Under the Mistletoe - 1. Chapter 1

I’ve always wanted to be kissed under the mistletoe. I think it started around the time I was five years old, at the Christmas party my grandparents have every year in their six-bedroom home in Colorado. I always loved that house--on three acres, surrounded by nothing but forest--but I always loved it more at Christmas, lit up with lights and no room untouched by my grandmother when it came to holiday decorations. And there was always mistletoe, right there in the entryway as you walked in. That’s where I first saw it happen.

That one year, my dad had to join us late because of business, but he showed up a day early, just in time for the party. I went to answer the door with my mom, and right when it opened he came inside, looking as happy as I could ever remember seeing him, and before my mom knew what hit her, she was in his arms and being dipped backwards. And he kissed her. That was the moment I knew that my parents would be together forever. They’d never split up, like my friend Andrew Jacob’s parents did. I knew right then and there, that I wanted to be kissed by a boy, under the mistletoe.

Of course, this was before I came to realize that most boys don’t kiss other boys, under the mistletoe or otherwise. The majority preferred to kiss girls. But still, over the next few years, every Christmas at my grandparents’ house, I was obsessed. When my older brother was off playing with my sixteen-or-so cousins, I was watching the adults, especially as they entered the house. I’d hide behind the garnished stair banister, and I’d watch to see who would stop under the mistletoe. Not everyone did, but there was enough to keep my interest; and the kisses... they were all different.

Every year Uncle Sammy would kiss Aunt Jane’s nose and she’d wipe it off afterwards, and Cousin Julie would complain that her fiance’s mustache tickled, yet every year he’d have a mustache. My grandpa always gave my grandma one soft kiss on the lips, and she’d pat his arm before going about her business; and my parents would find the mistletoe every year, too. But, nothing ever came close to that first witnessed kiss, the kind that I wanted.

But, as I grew, every year I began to realize more and more that in order to get kissed like that, I’d need to find someone to kiss me first. It made sense, at least. And then one year, it happened. I was ten years old, and I found the perfect boy to kiss me under the mistletoe. I knew it the moment I saw him. He was perfect. He was going to kiss me under the mistletoe because that’s what I always wanted.

His name was Braxton Diggs. I thought it was the best name ever. I thought everything about him was great. He was my age, and attending my grandparents’ party with his parents, who were in from out of town. His dad had worked for my grandpa a few years before, and they’d kept in touch while Braxton and his parents were living overseas. Now that they were back in the states, they had decided to get in touch with old friends. I couldn’t have been happier about it.

They arrived one week before Christmas, like we did. Braxton and I shared a room. He didn’t talk much, but he liked to play Scrabble. I hated Scrabble. I was the worst speller ever, but since no one else wanted to play, I was happy to volunteer. He was so cute, always concentrating under his heavy, blond bangs, and whenever he won, which was all the time, he’d look at me with those big blue eyes. I could have sworn he winked a few times. And I waited for him to kiss me.

I waited a lot. Every time we walked outside, under the mistletoe, I’d stop and wait, but nothing happened. I even pointed it out to him once and told him what it was there for, but he shrugged and kept on walking. I guess maybe he was a little dense. Cute, but dense. I decided to make it more obvious.

I got into my grandmother’s spare holiday decorations. I searched box after box until I found enough mistletoe. I hung it over every doorway and every hall I could until I ran out. He helped me hang it in the doorway to the room we were sharing. He said it looked nice, and then asked what was for lunch.

By this time, I was a little worried. He was leaving on Christmas afternoon with his parents to see his own family, and he wasn’t coming back. That didn’t give him much time to kiss me. Christmas Eve came and went, and so did my grandparents’ annual party. I must have walked under the mistletoe with Braxton a hundred times and still no kiss. On Christmas morning, when we were opening our presents, Braxton’s parents gave me a sweater. I gave him a little box with mistletoe in it. He thanked me, gave me a strange look, and moved on to open his new snowsuit. Obviously, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.

