I roll my eyes while pouring eggnog into each glass. Truthfully, I can’t picture anyone else on that couch. Except maybe Trent and Himla. But even so, the memories I have of them are so distorted now, that picture doesn’t quite fit either.
It’s just Jesse and me. The two of us against the world.
Reaching up into the cupboard, I grab the bottle of brandy, pouring some into my eggnog. Then I pause, taking only a couple of seconds to consider it before I add some to Jesse’s glass, too.
He’s eighteen, after all. I’m sure he’s drank before. Hell, I gave him a beer once or twice.
It’s Christmas Eve and this can be a new addition to our tradition, now that he’s a man.
The thought warms my gut as I bring our drinks into the living room. Jesse is already nestled up on his side of the couch, feet buried in his Christmas Rick And Morty socks this time, resting on the couch cushion. The kid always takes up the entire couch, which isn’t very big as it is.
Waltzing over, I plop down, sitting on his toes.
“Rude,” he huffs, pulling his feet back, though there’s a visible grin sneaking out with the word.
Handing him a glass, he takes it, holding it up for a toast.
“Merry Christmas Eve, kid,” I tell him, clinking on his glass.
We both sip at the same time, my eyes going to the movie, which has just started. But the sound of Jesse gurgling brings my gaze back to him.
“What the hell is in this?” His face scrunches.
It reminds me of when he was little and he tried liver for the first time. Let’s just say that’s one protein that has stayed far off the menu since.
“Little brandy in the nog never hurt anyone.” I smirk at him. “It’ll put some hair on your chest.”
“I don’t need hair on my chest,” he grumbles. “I have it everywhere else.”
A laugh bubbles from my throat. “Congratulations.”
He continues smothering a smile, taking another sip from the glass. “This is actually really good.” His cheeks are growing pink already. “Strong.”
Grinning, I turn back to the movie, resting my head on the back of the couch. “Take it slow, killa. I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I’m sure I can handle a little brandy,” he mumbles, and when my eyes flit to him once more, half the glass is gone.
Narrowing my gaze, it’s occurring to me that Jesse is usually the forthcoming one of the two of us. He’s the one who tells me what’s going on with him, and he’s also the one who drags information out of me. I’m a closed book, but Jesse isn’t like that. He enjoys sharing, and now I feel like kind of an asshole for never asking him stuff.
It also makes me wonder about the things he hasn’t been as open about…
“You know, if you drink at parties, you can tell me.” I go for casual with my tone, focusing on the TV screen while I watch him in my peripheral. “I wouldn’t be mad. I mean, how could I? I did the same thing at your age.”
A year before I became a father, and grew up eye-blink fast.
“I’ve had a few drinks before.” He shrugs, innocently enough, and I know he’s not lying. Jesse’s a terrible liar, so he rarely does it. At least, not to me. “Usually just beer. Maybe a shot or two. But I’m not one of those kids who likes to get shitfaced at parties and embarrass myself.”
I nod along. It makes sense. I was the same way when I was young. Latent insecurities make it hard enough to socialize, especially when you’re worried the whole time that people are mocking you behind your back. I’d rather keep a clear head. And I realize that sounds strange coming from someone who grows marijuana for a living. But I really just like the plants. I rarely smoke it myself.
Growing things has always been a passion of mine.
“I get that,” I tell him. “You want to stay cognizant.” My mind begins to drift… “Like if you’re on a date or something…”
His eyes fling to mine, rounding as they do. The shine in the gold of his irises tells me he might be getting a little buzz already.
“Guys at parties can’t be trusted,” I add.
“I’m not… I don’t…” His voice stammers and he clears his throat. “I don’t date guys at parties.”
“Do you date at all?” I ask, suddenly curious, because we’ve literally never talked about him dating before. He’s never brought anyone home, or told me anything about his love life.
The flush in his face is much more prominent now. “Um… not… much?” He says it like he’s asking me, which curves my lips.
“You’re still interested in guys though, right?” I keep pushing, mainly because now his awkwardness is entertaining to me. “Or have you added girls to the mix?”
He shifts in his seat while I try to contain my evil chuckles. “No. I only like men.” His brows zip together as he stutters, “Boys… Guys.” He lifts the glass to his mouth and chugs the rest of his drink.
Pressing my lips together, I force myself not to react. He’s dying right now, and it’s pretty adorable.
“Okay, just double-checking,” I sigh through a grin. “You don’t talk to me about this stuff, so…”
“You don’t talk to me about your relationships,” he bites back, finger tapping on his empty glass.
I sip my own slowly. “Well, aside from Leslie it’s not a very thrilling story. Not that she was exciting either.”
“Why were you with her, then?” He mumbles his question, and when my eyes dart to his, they widen in remorse. “I’m sorry…”
“No, it’s a valid question.” I blink, pausing for a moment while considering my words. “I guess I was just… waiting to see.”
“To see what?” His voice is quietly curious. As if he’s intrigued.
My shoulders slump. “If I could end up loving her.”
We’re both quiet this time, for at least a full minute, before he asks, “But you didn’t?”
I shake my head, solemnly, though I’m not exactly upset about this fact. I think it just means I might never fall in love… with anyone.
I finish my drink while we watch the movie in silence, the only sounds in the room from the TV and the crackling fire.
“That was good,” Jesse speaks after a while, and I glance over to see him holding up his glass. “Can I have more?”
I shrug and stand. “Why the hell not.”
Taking both of our empty cups to the kitchen, I pour more eggnog, and even more brandy this time. I’m not trying to get drunk, and I’m definitely not trying to get Jesse drunk either, even though I’m now fairly certain this amount of alcohol could get him there, since apparently he’s not a big drinker. I’m pleased by this fact. I like that he has a good head on his shoulders and knows that drowning your sorrows in vices is never the way.
But I also think I like this new part of our tradition. Opening him up a bit is a good thing. I’d like to know more about his life, and I want him to feel comfortable sharing.
Back in the living room, I hand him his fresh drink and plop down on his toes again. But rather than pulling them away this time, he wiggles them under my thigh.