The Secret of Christmas (Chapters 4-6)
A Christmas gift exchange forces the Reishosan to get personal, which isn't something any of them are very good at (well, except Stan).
Chapter 4: RONNIE
December 17, 2010
The little electric train whistled cheerfully as it rounded the bend of the miniature Christmas village on display outside a hobby shop near the intersection of Haight and Ashbury. Ronnie paused to bend down and look at it, allowing his shades to slip down his nose. Inside the engine of the train, a mini-conductor waved a tiny hand mechanically.
“Don’t tell me that’s what you’re getting.”
Ronnie scowled and straightened, tossing an irritated glare up, up, up to Sam Logan’s sneering face. “What if I am?”
“You’re not.”
Folding his arms, Ronnie lifted his chin. “How can you be sure?”
“Because nobody at the house is a baby.” Sam rolled his visible eye and continued up Haight Street.
Ronnie snickered and double-stepped to catch up with Sam’s longer-legged strides. “You realize that’s a train set, right? That ain’t for babies.”
“Whatever.” Sam shrugged his hands into the pockets of his pants.
Ronnie shook his head and turned his attention to the shops around them. All the fancy fronts of the Haight-Ashbury shopping area were decked out in flickering lights and fake snow. Every shop window had fake frost painted in white sprays in the corners, and the speaker systems in every store were set to the familiar croon of Bing Crosby.
All Bing Crosby songs sounded exactly the same.
Ahead, on the left-hand side of the street, Ronnie spotted the shop he’d come down here to visit. A quick internet search last week had directed him to it.
“Hey.” He smacked Sam’s elbow. “That’s where I’m headed.” He pointed to the toy shop across the street.
Sam came up short and wrinkled his lip. “Granny LuAnn’s Toy Emporium?” He said it like he expected Granny LuAnn to appear in front of them and try to stab them.
“Yeah.” Ronnie shrugged. “So?” He looked both ways and crossed the street before the traffic could run him down.
With a heavy sigh, Sam followed up. “Ronnie, why are you going to a toy store?”
“That’s my business.” Ronnie threw a glare over his shoulder. “Why are you following me?”
Sam snorted.
They both stopped outside Granny LuAnn’s. Through the main storefront window,
Ronnie eyed the over-the-top decorations inside. Garland and holly and lights and full-size Santa Claus mannequins that waved and laughed with repetitive sound effects. The shop was crammed with harried parents and screaming children.
Ronnie sagged slightly.
The things he did for this family. “I don’t get it,” Sam muttered.
Ronnie glanced at him. “What? The Creepy Robot Santa? I don’t get him either.”
“No.” Sam scowled. “You’re a rational, thinking person.”
Ronnie raised his eyebrows. “Thanks?”
“And you’re actually going to do this?” He gestured at the shop window with disgust. “This?”
“Christmas.” Sam made air quotes with his fingers. “This ridiculous gift exchange Mia makes us do every year?”
“You’re not?” Ronnie snickered. “That’ll go over great.”
Sam huffed angrily. “I’m going to get something, but you’re going to a lot of trouble.” “It’s just a toy shop.”
“It’s a toy shop full of screaming kids.”
To emphasize his point, the shop door swung open with a loud bang as a dad with crazy hair and crazy eyes hurried outside, hauling a toddler in his arms who had decided the world needed to know that she hadn’t gotten the doll she wanted.
Ronnie winced at the frequency of the child’s shrieks, cursing his overly sensitive hearing.
Sam shuddered. “I make my point.”
Ronnie regarded his tall friend neutrally. Sam stood in the sea of shoppers, one hand on a hip, hair carefully styled to fall over one side of his face as it always did. He was a whole head and shoulders taller than most people on the sidewalk, and as such they generally gave him a fairly wide berth.
Or maybe it was the angry vibe he carried around with him, and people were just picking up on it.
Sam was always angry, but his temper got worse between Thanksgiving and the turn of the New Year. At least, that had been the case for the three years Ronnie had known him.
“Look.” Ronnie turned to him. “You’re right. Christmas ain’t really my thing.”
Sam nodded with a justified grunt.