It was the day he left. I watched him pack up his suitcase. His parents were downstairs saying goodbye to everyone. I waited in the doorway to our shared room, my eyes drifting upwards to the mistletoe every few seconds, and then he was there, saying goodbye to me. I looked him over. He looked nice in his Christmas sweater. The blue brought out his eyes. But, he was still too tall for me to dip backwards. I settled for shoving him against the wall, instead. Those blue eyes got wide. That suitcase he was carrying went flying, and our noses smashed together so hard it hurt when I closed my eyes and aimed for his lips.

He left me in the doorway, shocked, after his nicely aimed fist did a perfect job of bloodying my nose.

This was the worst Christmas ever.

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Mistletoe was cursed. I hated mistletoe. I hated Braxton Diggs when he showed up the next year for Christmas at my grandparents’. And the next. I hated that every year he just got cuter. I hated that he looked like he hated me every time he looked at me. Well, he could relax, because I wasn’t going to be caught dead with him under the mistletoe any time soon. I did a good job of avoiding him, too. I roomed with my brother, instead. He snored, but that was okay. I didn’t want anything to do with Braxton Diggs. I didn’t care if he didn’t have anyone to play scrabble with. The Christmas after I turned thirteen, Braxton and his parents moved back overseas, and Braxton Diggs, and all things mistletoe, were forgotten as far as I was concerned.

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Sixteen. Too short for my age. Too cool to care. Alone. That was me the first year I’d spend Christmas vacation at my grandparents’ house without my family. My brother wanted to spend Christmas with his new friends from college. I was pretty sure there was a girl involved, but if that was the case, then he wasn’t saying anything about it. My parents wouldn’t be there this year, either. They were taking a second honeymoon and spending the holidays in Puerto Rico.

At least I didn’t have to spend the whole week at my grandparents’ house. I got there three days before their annual party--I was the first one. My grandparents were happy to see me, too, and I guess they made me feel better about being away from my family. The first night I spent several hours outside in the snow with my grandpa until he found the perfect Christmas tree, which I chopped down and helped him put up in the house. Normally, they’d have their tree up the day after Thanksgiving, but his arthritis had been acting up, so they decided to wait until there was help around. My grandmother made her extra-thick hot chocolate, and they let me open one present early. Of course, it was the sweater my grandmother expected me to wear at the party. That night, I went to bed in the same room my brother and I had been sharing since I was eleven, deciding that I’d make the best of things. I had one day to get through helping my grandparents around the house before my cousins would start arriving, hopefully bringing plenty of entertainment with them.

The nice thing about staying with my grandparents, was that they didn’t mind it at all when I slept in, unlike when I stayed at my aunt’s house and she’d have me up at six o’clock on a Saturday to help with chores. Things were more relaxed with Grandma and Grandpa, but that could have been because they were late risers, too. In fact, I usually woke up before both of them, which is why I was surprised to find my grandma in the kitchen the following morning, and she had breakfast waiting for me. She started listing off all the people who would be attending the party this year as she started mixing cookie dough for her usual holiday goodies; and while my family wasn’t coming, it seemed like everyone else would be accounted for.

Grandma was probably halfway through it when she interrupted herself by mentioning that the cookie-cutters she needed were still stored away in the shed out back. I wasn’t finished eating yet, but I was showered and dressed, and had way too much of a conscience to let my granny go out in the cold wearing her slippers. A few minutes later, I was bundled in my coat and snowboots and dragging my feet through the white powder left by the storm that had come through the night before I’d arrived. It was cold, but a nice day. The air was still and the sun was shining, the snow on the ground making it seem bright, even with all of the trees shading the property. I was almost to the shed when the trouble started.

I think anyone would react badly to a snowball packed so hard it hurt hitting the back of their neck. Especially first thing in the morning, while their hair’s still damp from the shower and the temperature outside hasn’t quite climbed up past eleven degrees. It came out of nowhere, too, and before I even had the opportunity to cuss about it, I had ice rolling down the back of my coat, sending an unpleasant chill down my spine.

