That makes him laugh. "Reindeer?"
"Jingle all the way, bruh." I hold my hand out. "Be my date for dinner? It's beer-battered chicken. Plus some casserole that has...wait for it. Pineapples. A healthy fruit."
"Are they slathered in cheese and Ritz crackers?" He lets me help him up, arching a brow.
"Semantics."
Ezra laughs, and he takes my hand and squeezes it as we walk downstairs. "This is so weird," he says softly.
“I love you."
"I love you too," he whispers. We stop in the foyer, and he gives me a wide-eyed look. Then he's peering at the Christmas tree there in the family room.
"Hey, I've got an idea," I whisper.
I tell him to stay, and then I go over to the tree, sift behind the presents where my mom usually keeps the wrapping supplies, and reach into the bow bag.
I grab a red bow out. I’m grinning—almost laughing—as I prance over and stick it to Ezra's sweatshirt.
"What?” he whispers, sounding distressed. “Miller, what if they don't think I'm a present?"
"They'll think you're the best present. Can you trust me on that? Now that you remember how much they love you?”
His eyes look teary as he nods once.
"C'mon, present."
I stop him by the tree. "You see those, wrapped in hunter green? My mom's been prepping for weeks for my important new boyfriend. I told her all about how much I love him."
"You did?"
I grin. "Yup. And what his favorite things are. So Santa can be sure to bring them."
"Fuck, I didn't know you did that,” he whispers.
I kiss his cheek, and I hear my mom's soft gasp. I look up, and she and Carl are in the doorway between dining room and kitchen, beaming like the proud parents they actually fucking are. In this case.
I don't know why, but it all seems so insane that I start laughing. Giggling, really. Ezra gives me a confused look, and then my mom is rushing over to us, throwing her arms around the two of us like we're both prodigal sons. Which I guess we actually fucking are. And Carl's there, too, and he's hugging all three of us.
"Is that a bow I see?" he asks in his slow, Southern drawl.
Ezra says, "Yeah. Josh put it on me. Hope that's okay."
My mom crows, "Of course it's okay!"
Carl can’t stop hugging us. "It's been a long time," he says. "We're so glad to see you, son."
He pulls away and gives Ezra a long look. He rubs his palm over Ezra's hair and says, "I like the color of this. Saw it on TV and I thought, that's a nice-looking young man there. Maybe looks like his dad." I’m pretty sure Carl’s eyes are welling.
By the time we break out of our eternal hug thing, Ezra's face looks shy, happy, embarrassed, and maybe like he's about to cry, too.
"I'm really sorry," he rasps. "That I left like that."
His eyes do well up now, and my mom hugs him. Which means she's hugging me, since I'm still holding Ezra's hand tight. "That's all ancient history to us, darling. We're so thrilled to see you! Have you here for Christmas. I talked to Josh the other day and I could hear the old Josh in his voice." She gives Ezra an adoring smile. "Come in the kitchen. Let us feed you."
The kitchen is buzzing with energy, with everybody talking on top of each other. With polite laughs and big smiles, and everybody trying so hard. And a lot of damn good-smelling food.
My mom asks Ezra to help her get rolls out of the oven. Carl murmurs to me, "A well-timed cold one," and winks. Ezra's eyes seek mine out both times we're more than two feet apart. Then he seems to find his footing.
We both pile our plates high, like maybe this is our last meal, and I think of the last dinner we had before Ezra left in November of 2018. How I didn't know that it would be the last one. And how that's really the way everything is. Nobody likes to say it out loud, but you never really know. About anything. So it's smart to savor what you've got. Whether it's a battered chicken leg or someone's socked foot rubbing your calf under the table, or corny dad jokes, or a midnight rooftop jerk off session.
Ezra tells Carl the most edited possible version of his story the next morning, with me beside him on the couch. And for the next half a day, I feel like Ez was right: It really doesn't feel like Christmas. Knowing Carl and my mom so well, I can feel the weight of what Ez told them, even as they move about the house, both clearly trying to be festive.
But then my cousins come to ice cookies, and little Hank, the evil seven-year-old, ends up icing Ezra's face and hair. And somehow, a fight breaks out with the flour. Ez and I are smearing it all over each other, and my Uncle James' dog Petey eats two sugar cookies, and by the end of it, the whole kitchen is filled with screaming family. Ezra's on his back on the floor, letting children paint him, and Carl is snapping pictures.