Page 47 of Back for Seconds

Big birthday? Buy yourself a hock: a too-sweet, overcooked, sliced way too thin and all the delicious fat rendered into a rubbery rind, then left to dry out and become truly inedible kind of ham.

“I hate ham,” I said suddenly.

Joey looked up from the bundle of lights he was unwinding, lips pushed out into a contemplative pout. “You hate ham?”

My cheeks were heating rapidly. Why had I said that out loud? It was bad enough this man had already, on multiple occasions, watched me engage in a public display of male evisceration. Now I was dragging ham into it. Poor, internationally beloved ham! And he was Cuban, for cripes sake.

“Honey-glazed ham,” I quickly addended. It came out in a crammed, anxious swirl of consonants. Hermeeglasshem. “The stuff with pineapple poked into it.”

“Oh, yeah.” Joey’s eye lit up. “It’s so gross. Well—” He puffed out his cheeks and tilted his head back and forth. “I’m sure it can be good, but if I’m gonna eat an adorable little Wilbur, it’s gotta be pernil.”

“I’ve never had it.”

“Christmas Eve you will. My mom makes it every year.” He flattened a hand to his stomach. “It’s the only thing I miss.”

“I can’t wait.” I bit into my bottom lip to try to hide the smile overtaking my face.

Easy. Everything with Joey was easy.

I can just be myself. The thought crossed my mind so fast, I hardly had a chance to wonder where it had come from.

***

After the tree was strung with lights, we stood back and admired Joey’s work, fists pressed into our hips. I waited for the inevitable, Time for me to go! Tonight was fun! But instead, Joey turned to me and asked, “Do you have ornaments?”

“I do, but I…” I let out a nervous laugh, shaking off my shock. “I haven’t gone through them since the divorce, and I know there’s a bunch of ones with me and that fuckface—”

Joey shrugged. “I’ll take care of it.”

And so he did. After I pulled down the old, soft cardboard box of Christmas decorations from the hallway closet, Joey sat on the floor and began rifling through its contents, his face completely impassive as he pulled out one ornament after the other, inspecting carefully before either setting it aside or putting it back into the box.

I tried to make myself useful by rearranging the books on my half-bare bookshelves and Swiffering the already dustless floor, casting a look in his direction every once in a while.

“Want some tea?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, looking up from the popsicle stick snowflake in the palm of his hand. “Did some child from fuckface’s family make this?”

“No, I did.”

“Excellent.” He stood and placed it at the top of my beautiful, half-dead tree.

I brewed us both mugs of ginger-lemon tea, which we sipped in the blue-white glow of the Christmas lights, each of us hyper-focused on our tasks. While Joey hung the rest of the ornaments, I unboxed the fake candles and set them up on the ledge that followed the contour of the bay window. By the time we finished, the room had been transformed. All I needed to do was buy some wood for the fireplace, and it really would feel like the type of cozy, magical Christmas I’d always lusted for in this house.

Joey dusted his hands off on his thighs and announced, “Everything in the cardboard box is trash.”

This, I hated to admit, felt like a goodbye.

“Aye, aye, captain.”

We’d passed an entire evening together in a companionable, comfortable friendship. And no matter how much my stomach still pulled at the thought of his mouth on mine last night, we were obviously just going to keep things this way. I was fine with that. I could say that to myself, and it didn’t feel like a lie. As long as I had Joey in some manner, I had a feeling I’d be ok.

“Thank you, again. Every time we’re together, you’re helping me with something.”

Joey reached for his hoodie, discarded onto the couch. “I like helping.”

I made a speculative little noise in the back of my throat. “Last night you made me a four-course meal…”

“I like cooking. You’re just naming things I like.” Joey pulled on his sweatshirt, grinning at me when his head popped through. I leaned up and dusted a few hairs away from his forehead, rogue strands yanked from his ponytail. His eyes briefly fluttered shut, my stomach hitching at the way he relaxed under my touch. Was I allowed to do this? To just reach out and feel his skin underneath my fingers? We’d held hands, we’d made out, and we’d spent hours together. The boundaries of what we were doing were wholly unclear.