I spun around, my eyes scanning the premises for the perpetrator even as I knelt down and gathered enough snow to pack in my bare hands. Anyone who wanted to start a snowball fight with me, was going to find out what a snowball fight was. Just as my eyes narrowed suspiciously on a squirrel that was looking at me funny, the second blow came, the ice filling my left ear in a way that had me rushing to get it out as my shoulders stiffened against the chill and I was forced to abandon my would-be snowball. But, I gathered up another one the moment I heard the soft chuckling coming from my right. Past experience told me that I’d hardly have to see my attacker before I nailed him right between the eyes, and that’s what I intended to do. I pulled back my arm, took aim as I spotted the figure, and froze.

Now, there’s some things you just don’t do. Kind of like, hitting a guy with glasses, it’s just wrong. But still, throwing a snowball at a guy on crutches with a cast covering the majority of his right leg, the one leg of his jeans cut off above it, just seemed wrong. I did reconsider this when a third snowball hit me, though, right smack in the middle of the forehead.

"Come on," the unfamiliar voice called out to me, "you can do better than that!"

I could also take away his crutches and beat him with them, but that didn’t mean I was going to do it.

"Just knock it off," I ordered, wiping the snow from my face as I tried to focus on the invader in my grandparents’ yard. "Who are..."

I paused, mid-question, and stared. Who was he? I’ll tell you who he was. He was someone I should have hit with a snowball. I hadn’t recognized his voice because it had grown deeper, smoother. He still had the same thick, blond hair, but instead of the bangs that used to hang over his eyes, it was now formed into a more stylish ‘do, and the blue eyes, still there, definitely not as wide as I remembered them. His jaw had squared out some, his used-to-be-wiry body had filled out quite a bit, and he was actually smiling at me, something I hadn’t expected to see in this lifetime.

"Braxton?" For the record, I didn’t sound at all happy to see him.

At the sound of his name, his smile faded, and quite unexpectedly, he narrowed his eyes on me, limping forward on the crutches until he stopped, and--yes; yes, he was looking me over. The brat hadn’t even known who I was before he started slinging snowballs at my head! Insulting.

"Matthew." He said my name like an accusation.

"Well who’d you think it was?" I demanded.

"I thought you were Mike," he responded, sounding disgusted--whether it was with myself or him, I wasn’t sure. But, it was obvious that Braxton Diggs hadn’t forgotten that we didn’t like each other. Fine. That suited me just fine. Mike was my brother, and unfortunately, I could see where he would make the mistake. The older I got, the more I looked like him, or so I was told.

"Mike’s not coming this year," I informed him, and then narrowed my eyes. "What are you doing here?" It was supposed to be a good question. He was supposed to be with his parents, in Tokyo or Canada--or Algeria for all I cared. Anywhere but here.

"Oh, good, you’re up, Matt." It was my grandfather’s voice interrupting us as the old man walked around the house. "Braxton got here an hour ago. Surprise!"

"Surprise?" I repeated, unable to figure out why Grandpa was smiling.

"Yeah, your cousins don’t get here until tomorrow. We knew you’d like having company until then. You do remember Braxton, don’t you Matt? I remember one Christmas the two of you were practically inseparable." I glared at Braxton and he glared at me. I’m pretty sure we were both pretending that we had no idea what Grandpa was talking about. "You two should catch up. I hear Grandma’s making cookies."

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Braxton Digg’s sudden appearance in my life was an unwelcome surprise. But, at least my grandma’s cookies were good. They took the bitter taste right out of my mouth as I sat in the kitchen with my grandparents and Braxton as he explained to me--after my grandpa asked him to--why he was there. It turned out that his parents had spent the holidays skiing, but since he broke his leg--in three places--only a few weeks ago while snowboarding, he’d agreed to come here so they could still go on the trip.

When Braxton was finished telling us why he was there, he went into the story of how he’d broken his leg--without any coaxing, I noticed. It seemed that Braxton was no longer the shy, quiet boy I remembered. He was a snowboarder whose face lit up while talking about the sport, not even faltering when he mentioned how his leg ended up mangled. And, I had to admit, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant listening to Braxton talk. He had a nice voice.