“But it’s Davalos thing.” Ronnie shrugged. “And it’s Ryan’s thing. And Karl’s thing. And Stan’s thing. And I figure, when in Rome—”
Sam scoffed. “It’s a waste of time and resources. It’s a distraction. We have other things we should be doing.”
“Can’t write grant proposals all your life, Sam.”
“Shut up. That’s not what I mean.”
Sam rolled his eyes and looked away, his gaze zeroing in on the shop next to Granny LuAnn’s. Next to the toy store, a seasonal holiday shop offered trees and collectible ornaments and gift wrapping and Christmas-scented candles. They weren’t as cool a Granny LuAnn. They didn’t have a creepy robotic Santa.
And why did everything smell like cinnamon?
“I don’t do gifts,” Sam snarled.
Ronnie lifted his eyebrows again. “Is that the problem? You just don’t know what to buy?”
“No, that’s not the problem.”
“Well, I got off easy this year.” Ronnie chuckled. “I got landed with Karl. Karl’s easy. Get him what you’d get a twelve-year-old boy.” Ronnie put his finger up in Sam’s face. “And I ain’t getting him off-brand cheese crackers.”
“He ate them.”
“He eats everything.”
Sam glanced down. “I got Stan.”
“Stan?” Ronnie snorted. “Ha.”
“It’s not funny.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Oh, the irony. Outside of Mia, Stan was probably the only person in the household Sam appreciated enough to actually buy a gift for.
Ronnie smirked. “Stan’s easy too.”
“Sure he is.” Sam shrugged. “I’ll get him a box of tea.”
Ronnie scowled. “A box of tea?”
Sam’s expression dared him to question it further.
“Sam Logan, you give that boy a box of tea, and I’ll box your ears.”
“He’s British. He likes tea.”
Ronnie took a step back. “I think Karl’s right.”
Sam’s face turned to stone.
“We should definitely start calling you a Grinch.” Ronnie adjusted his jacket. “The least you can do is—”
“A box of tea?” Sam interrupted him. “Isn’t part of this stupid season about being grateful for what you get? He’ll get a box of tea. You and I will get something equally useless. And we’ll all pretend to be happy about it.”
Ronnie sighed and stepped back.
Why did Sam make everything complicated?
“Stan drew me last year.” Ronnie offered a half smile.
Sam stared at him with a look of dread. “Are you going to tell me a story now?”
Ronnie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag and waggled it.
“The kid got me a glasses cleaning kit.” Sam flared his nostrils.
“I didn’t even know there was such a thing.” Ronnie tucked the bag back into his jacket. “But he heard me complaining or something about spots on my shades. And he thought of something I could use.”
“What’s your point?”
“The kid wanted to do something nice for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And now you owe him.” Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s what this does, Ronnie. It’s this vicious cycle of expectation and control. Stan got you something, so now you have to get him something. Merry freaking Christmas, ho-ho-ho.”
Ronnie shifted to look up at Sam’s face. “Would owing someone be so bad?”
Sam’s scowl deepened. “There’s nothing worse.”
Ronnie turned away and smiled to himself. It was a good thing Sam wasn’t dramatic. That would make life with him really difficult.
Sam sighed heavily and moved to stand next to him as they both stared into the Christmas shop window side by side.
“I don’t know if it’s occurred to you,” Sam sneered, “but Christmas wasn’t exactly the happiest time of year around my house growing up.”
From the corner of his eye, Ronnie saw a shiver run through Sam’s shoulders. Ronnie turned slightly.
Christmas wasn’t happy for him? Ronnie bristled. He’s got no idea.
He swallowed the angry words rising in his throat. Sam liked to run his mouth when he was on a soapbox, and when he was in the throes of his narrow-minded righteous indignation, he often failed to consider the fact that everyone who lived in the Davalos house had struggled just as much as he had.
Undoubtedly Sam would enjoy nothing more than getting into a shouting match on the street. Arguments were his favorite pastime.
But this? This was just him spoiling for a fight. It wouldn’t accomplish anything.
Ronnie focused on the shop window. “Christmas wasn’t happy for me either,” he said. “Hard to sing Christmas carols when you’re freezing in a dirty alley with nothing to eat but what you can dig out of a trashcan.”
Awkward silence fell between them.
Yup.
