Blame It on the Fruitcake by Pat Henshaw

Author:Pat Henshaw [Henshaw, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Published: 2015-11-20T05:00:00+00:00

YEAH, WELL, since the weather was so crappy out, we didn’t go out running. After cleaning up at the shop, I left my bike there and he drove us to dinner.

“So you gonna tell me why you’re not speaking to me?” he asked after we ordered.

We’d both broken open some crackers and were munching on them. I couldn’t answer because my mouth was so dry.

I lowered my eyes, picking at some dirt on one of my knuckles.

“What are we doing?” I didn’t look up at him.

He reached over and took my dirty hand in his. “Don’t know. But we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

I looked at our hands. So different and so alike. He had a smudge of ink on the back of his hand. I had dirt. His blue button-down was wrinkled and smudged in places. I had a spot of grease on my T-shirt. Both of us wore the marks of our jobs. Maybe we weren’t so different.

Best of all, he could kiss like a son-of-a-bitch. We tried to say good night, tried to part in the hallway between our lofts, but it was impossible. Our feet were firmly set on a path to his bedroom, and we were helpless to fight it.

We were naked almost before the door closed. His mouth locked on to mine and wouldn’t let go. Possibly because I had a tight grip on the back of his head. We were rubbing so hard against each other we should have burst out in a super merit badge-worthy fire.

“Bed,” he whispered in my ear.

“Yeah.”

We had a lot to explore.

The next day it hit me: Now not only did I have a present and fruitcake, but I’d also gotten laid. Who needed more than one really great night in his life?

For the next few days, we saw each other every second we could. He seemed to be really into me for some reason I couldn’t understand. I wasn’t going to look a Christmas gift in the mouth, though. I was riding this puppy until one of us gave out.

I’d never gotten up in the morning with someone still in my bed. Never wanted to before. But it was fucking okay. We both watched our version of the news as we ate: me, sports; him, entertainment reports. We talked about what we expected our day to be like. He’d even offered to look for a spot where we could put Big Harry’s bike and give his ashes a proper burial.

They were the most domestic days I’d ever lived, and I loved it. I’d never thought of myself as housebroken, but damn if I didn’t consider it now. Having a live-in lover seemed so fucking easy I couldn’t understand why so many guys I knew complained about it.

On Saturday morning he got a call from his grandma, the one who made the fruitcake.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. He’s right here, Nana. You can talk to him yourself.”

He handed the phone to me, and I panicked. What the hell could this woman have to say to me? I had nothing much to say to her.

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