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Bren didn’t answer. When A.J. looked up, he saw him stepping through the door to the backyard, footsteps stomping down the stairs towards the driveway.

Holly hadn’t looked up from her cookies but Dad’s expression matched A.J.’s confusion. A.J. stood to go after him, but he stopped when he saw the tray of biscuits teetering on the edge of the counter next to the laptop.

He looked at the screen. Windows Media Player was running in the background, but the psychedelic display had been eclipsed by a browser window of Bren’s email account.

A.J. didn’t finish reading the email as he plunged feet first into the frozen lake that had taken the place of the kitchen floor, the Christmas music turning muffled through the frigid water.

We wish you a Merry Christmas.

Service Canada . . . improperly filed forms.

We wish you a Merry Christmas.

Original visa expiration date . . . refile from country of origin.

And a Happy New Year.

Bren was going back to Ireland.

35

“Do you think we’ll ever have a normal Christmas?”

Bren didn’t reply. He stared at his untouched dinner like he might take a swing at his mashed potatoes while Christine and Raoul sang in the background. Nearly a week on and they kept going around like this—Bren biting back his fury until he burned himself out, A.J. trying not to cry until everything went numb.

“One fuckin’ signature.”

There was no number to call, no way to explain that everything else had been filled out correctly and that obviously Bren consented to everything in the application since his signature was in no less than three other places throughout.

A.J. flopped back into the pillows at the head of his bed. He’d always taken pride in his status as a Canadian, but right now he would trade his nationality for any other country that would have him. “I know.”

Bren slid his untouched dinner onto the nightstand and slammed into the pillows next to him.

“I’m still really proud of you.”

Bren jerked his head away from the kiss A.J. tried to give him.

“Bren, seriously. You got dropped into a whole new school and pulled off all nineties in your first semester—while doing rehearsals five times a week. At least be a little proud.”

Bren’s expression didn’t soften as he stared at a point somewhere to the right of A.J.'s ear. “But it didn’t fuckin’ matter, did it?” He shook his head. “I shoulda failed everythin’ and spent more time with you.”

His hand twitched when A.J.’s found it, but he didn’t pull away, letting their fingers link together.

“I didn’t think I was going to see you at all until next year.”

Bren’s breath hitched, and A.J. was sure he was remembering the heavy weight of not knowing when or if they’d see each other again.

“So now it’s my turn to work hard,” A.J. said, and Bren didn’t pull away from the kiss this time.

“I’m going to apply to every single college in Ireland so I get that visa, then it’s four years of you and me, OK?”

Bren looked like he wanted to argue, but that was no good. A.J. kissed him again and when the fire on Bren’s lips cooled, he tried to pull away. The arms around his back pulled him in tighter and, unprecedented as it was, their owner buried his head against A.J.’s chest.

They lay like that long enough that pins and needles raced across A.J.’s arm. It must have been the same for Bren because he sighed and scooched back up to the pillows, flopping on his back.

“What are we doin’ about tomorrow?” He had three days before he needed to leave the country or they'd track him down and deport him.

They could go to Dustin’s New Year’s party and get good and drunk, but he couldn’t shake the idea that it might turn into an impromptu goodbye-Bren affair. If they stayed home, they’d have to remain sober, but there’d be fewer tears. Holly would probably ask why Bren couldn’t just visit on the weekends, though, and what were they supposed to do with that?