Sam had forgotten who he was talking to.
Ronnie turned his gaze on Sam. “But that was then. And it’s happy now.”
Sam glared down at him. “Is it?”
Ronnie let his shades slide down his nose so he could lock eyes with Sam, letting him gaze deep into his silver eyes. “You tell me.” He flashed a smirk and shifted so that he could walk into Granny LuAnn’s toy store.
Sam didn’t follow. “Hey, Ronnie?”
Ronnie stopped in the doorway and glanced back at Sam, who stood at the Christmas store window, not looking at him.
“Yeah?”
“You said Karl’s a twelve-year-old boy.” Sam winced and blew out a breath. “What’s Stan?”
Ronnie grinned. “Stan’s an eighty-year-old woman.” He winked. “Happy shopping, Mr. Grinch.”
The cheerful bell over the door of Granny LuAnn’s jangled as Ronnie stepped inside and left Sam to his thoughts amid the throng of holiday shoppers on Haight Street.
Chapter 5: RYAN
Christmas Eve 2010
Someday he would get better at this.
Ryan held up the sparkling piece of jewelry against his palm and squinted at it, trying to determine if it was something Mia might like or not. Sure, they had agreed on the traditional family gift exchange, but she hadn’t said anything about whether or not he could get her something just from him.
The little silver ballet slippers charm against his rough palm caught the lights overhead.
A microscopic gemstone twinkled on the charm, and from the price on the necklace, it was probably genuine. Maybe.
That was the part he needed to get better at. How much was a fragile thing like this supposed to even cost?
But he was fairly confident Mia would like it. And, really, that was the only thing that mattered.
He handed it back to the salesperson with a nod, and with a flash of a smile and a credit card, Ryan left the store with the little necklace in a box tucked safely in a paper bag.
Ryan checked the digital watch around his wrist. He still had some time before he needed to meet the Doc.
With a heavy sigh, he glanced up the street to where the flickering neon lights of a music store beckoned him to enter.
I’ve put this off long enough.
Ryan redoubled his grip on the paper sack’s handles and marched down the busy sidewalk toward the blinking neon sign in the shape of a music note. Spin It Again Records.
The bell over the door rang happily as he pushed it open, and the warm scent of leather and old paper washed over him. Some instrumental piece was playing over the speakers, and he recognized it as a mashup of old Christmas carols. A skinny hipster hovered behind the main counter, crooked beret hanging off his head, multiple piercings glittering on his nose and ears.
Ryan pulled on the neckline of his red sweater and approached the counter.
As he got closer, the dread on the hipster’s face grew deeper and deeper. Ryan offered a friendly smile in hopes of helping the young man relax.
“Hi,” Ryan said.
“We haven’t got country music,” Hipster-Man said in a bored tone.
Ryan scowled. “Okay.”
The clerk looked him up and down, pausing on his worn sweater and staring at the rough patches on his blue jeans. He probably noticed the mud splatter too.
Yeah, Mia had told him to change before he came downtown to shop, but that would have taken time. Besides, he didn’t want to change just to leave the house. Why would he do that for just a little mud?
“I’m just not certain we’re going to carry the genre of music you would be looking for.” Hipster wrinkled his lip. “Uh—sir.”
Hot anger surged in Ryan’s chest, but he tamped it down with another friendly smile. “I guarantee you don’t have what I like, but you might have what I’m looking for.”
Hipster rolled his eyes.
Why couldn’t Thallia have started invading somewhere else in the world? Why did it have to be California?
“Miles Davis,” Ryan said. “Or Ella Fitzgerald.”
Hipster-Man froze and tilted his head. “You don’t look like a jazz man.”
“I’m not.” Ryan shook his head. “But the guy I’m buying for is.” He waved his hand around the store. “Miles Davis. Ella Fitzgerald. John Coltrane. Got any of them—in vinyl?”
Slowly, the clerk’s skeptical expression softened. Not that it was particularly important, but it was nice to be regarded as better than an idiot.
“This way.” Hipster stepped out from behind the counter and started toward the back. Ryan ignored the skinny jeans and took a calming breath.
This was probably a bad idea.
Hipster pointed him to the corner where a large vinyl record collection lay in organized boxes and displays. Ryan thanked him and went to work looking for the three jazz legends.
