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“That’s enough,” my mother yelled, something she rarely did. “It’s the holidays. We’re not talking business. We’re not talking about Anita’s business anymore.”
Mom had put her foot down. Dad nodded, his ominous words hanging in the air as he moved quietly to continue setting the table.
I joined Mom in the kitchen, leaning over to smell the bubbling sauce. “You’ll have to teach me how to make this someday,” I said, thinking about all the jars of sauce Turner and I had opened last winter break.
Mom may have looked surprised when she responded, “Happy to.”
She shooed me away and picked up the boiling pot of ravioli, dumping it into a colander in the sink before transferring the pasta back into the pot. Returning to the stove, she asked me, “Did Turner tell you the news?”
No, Mom, I wanted to say, Turner hasn’t told me anything in a year.
“The ice cream shop brought in this new chef over the summer, ‘the glacier’ they call her, who created some wild flavors. It was the talk of the boardwalk last summer.” She was clearly trying to steer the conversation.
“I heard it wasn’t very successful,” Dad muttered. Because of course he knew that. Mom and I ignored him.
“And how’s the bookstore doing?” I asked, shooting for a casual tone. “You know I haven’t seen it in operation yet.”
“You haven’t?” Mom exclaimed, and she began talking about the grand opening that had occurred months earlier.
We were snowed in the next day, and I thought about fighting my way through it to get to the boardwalk, but that seemed really desperate. I texted Austin for backup on that opinion, but he wasn’t really chatty. The same storm that was covering Breakwater Beach, New Jersey, had my best friend stuck in a cabin in Upstate New York with some guy his dad’s age. I figured that would give us all the time in the world to chat, but Austin’s responses to my texts were quick and curt until he stopped responding at all.
I thought about texting Turner, but when I pulled up our text chain, I was staring at the message I had sent him months ago from an airport. The one he had ignored for months and months on end.
Seeing it hurt. And I didn’t want to hurt thinking about Turner. Since I’d seen him last, it seemed like I always had a dull ache whenever I pictured him. It was in part the sadness, exhaustion, and slight desperation I remembered from the day he’d returned and walked into the toy store. Those memories always mixed with his shy, handsome smile, and his beautiful face, and my memories of how happy I thought we were last winter break. Stupid schoolboy crush.
For one brief, wonderful winter break, I could think about him as much as I wanted to, in all of the ways I wanted to, and I was happy. He made me happy. And I thought I’d made him happy too.
What did any of the rest of it matter if we made each other happy?
Instead of trudging through the snow to see the bookstore, I moped around at home, helping my mother prepare for the holiday until Austin and his mystery man finally arrived in Breakwater a few days late.
Dalt! You up for our yearly shopping spree? I’ve got some presents left to buy.
AND SOME SHIT I NEED TO TELL YOU!!!!!
Should we go to the mall?
The fuck? Since when do we go to the mall? Pick me up on your way to the boardwalk so I can fill you in on the last few days.
I eventually replied to Austin, and much as I didn’t want to be anywhere near the boardwalk, tradition was tradition. Later that day I found myself standing in front of BT&G with Austin, his father, and his father’s best friend while Turner watched us from inside the shop.
Austin had filled me in on how he’d spent his time snowed in with the very handsome man with the very subtle English accent who I’d just been introduced to. He told me that inexplicably, he thought he had feelings for the guy, or that he at least wanted to explore if he did. I may have been in a little bit of shock when he had turned the conversation around.
“Is this how you feel, Dalton? Is it how you feel about him? Like you can’t breathe? Like he’s all that matters?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Something like that.”
“Shit, man. Then you have to tell him. And I have to tell Randall. And. You know what, Dalt?”
“What?” I couldn’t help but laugh at his resolve.
“My parents and Brett. They’re just going to have to understand!”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that. Or, you know? Maybe a Christmas miracle?”
I was trying to take it all in, thinking about my best friend having forever-type feelings as we came upon Martin, and he introduced me to his long-lost college friend as I was finally standing in front of the toy store, knowing Turner was right inside.