I told my less interesting story of how I came to be there, just after Braxton told his. I reluctantly took it upon myself to notice that as I spoke, Braxton didn’t pretend to be completely uninterested in what I had to say. It was a switch from the last time I’d seen him, when we were thirteen. Back then, if I started talking at all he’d be sure to act as if he didn’t even hear me. Now, he was listening, watching me, and to my surprise, asking questions about my family, asking how they were doing and where they were now. I wondered if he was simply putting on a show for my grandparents. It was likely, so I decided to play his game, by politely answering his questions, and I even forced myself to laugh at a few of his jokes. Although, the laughter was likely a result of the jokes being funny, not me being forced. In fact, after a while I was curiously regarding Braxton Diggs as an entertaining stranger at my grandparents’ table, not the boy who’d left me with a bloody nose and a shattered image of what mistletoe was meant to bring six years ago.

But, then my grandparents abandoned us for their afternoon nap, and Braxton and I were left in awkward silence before I silently excused myself and went upstairs to my grandfather’s office, a large but cozy room with plenty of furniture and walls of books. I chose something that looked interesting enough and made myself comfortable in my grandpa’s chair, deciding that it would be a nice, relaxing way to let the hours pass. I wasn’t expecting to look up a few minutes later after I heard a soft thumping growing closer to the room. Braxton’s crutches. I fully expected him to continue on his way--not enter the office, which is exactly what he did. He met my eyes briefly before going to look over the bookshelves while I stared at the book in my hands.

With Braxton there, the book might as well have been upside down. I kept watching him out of the corner of my eye as he leaned on his crutches while reaching for book after book, flipping through pages and replacing them on the shelf. As I watched the way he blew a stray blond hair out of his eyes, I decided that Braxton wasn’t cute anymore. That notion would have helped, too, if the reason why he wasn’t cute was because he’d graduated to hot. When he finally found a book that interested him, he took a seat on the sofa across from me, stretching his injured leg out to rest on the coffee table between us. As Braxton opened his book, and I opened mine, neither of us dared to look at the game of Scrabble sitting next to his foot.

After lunch, my grandma unexpectedly asked Braxton and me to wrap a few last-minute Christmas presents. Only, there were more than just a few. Forty-six to be exact, but when she offered to make hot chocolate, neither of us dared complain as we looked over the bags full of presents she’d placed in front of the Christmas trees and the rolls of wrapping paper, enough bows for a hundred presents and more colors of ribbons than actual presents.

I went to work right away. In my family, I’d become the official gift wrapper. I was good at it, plain and simple. Of course, I’d been wrapping presents in the local mall by our house for two years in a row, so that could have had something to do with it. My grandmother had made it simple, placing tags on the gifts so we knew who’d they went to, and after checking for any receipts or price tags accidentally left behind, I was wrapping like a pro, folding flawless corners and curling ribbons, adding bows where they looked best and piling each one I finished under the tree.

Looking over at Braxton, I laughed out loud when I found that he wasn’t having nearly as easy a time as I was. His cast, awkwardly placed in front of him, had bows stuck to it. Excess ribbon was tangled in his lap and the two gifts he’d managed to finish might as well have been thrown in paper bags, the way they were rolled up in crinkled paper, way too much tape present on the outside. He looked up to glare at my intruding laughter, but when he looked down at his handiwork his expression softened and he shrugged to himself.

"I’m not very good at this," he said, and I looked at his wrapped gifts again.

"Yeah... my grandma will never put those under her tree."

"So maybe I should just let you do it," he said smartly.

I almost agreed, but instead stood up and moved closer, kneeling down in front of him to take the next gift he had lined up.

"Do it like this..." I demonstrated. "Cut the paper after you know how much you’re going to need... fold here... and here... a little tape..." Braxton leaned in closer and watched as I quickly wrapped the gift, looking more annoyed with the task than anything, but didn’t complain as he reached for another one and tried to imitate what I did. His end product wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad, either.

"How do you get the ribbon all curly?" he asked me, so I picked up his scissors and ran the blade along the underside of the ribbon, demonstrating that, too. Braxton smiled, and I soon noticed that making the ribbon curl had fast become his favorite part of gift wrapping. It was kinda funny actually, the way the look on his face as he did it was the exact same look he used to get when we played Scrabble--the pure concentration, and then satisfaction when he accomplished what he was trying to do. It had been cute before, and it still was. I tried not to notice too much.