He thumbed through the records until he found the ones he was looking for.
He wasn’t even supposed to know that Sam liked jazz. It wasn’t exactly a piece of information the man shared. It just sort of—happened. They were out on an errand, picking up artifacts from a dig the Doc had sponsored, and when Ryan came back to the van, Sam had switched the radio on to a local jazz station. Of course, he’d switched it back as soon as Ryan returned, but he hadn’t been quite fast enough.
A few months later, Ryan had glimpsed a jazz CD in Sam’s green Jetta.
Sam Logan. Jazz man.
It made sense. He’d grown up in DC. There were a lot of jazz clubs around there, supposedly. But no matter how Ryan looked at it, him knowing that Sam liked jazz music felt— personal. And Sam Logan had done everything in his power to keep his relationships with all the other Reishosan extremely professorial.
But if Ryan couldn’t get him something he’d like, who could? They’d known each other for years now.
Ryan had been in San Francisco with the Davalos family for nine years now, and Sam had come the year after him. Eight years they’d known each other, and Ryan still knew practically nothing about his surly companion in interdimensional emperor thwarting.
It was a testament to how stubborn Sam was.
No, it was a testament to how little Ryan had tried to connect with him. It was shameful, that’s what it was. But every time he tried, Sam snarled and lashed out. He made it so hard.
So it was just easier to give in, let him be, leave him alone. It was easier to give him gift cards or biographies or essays on swordsmanship.
Ryan held the cardboard sleeve for an Ella Fitzgerald album in his hands and smiled at the woman’s face on the cover.
This felt personal on a different level, and if anyone were going to give Sam Logan a personal gift, Sam wouldn’t have wanted it to be him.
Well.
Tough potato chips.
He gathered the three albums and went to face the Hipster again. He paid for his records and walked outside, diving into the milling crowds and elbowing his way to the central plaza where the doc would be waiting for him.
True to his word, Dr. Davalos sat on a bench beneath a statue in the plaza park, and he looked up with a nod as Ryan approached.
“Get what you need?” Dr. Davalos closed his newspaper and stood.
“I did.” Ryan held up the two bags.
“Two bags?” Ryan smirked.
“You weren’t supposed to get Mia anything.” Dr. Davalos passed him and headed for the parking lot.
Ryan grinned. “I don’t think I agreed to that.”
Dr. Davalos chuckled and adjusted his tweed flat cap. “Good man.”
They reached the Doc’s old green Dodge Dart, and Ryan tossed his bags in the back seat.
He eyed a paper bag already on the floorboard, the branding obviously from one of the local sporting goods stores.
Ryan climbed into the passenger seat. “You got Uly, huh, sir?” Dr. Davalos harrumphed and buckled his belt.
Ryan smiled. That was the Dr. Davalos equivalent of yes. The family only shopped at two sports stores, one that had gym equipment which they used to outfit the training room on the top floor of the castle turret, and one that carried fencing supplies. Specifically one that had a brand of gloves that Uly had been eyeballing for a while.
“What about you?” Dr. Davalos cast a look at him. “Music?”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”
Dr. Davalos narrowed his gaze as he turned the keys in the ignition. “Stan?”
“No.”
“Ronnie?”
Ryan laughed. “Does Ronnie strike you as a music guy?”
Dr. Davalos shuddered. “He likes that rap stuff. I heard some of what he listens to the other day, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard.”
Ryan smiled. “Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sam’s a music man?”
“Vinyl records.” Ryan nodded. “He’s got a turntable in his office he doesn’t like anybody to know about.”
Dr. Davalos pulled into traffic. “How do you know about it?”
“He had a light fixture go out up there a few months ago.” Ryan shrugged. “I spotted it then. And, a few other times, I’ve seen him with jazz music. So I put two and two together.”
Dr. Davalos was quiet for a moment. “You know, it’s Christmas Eve, Ryan.”
“Yes, sir. It is.”
Dr. Davalos guided the old car around a corner and pointed the vehicle toward the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin Headlands.
“Took your time deciding on what to get him, then?” Dr. Davalos threw a curious look at him.
Ryan bit his lip. “No, sir. Not at all. I knew exactly what to get for him.”
