Page 77 of Poetry On Ice
31
Ant Decker
This is a mistake.The longer I stand at the McGuire’s front door without ringing the bell, the clearer it is to me. It’s Christmas Eve. It’s been five days since Robbie got concussed and four days since he told me I didn’t have to spend Christmas with his family if I didn’t want to.
His exact words were, “You don’t have to come, Ant. I want to spend the holidays with you, but I’m giving you an out because my family knows me. They really know me, so I can’t rule out the fact they might see us together and know something’s up. If you come, I’ll do my best to hide it, but I can’t promise they won’t see the way I look at you and know who you are to me.”
I’ve had plenty of time to think about what he said. Yet here I am, staring at an ornate handmade wreath, armed with a sack of presents I’ve spent days buying for people I don’t know on one shoulder and a massive, poorlydisguised art deco lamp in my hands. Even wrapped in two rolls of paper, it looks exactly like what it is.
Bodie appears at my side. He’s wielding a bag of gifts of his own and is even more breathless than he was the other day. “Hey. You good? I’m good. How do I look? Do I look okay?”
Bodie’s not bad looking, especially if you’re into straight guys with fuckboy faces and Labrador retriever vibes. He’s a little overdressed and pasty from stress, and personally, I don’t think the mustache he’s attempting to grow is doing him any favors, but it’s too late to mention any of that.
“You look good,” I say. “Just stop panting like that and try to act normal.”
He nods like a bobblehead doll and tries to slow his breathing. It makes it worse.
Robbie swings the door open before I have time to ring the bell. He’s wearing beige linen pants and a forest-green top. The top is linen too. Soft, luxurious fabric that clings to his chest and arms, showing the clear outline of muscle and the tiny buds of his nipples.
It takes me a second to organize my thoughts, but as soon as I do, I cross the threshold and step into a house that looks like the set of a family sitcom and smells like gingerbread and mulled wine.
The McGuires come tearing out of the kitchen to greet us. They’re wearing Santa and Mrs. Claus headbands, respectively, and exude the energy typically seen in five-year-olds who have recently consumed two gallons of pure cane syrup.
Bodie knows them well, so he knows what to expect. He doesn’t skip a beat. He throws himself into their arms and bounces around with them in sheer jubilation. It’s clear at a glance that these are people who enjoy celebrating the holidays in a very big way. I somehow get dragged into the fray and find myself jostled around from person to person. I shoot Robbie a worried look, and he mouths, “Just go with it.”
All movement and most of the noise come to an abrupt stop when Beth clears her throat on the landing. She’s dressed like the heroine of a Hallmark movie. Small-town second-chance romance, if you get my drift. Her sweats are loose-fitting but cling to her narrow waist. She’s paired them with a tight, white crop top that shows a hint of her midriff. Bodie was right. She’s absolutely beautiful. She has long dark-blonde hair and the same eyes as Robbie. The expression in hers is different though. Robbie’s eyes are soft, endless pools you drown in if you look into them for too long. Hers relay a clearmessage, and that message is this: fuck around and find out—I dare you.
Stacey would love her. She’s one of those women who has her shit together. The kind of woman I want to be friends with as soon as I meet her.
Beside me, Bodie is showing early signs of hyperventilation. He emits a horrible gurgling sound, so I give him a solid thump on the back. It jolts him to his senses. He stumbles over to Beth and embraces her, lifting her off her feet and swinging her around in a broad arc. The entire time, he smells her hair like it’s something he needs to keep living. When he puts her down, he says her name reverently three times in a row.
Robbie gives me a knowing look. “See? Fun, right?”
Despite myself, I have to admit it is fun. Or at least it would be if I could get past the unfamiliar, deeply unpleasant churning in my belly. It’s kind of like apprehension mixed with fear. And hope. And maybe some kind of yearning. Some kind of want.
It’s a horrible feeling that gets ten times worse when I’m able to identify it. I want these people to like me. All of them, but Santa and Mrs. Claus especially. It’s a pathetic realization that makes me sick. It only grows stronger when I remind myself how unlikely that is. First, we’ve got my whole personality to contend with,and second, we’ve got the fact I’ve treated their utterly perfect son like shit for the past four or five years.
Bodie and I are shown to the living room, where we unpack our gifts and put them around the tree. Mr. McGuire potters back and forth to the kitchen, checking on the meal and the rest of us laze around the fire and chat. By that, I mean Bodie and Robbie chat. Beth drifts in and out of the conversation, unable to stay focused when the conversation turns to hockey. Every time she drifts, Bodie changes the topic to include her.
It’s actually pretty sweet. This guy is giving new meaning to the term whipped.
Dr. McGuire talks now and again too, but mostly, she observes the spectacle as it unfolds and spends quite a bit of time observing me in particular.
The weight of her gaze takes my apprehension and rachets it up by two or three hundred percent.
By the time Bodie and Robbie head to the kitchen to see if Mr. McGuire needs help with dinner, I’m a bundle of nerves. My feelings must be showing on my face because Dr. McGuire says, “Are you okay there, Ant?”
“I was just jealous,” I say in a rush, dimly aware that I’m answering a question she didn’t ask. “Of Robbie. You know, that stuff I said. It was just optics, mainly.For the press, you know. Clickbait! That’s what it was. A-and also the jealousy…b-because he’s so good.”
It’s clear I need help. So much help. I’m just not sure what the best type of help is for whatever it is I’ve got.
Dr. McGuire rests her chin on the back of one hand and takes me in with such seriousness that it feels like she’s in the process of making a complex diagnosis. She smiles when she arrives at one. She’s a medical professional, though, so of course, her smile doesn’t give much away.
I can’t tell for sure how serious my condition is, but it sure as hell feels like it might be bad.
My ass starts to sweat, and I’m overcome by the insane urge to blurt, “I’m crazy about your son.”
I manage not to, but it’s a lot harder than it should be.