As we worked, Braxton asked me if I knew which of my cousins would be there this year. I listed off the same names that my grandmother had given me, wondering if Braxton was concocting his own list: People to hang out with in order to avoid Matthew. It wouldn’t have surprised me. If I’d known that he was going to be around this year, I might have skipped Christmas altogether.

Later that evening, my grandpa announced that he was taking us all out together. On the way out the front door, I was behind Braxton. He paused in the entryway and looked up. I looked up, too. There it was, the same plastic display of mistletoe that was there every year. Someone really needed to tear it down.

Braxton looked back just in time to see me staring at it. I met his eyes, and his face colored to the shade of the red bows we’d used earlier while wrapping presents. That’s the last time either of us looked one another in the eyes for the rest of the night.

That night, after taking my shower and pulling on my plaid pajamas, I had to look twice to make sure I’d walked into the right bedroom. There, on the twin bed that my brother usually occupied, was Braxton, stretched out with a pair of loose gym shorts pulled up over his cast, wearing a grey sweater. Upon further inspection, I found that his bags were also in the room, in the opposite corner of where I’d left mine.

"Your grandpa said we should just both sleep in here," he said, by way of explanation as he looked up from the thick book of Christmas tales he was reading.

There were six bedrooms in the house. I didn’t find this necessary at all.

"I’ll move," I volunteered. I figured that was reasonable, since I was the one who happened to have two good legs and all.

"You don’t have to," he said simply, as he turned back to his book. "The other rooms will be taken tomorrow, anyway. Just don’t snore."

I was about to remind him that he was the one who used to snore, but decided against it. Besides, from what I could recall, his snoring had been more like a series of cute little squeaks. I didn’t want to be reminded of how cute he was. But, that was okay, all I had to do was close my eyes and remember what it had felt like when his fist met my face six years ago, and all of Braxton’s cuteness would disappear--or at least, most of it.

I crawled into bed, under the covers, and made a point to turn my back on him as I turned off the light next to my bed, leaving the one near his the only one lighting the room. Maybe if I could forget he was there, I could get some sleep. That was impossible when he insisted on talking to me.

"Do you like Frosty?" he asked.

"What?" I asked, turning over to face him.

"Frosty the Snowman," he replied, without looking up. "Do you like the story?"

"I always thought Frosty was a little cooler than Rudolph," I admitted. "No pun intended."

A few moments later, Braxton’s voice was carrying through the room as he read the story, which was a lot more depressing than I remembered, Frosty melting at the end. That kinda sucked. But, the sound of Braxton’s voice mixing with the soft hum of the heater as it kicked on lulled me to a state of relaxation, and I was asleep before I ever heard about Frosty coming back next year.

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On Christmas Eve when I woke up, Braxton was no longer in the room. His bed was even made, and the book he’d been reading the night before was placed neatly on his pillow. Downstairs, I could hear mixed voices, signaling that my very large family was beginning to arrive. I dressed, went downstairs, and organized chaos ensued.

There was a system. On Christmas Eve, my grandparents were always up bright and early, preparing for the arrival of their guests, family or otherwise, and preparing for their yearly Christmas party. My grandfather would make sure everything was in order around the house, while my grandmother had one thing after another in the oven on a very controlled schedule. As my family arrived throughout the day, my aunts and uncles would pitch in to help while the older grandchildren became responsible for the younger ones, and in between small chores, everyone usually had a lot of fun.

As I reacquainted myself with my various cousins and begged my aunts to stop leaving lipstick markings on my face, I didn’t see Braxton at all. I supposed that was probably a good thing, though, and while I didn’t have my parents there, or even my brother, the rest of my family seemed to keep me occupied, and as I ate too much sugar and joined in with activities and conversations here and there, I decided that it really was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

I was involved in a snowball fight with a few of my cousins, and since none of them were on crutches, I showed no mercy. But, I didn’t come out of it completely victorious. My clothes had so much snow in or on them that they were practically soaked through, and by the time it started to snow and everyone went back inside, I was freezing, but it was nothing that a change of clothes wouldn’t fix. I decided on the sweater my grandparents had given me to wear for their part, deciding that I could keep it clean until then, as challenging as that might be.

