would see my career choice as legitimate sooner. I got married to Quinn so they would understand our relationship quicker. All in the name of competing with you and winning their affection," I say. The selfishness bears down on me.

"If it makes you feel any better, you did win that round. I'll never have what you and Quinn have," he says.

"You're young. Don't knock yourself down like that."

"It's not a knock, Patrick. I don't want those things. I've never wanted those things. Not with a woman, not with a man, not with a nonbinary person. I'm ace."

I sit in stunned silence for a second. "That's… that's cool. I'm happy you found that out about yourself. How long have you known?"

"A while," he says with a rueful laugh. "I've never told anyone in our family that before. I'm ridiculously surprised the first was you."

I laugh along despite the gibe. "I'm glad it was. Thank you for trusting me with that."

"Of course." Those two words feel like the first bricks laid on a road to a real relationship.

"Say," I breathe, taking my own brick down. "Can I tell you something I haven't told anyone in our family, either?"

"I'd love that. Just give me a minute." It's muffled, but it sounds like he's telling his assistant that he's taking an early lunch.

Before I know it, I'm spilling everything. From the frying pan and the first flight to the dream house and Quinn leaving. It feels good to unload some of this. It feels even better that the person listening and offering advice in response is Bradley.