Page 17 of Pining for You

“You’re the best, dude,” I say, because I really do appreciate it, but I still really don’t want to talk about it.

“Okay. As long as you know.” He pauses, and then takes a breath like he’s going to say something. “Oh, and, B? Maybe don’t say anything to Cash? About my family and everything, I mean. I don’t want to worry him.”

He’s busy digging through the ornaments now, but I wish I could read his face. Why would Izaac keep anything from his boyfriend? Cash is fully aware the Evans family has its issues.

Then again, Cash, who is usually a golden retriever of a human, has seemed extra stressed lately, but with all the canceled plans and added obligations, I haven’t had a chance to find out why. I could ask Izaac now, but it might be better to focus on him for the moment.

“Noted,” I say instead, and add, “But, Z, if Cash worries, it’s because he loves you. We all do. It kinda comes with this whole best-friends-for-life thing.”

He gives a tight, crooked smile, and we continue our task. When we’re finished, we take a step back to admire Marley in triumphant silence, and have a toast with pristine Little Debbie tree cakes—vanilla, with green sparkles.

We send a few selfies to Cash and Diya, and I thank them profusely with emojis of Christmas trees, Santas, and celebratory bells, hoping the success makes up for my delinquency earlier. It feels good knowing we were all in this together. But there’s someone else who deserves to be appreciated for helping me complete this mission—someone I’d be more than happy to share my celebratory snack cake heart with—and maybe even my real one, too.

If only I knew how to reach her.

5

It may come as a surprise that one of my favorite Christmas stories isn’t actually a film, but the story behind the film. Legend has it that screenwriting icon John Hughes wrote Home Alone in only nine days.

Nine days!

I remind myself of this every time I feel pressured by the applications waiting for me in my room, all neatly organized into a folder. One that I have not opened since the day I made it, more than a month ago (which, at the time, felt like a pretty big step).

I figure until I’m within nine days of those deadlines, I’m in good shape.

Which is great because what I didn’t tell Izaac is that for the first time in my life, I am blocked. Like, no-going-over, no-getting-around, brick wall blocked.

I have wanted to go to film school since I was old enough to press Play on the DVD player. For years I daydreamed about the acceptance letter, the first day I’d step into film school classes, the chance to not just watch but study movies, so I could make the ones I want to make someday—queer Christmas rom-coms destined to be classics.

I picked three schools, all in New York because even though it’s not Hollywood, the city is the setting for so many Christmas movies. And let’s be real, because I know my friends will be in Brooklyn.

But applications require a lot of paperwork, which is notoriously not my thing, and the most stressful piece is a two-to-three-page Statement of Purpose outlining my “goals and career aspirations,” and describing what I “hope to gain from the program.”

Izaac gave me some unsolicited advice on this section early on. “Bennie, these schools want to know what you intend to do with your education, and how you’ll represent them,” he said. “They want to know that someday, if Bennie Bosley’s credits include having gone to, say, NYU, it’s going to be mentioned when you win an Oscar, not a Razzie.”

It made a lot of sense, but it also kind of scared me. I’ve been talking about my goals and career aspirations for so long, but now, when it comes to putting it on paper for review by some highly official higher education admissions committee, making holiday rom-coms just feels… silly. Like everyone else is planning to do something serious, and suddenly my “purpose” doesn’t feel so meaningful anymore.

When Izaac leaves, I know I should direct my attention to sorting it all out, but my mind wanders directly back to the farm this morning. I sigh. Why can’t my purpose just be to find Eve?

Eve, the girl with the melted chocolate eyes, the coy smile, the library of laughter, the wild, curly hair. Eve, who cares about humans and star signs and moon magic. Eve, who lives in my dream city with her Dickens-loving little brother, who wonders about a doughnut-loving old man, and wants to give the best gifts possible.

Personal statements feel hard, but I could compose poems, sonnets, and anthologies about Eve. I could write scripts and sequels and do some seriously sprawling world-building around the idea of us. I don’t have any good reason for being so sure—especially when I’m unsure about so many other things in my life—but something in me just knows that she is supposed to be the one. My first kiss. I felt it at the farm, and I feel it now. I’m also somehow pretty sure that she felt it too. Fate. Undeniable, like the gravitational pull of the moon. Our moon. What else could those sparkles mean?

But how will I ever live out my romantic Christmas first-kiss dreams when I don’t have the slightest clue how to find her?

I frown, sitting on the couch across from Marley, clutching a package of peppermint Joe-Joe’s like a safety blanket. I probably just need a snack. Could be low blood sugar. That seems right…

I’m about to address the problem when the phone rings. I know it’s my mom because my ringtone for her is Amy Grant’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” but my heart drops because Naomi should be on her way home by now. If she’s calling, she’s not driving. And if she’s not driving, she’s still at work.

“Greetings, Fozziwig’s Rubber Chicken Factory,” I say, trying to sound as sunny and cloudless as the sky above Cooper this morning, referencing The Muppet Christmas Carol.

“Hey, Pop-Tart,” Naomi says. “How was the morning?”

Okay, so when Eve called me Strudel, it wasn’t the first time I’ve been referred to as a toaster pastry. I argue that it’s exaggerated, but family legend has it that one snowy after-school afternoon, I reached for a strawberry frosted Pop-Tart to pair with my daily cocoa, only to realize Michelle had taken the last one—and I was legit inconsolable. My mom then made a point to buy a family-size box, and this time, I got to it first. I opened it up, took out every individual snack and stashed it somewhere I deemed safe. The problem was, I then promptly forgot most of those hiding spots, and for months afterward, we were finding toaster pastries in the strangest places in various stages of decomposition. After that, Michelle started calling me Pop-Tart—and sticking a fresh pack in my stocking every year—and the name stuck. I pretended not to like it, but it was an inside joke with my big sister. And that, I loved.

Now, though, it just feels strange hearing it from Naomi, especially since I know where this conversation is going.

“Ya know, it wasn’t bad, actually,” I reply to my mother, trying to play it cool.