I was on my way back downstairs when I passed my grandpa’s office and stopped, realizing that I’d found one missing Braxton Diggs. I could have walked away. It probably would have been the best thing to do, considering that walking away is exactly what I thought he would have wanted me to do. Besides, he hadn’t seen me yet. But, I’d seen him.

He made a pretty picture stretched out on the floor against the burgundy rug. His dark pants were way too baggy, but he’d managed to get them over his cast without having to cut a leg off. And the navy sweater he was wearing brought out his eyes, and made his slightly tousled hair seem even lighter. It was flattering against his pale skin and slightly flushed cheeks. He did make a pretty picture. But, a pretty sad picture, too.

He held himself up on an elbow, a deck of cards spread out in front of him. From the looks of it, he was playing a game of solitaire. Maybe five or six years ago, I wouldn’t have minded him sitting there all alone, looking particularly glum, but now...now, was different. Maybe I was disappointed, not having my parents around, or even my brother, but it occurred to me that Braxton didn’t have anyone. Most of the people in the house were practically strangers to him. And even if he wanted to join in on any festivities, it’s not like he could run around with the rest of us in his condition. I wondered if he’d even been downstairs at all. Something had me doubting that.

I let out a breath, deciding that it wouldn’t be the end of the world, if for just a little while I put the past behind me. I mean, it was six years. That was a long time ago, and without the threat of mistletoe anywhere in sight, I didn’t see myself in any immediate danger as I moved into the room, eyeing the Scrabble game. I picked it up, and by the time Braxton even realized I was there, I was sitting across from him and opening it up.

Braxton looked at me inquisitively, and for a moment I held my breath, concentrating on organizing the game, fearful that he’d ask me to leave. But when his eyes drifted down to the game he smiled and pushed the cards aside.

"I don’t feel like looking for a dictionary," I informed him, knowing that in the past, he’d always insisted on having one.

"I am a dictionary," he replied.

"Yeah? So how do I know you won’t cheat?"

"If you’ve actually learned how to spell, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?"

I smiled, and we played. I had learned to spell at some point, but Braxton still had me beat, and, eventually I did go to find a dictionary because I swore that he was making a few words up. Of course, he wasn’t, and he seemed keen on rubbing that fact in my face. We finished our first game and before I knew it we were starting a second, at which point we both took a break. Braxton went to use the bathroom and by the time he returned, I had an assortment of cookies from downstairs and some more of my grandma’s hot chocolate. From the way he ate, I guessed that Braxton really had been in this room all day. He probably hadn’t even gone down for breakfast. I wondered if he planned to go down for dinner when the party started.

I decided right then to stay with him until that time. I wondered if he’d go down if he had company. In the meantime, we started talking about family, and how it sucked that our parents couldn’t be around. For a while, Braxton lost his optimistic face and confessed that he’d really wanted to go on that ski trip. It wasn’t just his parents going, but another family, too, who his best friend happened to be a part of. There would be other trips, he insisted, but since it was the holidays he really wished that he could have gone.

He also mentioned that the reason why he was in the office was because it was quiet, and he was expecting a call from his family. He seemed a little bummed that he hadn’t gotten it yet, but when he asked if my family was supposed to call, I remembered that while I couldn’t quite reach my parents, it wouldn’t hurt to call my brother, so we took another break from the game and I did. Mike was happy to hear from me, and a little surprised when I put Braxton on the phone; but apparently Mike remembered Braxton as much as Braxton remembered Mike, and I think Braxton talked to my brother longer than I did. I guess they’d become friends in those few years that I’d avoided Braxton as if my life depended on it.

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At eight o’clock, most of my grandparents’ guests had arrived. It was easy to hear the difference in the voices downstairs. While my family was a noisy bunch in their own right, voices echoed through the house when it was full, and from the sound of it, this year I doubted that my grandparents would even be able to fit everyone at the two long tables in the dining room. I was right.

Even with most of the younger kids taking their holiday meal in the kitchen, a third table had to be placed in the living room, where my older cousins had made themselves comfortable. When I went down to join them, Braxton was with me. I took my time getting down the stairs, mostly to keep pace with him on the crutches. He insisted that he got along fine with them, but stairs, especially going down them, was a challenge. But, we did make it to the table, just in time for food.