“Then why the delay?”
Ryan leaned back in the seat and gathered the belt across his chest in his calloused hands. “I don’t know if he wants to get it from me.”
“Why not?”
“Sam’s complicated.”
Dr. Davalos rolled his eyes. “Sure. He’s complicated.”
Ryan laughed. “He is. He’s a tough guy to get to know.” Ryan shook his head. “And I get the sense that me giving him anything that’s personal won’t go over well. I think he keeps score.”
Dr. Davalos nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right.” He arched a gray eyebrow. “So why did you decide to do it?”
Ryan glanced at him and then at the road, the bright lights decorating all the houses flashing as they passed.
“It’s been eight years,” Ryan said. “I figured it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“To man up.” Ryan smiled.
“Meaning?”
Ryan sat up in the seat. “He likes jazz. I know he likes jazz. So since I drew his name, he’s getting jazz records from me. He doesn’t have to like it.”
“What if he does like it?”
Ryan looked at the Doc. “Then—maybe we can take a step toward being friends.” Ryan made a face. “Unlikely. And even if it makes him mad, I don’t care. It’s Christmas. And he should get something he actually enjoys, not just something that’s easy to give him.”
Dr. Davalos flashed a half smile and turned his attention back to the road as he pulled the car onto the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Now probably isn’t the time I should tell you that I actually drew your name,” Dr. Davalos said. “I got you a new wheelbarrow and some pruning shears. I want those new petunia beds in next week.”
Ryan smirked. “You know, sir, you’re not funny.” Dr. Davalos winked at him. “Yes, I am.”
Chapter 6: SAM
Christmas Day 2010
Coffee.
Straight, strong, black coffee.
Nothing else in it. Nothing to water down the flavor. Nothing but coffee.
Sam took a long drink and nearly scalded his mouth, but at this point it didn’t matter. It was fortification against the oncoming chaos.
Christmas Day. Whoop-dee-doo.
He slipped into the family room with his large steaming mug and folded into an armchair against the far wall. The gigantic Christmas tree Mia had decked out at the beginning of the month shimmered and sparkled with tinsel and lights and ornaments of every shape, size, and color. And she’d lit candles on the hearth.
Mia was always lighting candles, and he always put them out.
Candles were dangerous. It was something Mia liked to forget when it suited her.
He eyeballed the little dancing flames from where he sat and debated about putting them out as well. But at this point, there were so many people in the room that any fire that escaped the confines of the jars would be easily squashed before it became a problem.
He sipped his coffee.
Karl, Stan, and Uly were all vibrating with poorly concealed excitement. Stan and Uly were excusable. They were still young enough that Christmas held some kind of childish magic. Karl? Well, there was no excuse for Karl.
Dr. Davalos took his normal seat at the other end of the room and snapped his usual paper out, still reading as he always did, though Sam suspected the older man was doing more watching than reading. Mia flitted from one side of the room to the other setting down trash sacks and arranging pillows. Ryan hauled Ronnie into the room by the arm and dropped him on another armchair.
Ronnie, amoeba-like and boneless, collapsed in a loose pile of limbs and blue hair, muttering under his breath about it being “too freaking early” for this.
Sam whole-heartedly agreed.
“Okay, who’s going to be Santa this year?” Mia called as she set up a sack for wrapping paper castoffs. She pinned Ryan with a look. “Stan did it last year. Ryan, why don’t you hand out gifts this year?”
Ryan shrugged and walked to the tree and began digging through the gifts underneath. “Grandpa, put your paper down.” Mia smacked the old man’s arm. “You’re not reading.” Dr. Davalos smirked at her and obediently folded his paper in his lap.
Ryan carefully withdrew presents from beneath the tree and handed them out to everyone in the room.
Mia received a small box from Karl. That was going to be hilarious, whatever was in it.
Maybe it would be alive.
Ryan handed Uly a paper sack from Dr. Davalos, and Dr. Davalos got a flat box from Stan. Ronnie—a flimsy white box from Mia. The funniest bit was watching him try to figure out how to hold it when he wasn’t awake enough yet to hold his own head up.
