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Evie is struggling to catch up, so Nic scoops her up and settles her on his shoulders before falling into step with our fearless leaders.
The rest of us trail behind, my parents commenting on new neighbors or new decorations; Amanda, Hazel, Mina, and I take up the rear, drinking and laughing.
“What, exactly, are we doing?” Mina asks, flipping Timothy off when he bellows at us to hurry up.
“Something I ask myself every year.” Amanda takes a swig from her flask.
Hazel slips her arm through her wife’s. “I don’t know how this all started, but every December twenty-first, we get drunk and walk to the Gullivers’ house, where they’ll judge us as we engage in a battle of dirty carols against the Stuart family. Amanda and I then spend the next few months trying to get the kids to forget the lyrics.”
“We always win,” I add. “Because swearing children are adorable.”
“And Mrs. Gulliver thinks Timothy has a phenomenal ass, which he never fails to twerk on up to her.” Hazel grins, tipping her flask back. A ruddy glow is already spreading across her cheeks and she cuddles closer to Amanda.
Timothy stops in front of a house that appears to have vomited every Christmas decoration ever made in a haphazard fashion that screams the kids did it. Except the Gulliver kids are teenagers, so two reindeer are screwing and baby Jesus is stuck in the basketball hoop. The whole family is bundled up in lawn chairs lining the end of the driveway, waiting for the show, hot drinks in hand, and piles of snowballs in buckets for the losers.
Greetings are called out and when the Stuart family shows up wearing tacky hats covered in Christmas lights, Timothy pulls us all into a huddle, demanding we down the contents of our flasks immediately for maximum drunkenness as he hands each of us a copy of the songs we’re doing.
It’s chaotic, off-key, and wonderful. Timothy leads us through our three songs swinging his massive candy cane like a drunken conductor as we take turns with the Stuarts to serenade our neighbors. Mrs. Gulliver gets her lap dance, too, and this year Mr. Gulliver tips a bucket of snow over them.
Standing at the edge of the group, I snap a few photos with my phone. Liam and Evie, singing their little hearts out, eyes alight from all the naughty words they get to use this one time. Amanda and Hazel, arms around each other, belting out a song about balls. My mother getting way too into it with her dancing while my father’s deep voice carries the day on a song about hos. Mina claps along, laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.
And Nic, his cheeks pink from the cold, Evie still perched on his shoulders and banging on his head like a drum. He’s relaxed. He doesn’t have to be the man he pretended to be with his fans earlier. Everyone here knew him before he became a big deal, and no one is going to ask invasive questions about his divorce or who he’s dating, or what he’s working on next. He’s just Nic. Timothy’s scrawny best friend who grew up.
And goddammit he grew up.
The late sun bathes his face in soft lighting, making his gray eyes sparkle. My breath catches at the pure joy in the laughter of a man who so often keeps everything buttoned up tight. He’s beautiful like this.
Maybe it’s the cold, or the camaraderie of this silly tradition, or the booze from my now-empty flask, but dammit, for a minute, I wish this side of him was mine—that I could make him smile and laugh instead of scowl.
When it’s all over, Timothy and Ian—leader of the Stuarts—step forward, prepared to accept their fate while the Gullivers toss snowballs in the air, smirking as they consult among themselves. After a suitable amount of ass-kissing and insults, the snowballs are lobbed at the Stuarts as we are proclaimed the winners.
Nic’s face lights up. Our eyes meet and instead of the smile falling from his face like it so often does, it widens and I find myself smiling back.
Timothy whoops, grabbing Mina and spinning her like he’s won the lottery. Maybe he has. He races off down the road, Mina yelling at him to set her down. Soon they’re out of sight. Our group fractures more as Amanda, Hazel, and the kids take the long way home to look at Christmas lights now that dusk is upon us. My parents stop to chat with a neighbor who comes outside.
Everything is falling into place for Timothy. Amanda has her perfect family. I didn’t think I’d be the last, but here I am, walking home alone from Bawdy Carols.
It’s been five years since my last and only serious boyfriend. It’s bleak out there—the idea of trying to find someone serious is laughable. I had to kiss a lot of frogs to find Camden and he turned out to be a toad.
Snow crunches on the street behind me. I spin around, uncertain if I’ll be facing a snowball ambush or a serial killer.
Nic’s walking a few feet back, hands stuffed into the pockets of his expensive wool coat, the tips of his ears and nose pink in the lavender twilight, his eyes on the ground—until they fly up to me, widening in surprise.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to follow you.” He freezes and looks around, a frown tugging his brows down. “Everyone left. Can I walk you back?”
Guess I’m not the only one alone. I wait for him to join me, and we walk on in silence. Nic looks at the lights on the houses. I commit the deep lilac of dusk on snow to memory. The wanting usually passes, but it’s always surprising that after all this time, after all the shit, I long to pick up my brushes and watch my watercolors bloom.
Maybe I need to get over myself and paint. Embrace my mediocrity.
Occasionally Nic’s arm brushes mine, intruding more and more on my musings on colors until I can no longer ignore him by my side. His problems appear to be at least as big as my own, and frankly, I’d rather think about them. He doesn’t want to do the next Warwick movie. Is he unhappy?
“You don’t have to keep acting.” I blurt out, startling him. Myself too.
He scowls. “Why wouldn’t I?”
The snap in his question almost brings a‘fuck off’to my lips, but I remember how he unraveled in front of his fans and push past the urge. I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He eyes me as we walk. Trying to figure out if I’m genuine or about to kneecap him. I hate that it’s like this with us. We can’t even have a civil conversation.
