In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(139)
I tell Ginger what Virginia said about the Temple job and about Rex asking me to move in with him. What I don’t tell her much about is that Rex and I talked a lot about the future last night. About our options. About how he’d feel leaving Holiday. I don’t tell her that last night, when we went to bed, I put the key to Rex’s cabin—our cabin, now, I guess—on the bedside table so I could see it until I drifted off. Or that, when I fell asleep in Rex’s arms, his big hands all over me, I felt certain that he would be there in the morning. That I wouldn’t wake up to find that the world had disappeared.
While we eat, Ginger plays Christmas music DJ, putting on everything from Scottish boy choirs to Scott Weiland’s Christmas album. I practically choke to death on a mouthful of sweet and sour chicken when I crack up at a YouTube parody of a Time Life CD commercial featuring A Very Eddie Vedder Christmas in which some genius has manipulated Pearl Jam songs into the form of Christmas carols. Finally, she puts on The Nightmare Before Christmas, which is her favorite Chanukah movie because she says it’s obvious that Jack Skellington—a skinny outsider who tries to gain access to Christmas by studying it—is a metaphor for Jewish kids growing up and trying to figure out what the big deal about Christmas is.
“So, you got the text from Colin, but you haven’t heard from him since then?” Ginger asks as Jack discovers the portal to Christmas Town.
“No.” I didn’t really expect to, either. Mostly, I think the only reason he sent me that text was because he was afraid that if I didn’t hear from him I might tell Brian and Sam what I saw at dad’s funeral.
“What did the guy look like? The one at the cemetery?”
“I didn’t get much of a look at him. Big. Like, Rex big. Maybe bigger. Dark hair, dark eyes. I don’t know, man. He looked kinda hot, I guess. Mostly I just noticed he was, like, crazy still. He didn’t react to anything that happened. Didn’t step in and fight. Didn’t try to help Colin when we were fighting. Rex pulled me off him, but this guy just stood there. It was weird, actually. He didn’t even say anything, but….”
“But?”
“But not like he didn’t care. I mean, when I walked in he was… holding Colin. Like, cradling him. Gently. Colin was sobbing and this guy definitely cared. It was more like… maybe he knew what was going on? Like, knew what was at stake for Colin and didn’t want to intrude or something. Fuck, I don’t know.”
“They care about each other, then, right? I mean for Colin to have this guy at your dad’s funeral—”
“Yeah, I know. I guess so? Ugh, I still can’t wrap my mind around it. I’m going to try and find Colin tomorrow and see if I can talk to him.”
Ginger flops upside down on the couch, her hair trailing the carpet, staring at her little Chanukah tree. It’s wrapped in white twinkle lights and hung with hundreds of stars cut out of blue paint chips from the hardware store. Every shade of blue you can imagine, from the palest baby blue to the deepest navy. It’s beautiful.
“Do you think Colin’s a top or a bottom?” she muses.
“Dude, stop! He’s my brother.”
“Well, I’m just saying. Do you think he likes—”
“Jesus, Ginge, seriously. No. I refuse.”
“Is it wrong that I think Colin’s kind of hot now that I know he’s gay? And tortured.”
“You are seriously f*cked-up.” I think about it for a second. “Okay, I would totally think that about someone who wasn’t my brother.”
“Okay, but just for one sec—you saw this guy. Can’t you guess if he—”
“Presents! You want your presents?”
Ginger pouts, but it’s well established that presents are a subject change that she’ll allow.
We have a firm rule that we can’t spend money on gifts and an equally firm one that all gifts can be regifted, recycled, or trashed without any concession to sentimentality. Ginger nearly always gives me a tattoo, so that rule mostly applies to my gifts, which I always used to find by picking through stuff that people left at the bar. They usually weren’t great, but one banner year some girl left a red leather jacket and I’ll never be able to top it. Even so, I’m pretty pleased about this year’s gifts, especially since I didn’t have the bar as a hunting ground. Luckily for me, Ginger loves the intersection of functionality and kitsch and, if I’ve learned anything since moving to Holiday, it’s that almost all Michigan souvenirs live in that intersection.
I hand Ginger the lumpy packages that I wrapped in extra handouts from my classes.
“Oh, thank god,” Ginger says, fanning herself as she accepts them. “I was getting seriously concerned that I wouldn’t know how to structure my conclusion!”
“Don’t worry. The other one’s on thesis statements, so you’ll have a well-balanced essay.”
“The tart cherries!” Ginger examines the jar of tart cherry preserves topped with a square of red and white plaid cloth. “This does not look free, you cheater.”
“Oh, it was free. The lady who owns one of the touristy shops near campus gave it to me.” Ginger narrows her eyes. I suppose it’s justified: one year I did try and convince her that I’d gotten a sheet cake for free. To be fair, the week before, one of my friends had gotten a whole cake from a Trader Joe’s dumpster. Still, since this one said “Happy Chanukah, you animal,” with a picture of Animal from the Muppets done in frosting, it was a hard sell.