I was surprised at how many people remembered him. After all, he had been the shy, quiet type back then, but apparently, he’d made an impression because people who hadn’t even known he was there were glad to see him. Maybe that’s why I was surprised when he took a seat next to me, rather than next to one of them. I didn’t mind it, really. It was just a surprise. Maybe we’d called some sort of truce, but I didn’t exactly see any deep-seated friendship developing with him. I wondered if things would have been different if I never had tried to kiss him.

Dinner was a festive event, with numerous interruptions for toasts, some full of holiday spirit, some drunken, and some both. After dinner as people began to leave the tables to socialize, Braxton disappeared again when my grandparents got hold of him and insisted on introducing him to some of their friends. I spent several hours with a few of my cousins, likely earning myself a place on Santa’s naughty list when we made off with a bottle of rum which my aunts were frantically looking for because they wanted to spice up the eggnog. I still had that same bottle of rum when the party began to die down and I did something that I hadn’t done in years.

Sitting on the stairs, hidden in the shadows, I watched couples exit, pausing every once in a while under the mistletoe when some of my little cousins pointed it out to them. Things hadn’t changed much. Each kiss was still different. Uncle Sammy kissed Aunt Jane’s nose and she wiped it off afterwards, and Cousin Julie complained that her husbands’s mustache tickled. I saw a few people who didn’t even intend to leave sneak under the mistletoe for a few moments, and I wondered if any of them would get punched in the nose afterwards. It wasn’t likely. That kind of luck was probably reserved for me. At least, that was my reasoning while I was getting completely wasted on rum. I did have enough sense to leave the scene, though, when I heard Braxton’s crutches on the stairs. I didn’t want him to catch me looking at what I was looking at.

By the time Braxton reached our room, I’d realized that I still had the rum, not necessarily a good thing if I got caught. I was fumbling around, looking for a place to hide it, but didn’t quite succeed before he saw it. To my surprise, he offered to help me drink the rest of it.

We ended up on the floor, deciding that it was too far to have to pass the bottle between the beds, and as the night passed and things began to quiet downstairs Braxton and I began to swap stories about friends and our lives back home while we drank and laughed and shushed each other when we got too loud. I may have been a little ahead of him when it came to rum consumption, but Braxton was the first one to start yawning. He was also the first to point out that I was slurring my words. I found that incredibly funny for some reason, just like he thought it was hilarious when I announced I had to relieve my bladder. I ended up helping him into bed first, though. He complained that his cast was too heavy. I complained that Braxton was too heavy, but after a few more fits of mindless laughter we managed to get him tucked in, and I made my way out of the room in search of the bathroom. It was a lot harder to find than I expected, the whole house spinning and all. On the way back, I missed the bedroom door and ended up in a closet, and looking down, I was faced with a box of excess Christmas decorations, a cluster of mistletoe right on top.

That’s when things started to get a little blurry.

............................................................

On Christmas morning, the crowd had thinned, but the majority of my extended family sat around the tree, just as they did every year. My head ached, but I wasn’t miserable. Braxton had woken me up that morning, seeming like he was in a great mood, before we went downstairs to open presents. His mood became even better when his family unexpectedly called him--and then he discovered that they’d sent down all of his presents so that he didn’t have to wait to open them. And, I was happy for him.

As my grandpa passed out donuts halfway through the unwrapping process my grandma passed me another gift, a small jewelry box with a ton of curly ribbon around it. The small note read, To Matt from Brax. I almost choked on my donut.

I opened it carefully, my curiosity piqued, and what I found inside was a handmade friendship bracelet that made me smile. It was probably one of the best gifts that I’d gotten that year. A friendship bracelet from Braxton Diggs. I immediately felt bad, mostly because I didn’t have anything for him, but I looked up to thank him, anyway. He was already smiling at me. I gave him a nod, just before my grandma pulled his attention away.

"Here’s another one for Braxton," she said, handing him a box a little bigger than the one he’d given me. "Oh, it says it’s from Matthew."

