Page 17 of His Christmas Love Song

“Yeah.”

“He was asking me about, that is, he brought up something that—” Ryan sighs. “He was giving me some advice and I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Advice about what?” Jesse tries not to feel stung that Ryan’s been able to talk with Hank about something he isn’t able to talk with Jesse about.

“Well, about something that’s been on my mind a lot lately. For a long time now. It’s gotten to be distracting so he thinks I need to get it off my chest. Only it’s not that simple. I don’t think so, anyway.” Ryan doesn’t look at Jesse while he compulsively straightens his silverware.

“Okay. Well, he’s probably right. Just letting stuff fester isn’t healthy.” Jesse wants to bang his head on the table. If this new awareness of Ryan doesn’t go away, he’s going to be the one with the festering secret. He reminds himself this conversation is about Ryan, not him, and refocuses on his friend. “So what’s on your mind?”

Ryan takes a deep breath. His cheeks go a little pink.

The word adorable flits across Jesse’s mind. No, not adorable. Just Ryan being Ryan. Argh.

“I don’t know if I can—I don’t really have the right words,” he says haltingly.

“Maybe you should write it down,” Jesse says.

“Huh?”

“You’re an amazing writer, Ryan. Maybe you need to write it, not say it.”

Ryan frowns. “I sort of have,” he mutters, but then he looks up and meets Jesse’s gaze for the first time since they sat down at the table. His blue eyes shine. “Actually, I haven’t written a—” He stops, touches his fork, takes another breath. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks, Jess.”

Ryan’s smile is warm and melts Jesse from the inside out. He has no idea what Ryan’s talking about, only that he said something right. He’ll take it, and he’ll try to shove these inappropriate feelings back where they came from. Only trouble is, he’s never been that great at hiding what he feels, especially not from Ryan.

NINE

The next day they wake up around the same time and head to the main building for breakfast together. Ryan can feel his arteries protesting all the butter he’s been consuming, so he gets oatmeal and an egg white omelet, while Jesse stuffs his face with the Lodge Special for the third day in a row.

Ryan’s feeling pretty good, all things considered. Some of the exhaustion from the tour is finally lifting after sleeping soundly the night before. He’s cleared the air with Hank, who’s texted him a few friendly messages since yesterday’s breakfast. It’s nice to feel like he has a friend he can talk about Jesse with if he needs to. And he’s definitely been thinking about what Hank said about talking to Jesse himself.

He’s considering it, but he’s worried the words will get stuck in his throat and he’ll chicken out. Instead, he thinks maybe the solution lies in writing a song. He’s written a half dozen down-beat ballads in recent months, but he’s hasn’t written an honest-to-god love song, where he puts his heart on the line and asks someone to be his. That’s what keeps kicking around in his head. Maybe he doesn’t have to talk to Jesse. Maybe he can just sing to him.

Either way, today he doesn’t need anything besides being in this beautiful place with his best friend, noodling around on their guitars.

The more relaxed Ryan is, the jumpier Jesse seems to get, though. Despite claiming that everything is fine, Jesse seems distracted. He’s rubbing the scar on his arm more than usual, and every time Ryan claps him on the shoulder he jumps like a skittish cat.

They get delivery of pad Thai and fried rice for lunch, and it’s not until they’re cleaning up that Ryan realizes something else is off about Jesse. He hasn’t touched him all day. Usually Ryan can’t keep Jesse off him, he’s always tapping his arm or nudging him with his foot when he wants to show him something. But Jesse’s kept distance between them all day. It’s weird.

Ryan muses on it all afternoon as they tweak one of Jesse’s contributions to the Christmas album, a goofy novelty tune about Tennessee Santa delivering all the presents in a pickup truck. Why would Jesse keep himself to his side of the living room, with a large coffee table between them?

A dark thought enters his head, ruining his good mood. Does Jesse know? Is that why he’s been keeping to himself? Ryan could see Jesse doing something like that to avoid giving Ryan false hope. Which is utterly depressing. But how would Jesse find out? It’s not like Ryan has a diary with Mr. Ryan Arlyn written out in cursive letters that Jesse could accidentally find or anything like that. The only human being who knows about Ryan’s feelings is Hank Moore, and as far as Ryan knows, Jesse doesn’t even have Hank’s number.

He’s being paranoid. Chalk this up as another reason Hank’s advice isn’t terrible. If he tells Jesse, then Jesse will know, which could be bad, but at least it’s out there. Ryan wouldn’t have to keep living with the fear that Jesse will find out. And he supposes there’s some sliver of a chance that if he does tell him, Jesse’s reaction won’t be a kindly let down or a horrified no. He honestly doesn’t let himself think about the idea of Jesse feeling the same way, or even being open to exploring a relationship with him, because it hurts too much to think about how good it could be.

And it could be so freaking amazing. He and Jesse already spend so much time together, he already knows the highs and lows of living with the guy, they know each other’s families, they work better together musically than apart. But thinking about sleeping in the same bed as Jesse, about rolling over and seeing his face first thing in the morning, kissing him awake. Telling him how much he means to him and not having to couch it in words of friendship or creative partnership. That would be incredible. Not that Jesse’s friendship isn’t worth its weight in gold all on its own. Ryan will take the friendship any day of the week. Which circles him right back to the beginning—if friends is enough for Jesse, and Ryan would rather be friends than nothing at all, why rock the boat by bringing up his feelings?

Ryan sighs, and realizes he’s completely tuned out of what they’re working on. Funny thing is, Jesse’s not paying attention, either. He’s staring out the window of the cabin at the view of the forest behind them, rubbing his arm again in the spot where he wears the scar from the explosion.

“Your arm bothering you?” Ryan asks.

Jesse jumps a few inches off the couch at the sound of Ryan’s voice and fumbles his guitar so it almost slides off his lap and onto the ground. “Huh?”

“Your arm.” Ryan nods at the arm in question, covered now by a blue and white checked shirt. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt,” Jesse says distantly, as if in his thoughts he’d been far away. He touches his left hand to the back of his right arm and then drops it when he realizes what he’s doing. “Habit, I guess.”

“Because if your arm hurts, we could get Hank to look at it.”