“Yeah?” she asked, frowning. “Don’t tell me you have a crush on me.”
“Well, of course I do,” he said, though he didn’t and never had, but this was how people connected, he understood, this light flirting and teasing. “But it gets complicated, explaining how we’re linked. Maybe I could . . .” He hesitated. “Maybe I could just call you my sister.”
Again her eyes filled with tears. “You’re the best, Josh,” she said, grabbing another cookie. “You’re the best. I always wanted a baby brother. I used to dress Lauren up in boy clothes, did you know that?”
When she left a while later, taking all the cookies at his insistence, he went into his bedroom, looked at the dogwood tree, which was obscenely healthy, and had a good cry.
* * *
THANK GOD FOR the internet. Josh ordered gifts for the kids, Jen and Darius (a gift certificate to a really nice restaurant with his own babysitting services thrown in), his mom, Donna, Radley and Sarah. He’d had to go out for coffee the other day, and every damn couple seemed pink-cheeked and healthy and in love, every family filled with the holiday spirit, happiness oozing out of them like radioactive sludge.
Not that he was bitter.
God, he was so bitter. A year ago, Lauren had needed to measure out her energy carefully, but they’d still done every Christmas tradition, baked dozens of cookies, listened to Christmas music ad nauseam, put out the reindeer throw pillows and Santa mugs. No one had told him it would be their last Christmas. No one told her.
He felt like an aging, brittle piece of paper that would disintegrate if touched. He stayed away from people as much as he could. However, he couldn’t avoid Christmas completely.
He and Radley went to the Eddy—sometime in the fall after Josh’s date with Cammie, they’d started meeting there every Wednesday night. This Wednesday, however, was a mistake—the place was mobbed with Christmasy people, and music, and decorations, and drinks. Josh told Radley about meeting his father, needing almost to yell over the noise, and God, Josh was going to start screaming and stabbing people with the fancy toothpick that speared the cranberry garnish in his drink.
Focus on someone else, loser, he could imagine Lauren saying. “Do you have plans for the holidays, Rad?” he asked.
“You mean, besides the retail hell I live and breathe?” He took a sip of his bourbon and waved to someone he knew.
“Yeah, besides that.”
“No. I plan to order Chinese food and watch horror movies.”
Lucky. Josh took a sip of his smoked grapefruit martini. “Why don’t you come to my mom’s house? Christmas Eve. She has a big party. The Swedes love Christmas.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. She’d love it. She’s been dying to meet you.” He hesitated. “And I’d be very . . . grateful to have you there.”
“I’d love to come. Thank you, Joshua.” Radley’s face was endearingly sincere.
“I got you a present,” Josh said. “Can I give it to you now? It’ll be crazy at my mom’s.”
“Of course! I love presents!”
Josh pulled a box out of his messenger bag. “Sorry I didn’t wrap it,” he said.
“You have the right to hate Christmas this year, Josh.” He opened the box to reveal a bracelet made of strands of leather clamped together with three steel rings. Each ring had a word stamped in hangul characters.
“It’s Korean,” Josh explained. “My friend Ben helped me. This says ‘friend,’ this one says ‘kind person,’ and this one says ‘brother.’” He waited, hoping it wasn’t too much.
Radley stared at him a second, then put his hand over his eyes to hide his tears, and Josh knew he’d done well.
“I love it so much,” Radley said, putting it on. “My God, Josh, it’s perfect. Are you sure you’re not gay? Seriously, thank you.” His mouth wobbled. “You know, I try to keep my own family out of my head, but holidays are . . . well. They’re hard. And this . . .” He gestured to the bracelet. “This means so much to me. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You’ve been really kind.” He thought back to that night in the Banana Republic dressing room. Radley had been more than kind. He’d been practically a guardian angel. “Besides,” he added, “I always wanted a brother.”
Radley got up and hugged him, and Josh hugged back, glad for his friend, awkward with the affection. Radley wiped his eyes and sat back down, and Josh was grateful when the conversation turned to Radley’s evil Human Behavior professor. That was one of the best things about Radley, Josh thought as he watched his pal talk with great animation. He carried the conversation 90 percent of the time.
As they were leaving, Radley said, “Let me just go say hi to that guy over there.” Josh paid the bill, then tried to wind his way through the packed bar to get to the exit. It was deafening in here, and he hated crowds. His anxiety jumped, but he reassured himself that he’d be home soon, on the couch with Pebbles, not a goddamn Christmas ornament in sight.
He waited behind a server, who was squarely blocking his way. Josh went to her left—nope. Right—nope. He tried to make eye contact with the people at her table, but they stared at her like she was the living Buddha as she answered their questions.
It was taking a long time. He tried to move past again, but the server apparently had no peripheral vision, because she, too, seemed oblivious to his presence. She was detailing the Eddy’s elaborate drinks. “Um, that one has, uh . . . um . . . butter-washed Wild Turkey, maple, Pierre . . . something, and some . . . chocolate shavings? No, bitters! Chocolate bitters. It sounds gross, but, um, I’ve heard it’s really good.”
The maître d’ glared at her. It wasn’t a great sell, to be fair. Josh tried once more to get around, but nope, she was completely blind in her left eye, apparently, and the people at her table still would not make eye contact with him. He sighed and stared at the server’s long dark hair, which was pulled into a braid. Cut that off, and he’d have a good strong rope.
“Okay,” said the waitress, “so you do want the cinnamon in it, but not burnt? Um, I’ll ask. Sure! Okay. But Chopin, and not Grey Goose. Got it. And Chopin is gin? No, no, of course. It’s vodka. Got it. And you want lemon in that? Juice or a twist? Got it.”
He doubted she did. The patrons were being ridiculously particular, especially given that the restaurant was jammed.
Finally, she turned and almost bumped right into him. “Sorry, was I in your way? Oh, hey! It’s you! Hi! How are you?”
It was the woman from the fun run, the one with the ancient dog in a baby stroller, who’d helped him when he passed out. “Hi,” he said. “Right. The race.”