Karl—a rather large rectangular box from Ronnie. Karl’s eyes lit up, of course. Only because he was assuming it wasn’t off-brand cheese crackers. Maybe Ronnie had wised up and got him pimento cheese instead.
Ryan found a smaller box under the tree for himself from Uly.
Sam watched with as uncaring an eye as possible as Ryan handed an envelope to Stan.
Sam’s envelope. With Sam’s gift inside.
Stan brightened like the sun. That was to be expected, though. He looked like that every time somebody said something nice to him or did something nice for him. If it had been anyone else, Sam might have assumed it was for show, but Stan was actually genuine. It was—odd.
Sam sipped his coffee and stopped mid-sip as Ryan appeared holding out a large flat box to him. He froze, glaring up into Ryan’s smiling face.
“Merry Christmas, Sam.”
Sam swallowed the scalding coffee and accepted the brown-paper-wrapped package from Ryan.
Wonderful. Ryan got my name? That’s just peachy.
Oh well. From the feel of it, the mountain man had gotten him a stack of legal pads.
Nothing wrong with that. He could always use more of those.
“All right!” Mia clapped her hands. “Everybody, open!”
In a flurry of wrapping paper and excited shouts, everybody dove into their gifts. Well, maybe dove was too strong a term.
Karl definitely dove. The boy was a hurricane. He ripped into the box, and from inside, he pulled—Oh good Lord, Ronnie.
A remote control car?
“Dude!” Karl yelped.
“Blue jay, that’s lit!” Ronnie grunted from the chair.
It wasn’t a car—exactly. It was more like a suburban? And it was orange, of course, with gigantic tires, and a remote control that was big enough for Karl to hold with two hands.
Karl fired the toy up and started driving it in circles. Orange LED lights sparkled along the undercarriage, and after Karl pushed another button, the toy began to blast some God-awful yodeling country song until the entire room shouted at Ronnie for daring to get Karl something so obviously conceived in the pit of hell.
Laughing at all of them, Dr. Davalos unwrapped his gift from Stan—a fresh set of leather notebooks with a brand new pen. The doc brightened significantly and nodded his thanks.
That was a good call, honestly. The doc was always scribbling something. Surprising that Stan had noticed. Well, no. Not surprising.
Uly got fencing gloves from his grandfather, and Uly himself had purchased a brand new leather wallet for Ryan, who had worn a hole through his old one.
Mia opened her package and pulled out—yoga socks?
Mia laughed out loud and held the socks up for Ryan to see. “Look!” She giggled. “They’re purple, and they’re not drooling.”
“Or covered in slime,” Ronnie muttered.
“And they don’t smell like butt.” Uly said as he and Stan shared a grin.
“Karl must be growing up,” Ryan said.
Karl shouted from the other room as he came running down the hallway being chased by his remote control toy. They watched him run until he disappeared through the doors to the kitchen.
“Someone must have helped him,” Ryan said.
“Yeah, someone definitely helped him.” Mia took the socks back. “But that was surprisingly thoughtful.”
Stan sat back and folded his legs, beginning to open his envelope. Sam had started to open his package, but he paused. Watching.
Tea would have been safer.
He shouldn’t have let Ronnie get under his skin. Stupid blue-haired freak.
Stan opened the envelope and pulled out the eight strips of paper, his eyes going wide. He pulled them all the way out and held them in shaking fingers.
“What is it?” Uly asked.
Stan didn’t answer. He kept staring at the strips of paper. Sam sipped his coffee again.
Tea would have been safer. Ronnie was stupid.
Christmas was stupid.
“Stan?” Ryan asked, setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Stan lifted his gaze to Sam, and Sam froze under the intensity of his tear-filled eyes. “Where did you get these?” Stan could barely get his voice above a whisper.
Sam swallowed his coffee and cleared his throat. “Presidio Theater runs them. They happened to be doing one this year, and I thought it—it has music.”
“Sam, what on earth?” Mia looked at him.
Sam rolled his eyes and finished his coffee before he set it firmly on the floor. “It’s a panto.”
“A what?” Ronnie snorted from his chair.
“A panto,” Stan gasped. “A bloody panto.” He threw back his head and laughed brightly. Ryan shifted his gaze to Sam.
“It’s a music theater thing.” Sam shrugged. “Comedy. Like a parody. It’s a British thing. I was surprised that they had them here.”
