Page 51 of Holiday Pines

“Hey,” Wes answered. “You make it okay?”

“Yeah. I’m home.” The word felt wrong. “Well, my apartment.”

“How is it?”

“Lonely.”

Wes laughed softly. “I know the feeling.”

They talked until nearly midnight. When they finally hung up, Jake lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Friday was a blur. Wes worked the farm–busier than any Christmas he could remember–counting the hours until Jake would be back. They texted constantly—photos of Atlanta traffic, photos of cut trees and deer, stupid jokes and poignant messages, and the occasional dirty comment that made Wes flush and look around to make sure no one was looking his way.

Saturday evening, Tucker texted:Tavern tonight? I haven’t seen you in forever. Everybody knows. Ya’ll might as well come down and throw darts with the rest of us.

Wes almost said no, but Henry was having a good day. Miguel had offered to check in on him, and Wes needed to do something besides mope.

He showed up at Tucker’s around eight. The place was packed—holiday crowd, tourists visiting family, locals celebrating the weekend. Cal was at the jukebox, pumping quarters.

Tucker waved him over. “There he is. Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth. Where’s Jake?”

“He’s in Atlanta, doing business things. And I’ve been a littlebusy—” Wes pinched Tucker’s cheek exaggeratedly. “—Sweet T.”

“Alright, alright. I get it.” Tucker’s grin was infectious, and also a perfect representation of his nickname. “How is he?”

Wes looked around. “Does everyone know?”

“Just the people who pay attention. So, yeah, everyone.” Tucker poured him a drink. “Relax. No one cares. Half the town’s been placing bets on when you’d finally make a move.”

“Jesus.”

“So? What’s going on?”

“He’ll be back on Saturday… hopefully.”

Tucker studied him. “You look miserable.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Cal’s jukebox selection kicked in—George Michael’sFreedom ‘90, funky drums kicking into a Latin disco groove–every lyric of the first verse aptly describing Wes’s predicament, as the poetry of music is prone to do.

Tucker snorted. “Subtle, Cal.”

Wes drained his glass. “Gimme another.”

By the end of the night, Wes was buzzed, exhausted, and missing Jake so much it hurt. Tucker drove him home, pulling up to the farmhouse around midnight.

“You gonna be okay?” Tucker asked.

“Yeah.”

“For what it’s worth? I think you two are good together. Jake seems solid.”

“He is.”

“Then don’t let fear fuck it up.”