Braxton grinned at me as he took it, but I couldn’t seem to return the gesture. Genuinely confused, I stared at the box he was unwrapping. It looked a little too sloppy to be my wrapping job, but the cluster of bows on top looked familiar and...Oh no.

As I remembered the closet and the box of Christmas decorations from the night before I nearly screamed across the room to stop him from opening that gift. But, it was too late. He closed the box as quickly as he’d opened it and tucked it behind him, confirming my fears when it came to what I’d put into it. Braxton refused to even look in my direction after that, and I thought I was going to be sick as I looked down at his friendship bracelet.

This, was a disaster. It was a humiliating disaster. And this time, I was desperate to apologize for it. Maybe--if he was still speaking to me--I could explain. Maybe I could tell him it was a joke. A really bad joke. No. Bad idea. He wouldn’t think it was funny. But, I had to say something if I didn’t want to go another six years thinking that we never should have met. I just hoped that he wouldn’t end up hitting me again.

Braxton was the first to head upstairs when all presents were unwrapped and accounted for. He wouldn’t even look at me as he passed, and it was discouraging. It took me another ten minutes of wondering what to say to him before I worked up enough courage to head up the stairs.

When I reached the room and stopped in the doorway, Braxton’s back was to me as he removed a sweater from his suitcase, which was lying on his bed, right next to my box--the only gift he’d brought back up with him.

"Hey Braxton..." I said quietly. He looked over his shoulder and I was met with a blank expression that was impossible to read.

"Why’d you do it?" he asked, lifting the box and gathering his crutches to turn around and move towards me.

"It was a mistake," I insisted. "Look, I’m really sorry about that. You shouldn’t have gotten that box..."

"No, not this," he replied, holding up the box before he placed it on a dresser and moved even closer. "Why’d you do it?"

I stared at him, knowing full well what he was talking about. Only... I didn’t know how to answer the question.

"I was ten," I finally said, shrugging, and then added, "Why’d you hit me?"

"I was ten," he responded smartly. "And you kissed me." There was an awkward silence hanging in the air between us after those words, and my face felt as hot as Braxton’s looked as I struggled to meet his eyes.

"I’m sorry," I finally said, deciding that after six years, it was time to account for my mistakes, even if I hated doing it. It was so much easier when I pretended that the entire incident had been his fault. Unfortunately, Braxton was looking at me as if it wasn’t quite good enough as he moved forward enough to lean his crutches against he wall, and hold onto the doorframe as he kept his weight off his broken leg. I didn’t move away, deciding that if he wanted to hit me to make himself feel better, I’d deal with it this time.

"So, do you still like kissing boys?" he asked, and I frowned at that. Or at least, I frowned at his tone. The question wouldn’t have bothered me so much if he hadn’t sounded bothered by it.

"Yeah," I admitted. A lot had happened since I was ten years old, and I wasn’t going to sit there and pretend I was something that I wasn’t for his benefit. There were certain things that he would just have to deal with, just like me.

There was another silence.

"Matthew?"

"What?" I replied, forcing myself to meet his eyes, but as his fist suddenly shot out, I closed mine and braced for impact. But, the blow to my nose never came. Instead, I felt his fist gripping the front of my shirt and I decided that he planned on throwing me to the ground; but that was before I felt his arm, sturdily on my back, and as I was dipped backwards my eyes flew open to find Braxton Diggs holding me up, cast and all. I focused on his pinkish lips as they descended towards me, and then I felt them on mine, soft and precise, covering my mouth for the briefest moment before they parted. I could smell his chapstick more than taste it as I felt his tongue slip out, gently urging me to open. Before I closed my eyes and let him in, I looked upwards, to where the small bundle of mistletoe that had been in the box he’d opened from me was now pinned above us. I moved an arm around his neck, and he kissed me under the mistletoe until it became mandatory to breathe again and he pulled back. I could feel his lips smiling against mine before he spoke.

"Merry Christmas, Matt."

Yeah. Merry Christmas. I smiled at Braxton as my hand moved to the back of his head and I pulled his mouth back to mine. I loved mistletoe.

This was the best Christmas ever.