Stan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Aye, me too.” He beamed. “I haven’t been to a panto since I was in London. The last time—” His eyes shone. “My family used to go on Boxing Day. Every year.” He held up the tickets. “There are eight here too, so—we can all go.”
“That was the idea.” Sam waved his hand, eager to get the attention off him.
“Thanks, Sam.”
Mia brushed her fingers through Stan’s hair and turned her eyes toward Sam in the corner, smiling vibrantly.
Well, that was unexpected.
He reached for his coffee mug and scowled. Empty. He moved to stand up and froze because Ryan was standing there with the pot.
“Warm up?”
Sam snorted and held out his mug for Ryan to refill. He did and then poured a cup for himself before he sat down on the fireplace and watched Mia helping Ronnie get into the new leather jacket she got for him.
He fussed about it, of course, red-faced and flustered. Mia had already bought the blue- haired tech-guy a leather jacket a few years ago, but apparently she’d decided he needed a second one.
“How did you know about British theater?” Ryan set the coffeepot on the fireplace.
“I Googled it.”
Ryan laughed.
Sam froze before he swallowed his coffee. Oh, he still had Ryan’s gift.
Ugh.
He reached for the floor and pulled it into his lap. “You probably want me to open this.”
Ryan offered a smile, and Sam rolled his eyes. He set his coffee on the ground and went to tear the brown paper wrapping off it. Prepared to see ordered lines of a yellow legal pad, he didn’t expect to see Ella Fitzgerald’s face staring back at him.
He paused.
Sam finished pulling the paper off Ryan’s gift and blinked in shock.
Ella Fitzgerald. John Coltrane. Miles Davis. His three favorite jazz musicians. In vinyl. He turned a scowl on Ryan.
“Did I get it right?” Ryan asked. Eyebrows furrowed.
“Exactly right.”
Ryan nodded, obviously pleased with himself.
Sam shook his head, the room tilting around him. “How did you—I never said—”
“You’re not as sneaky as you think, Sam.” Ryan took a drink of his own coffee. “Besides, after all these years, if I didn’t know what kind of music you liked to listen to, I wouldn’t be much of a friend, would I?”
Sam kept scowling.
Well, what was he supposed to say to that?
For eight years, he’d done everything in his power to hold these freaks at arm’s length, and what good had it done him? Ronnie could get under his skin with one conversation, and Ryan had figured out one of the more personal details of his life. How? By osmosis?
Not cool.
Sam looked down and jogged the records into an ordered stack. “Thanks.”
Ryan blinked in surprise. “You—you’re welcome.” He saluted with his coffee. “I hope you like them.”
Sam set the records on the floor and picked up his coffee. “It’s Ella Fitzgerald. What’s not to love?”
Ryan leaned back against the stones on the fireplace. “This may surprise you, Sam, but I’m not much of a jazz guy.”
Sam snickered. “I’m shocked.” Sam sipped his coffee. “What is it then? Country?”
“No.” Ryan laughed. “Zeppelin. Lynyrd Skynyrd. Jimmie Hendrix.”
“Oh, the classics.”
“The classics.” Ryan smiled.
The yodeling wail of Karl’s new toy blasted through the back of the family room as Karl raced it over the carpet and around the corner. Moments later he followed, shouting after it telling it to come back and accusing Ronnie of building him a self-aware remote control car.
“Ryan?”
Ryan glanced at him. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’ve got a sledgehammer in the shed.”
Laughter bubbled up at the back of Sam’s throat before he could stop it. He nearly spilled his coffee. Ryan laughed with him and stood, walking over to where Ronnie was now being forced to model his new “much cooler than the other one” leather jacket.
Poor Ronnie.
He looked more like a punk rocker than ever now.
Stan and Uly were chasing after Karl to get him to stop trying to break the house with his toy, and Dr. Davalos had gone back to reading his paper.
Sam leaned back in his chair, folding his legs under him, and glanced at the jazz records on the floor.
So.
This was what a happy Christmas felt like. He sipped his coffee.
Maybe this was something he could get used to after all.
Thank you for reading. Check in tomorrow for a special gift! MERRY CHRISTMAS!