“I’m still pissed you never told me about the inside stairs between our floors,” I told him.
“Why? Did you think I was sneaking up here and going through your stuff while you were at work?”
“Nah. Why would you? I’ve got nothing to hide. But it would have been nice to know about when I was walking up and down in the snow and ice.”
He snuggled into me and gave me a boner-inducing kiss.
“That’s what I like best about you,” he said when we broke apart. “You’re so honest and pure.”
“Yeah, pure honest bullshit, that’s me.”
He was again running his fingers over the leaves on my neck.
“Take your shirt off. I want to see the rest of the plant.” When I did, he resumed his exploration. “Why English ivy? Why not something exotic?”
“Yeah, I thought about getting some ginseng—you know, man root—particularly Panax ginseng, on my shoulders, but Mom was horrified when I talked about it. Guess there was too much sexual innuendo for her. I considered a few more things I found in the Jepson Manual, but in the end I liked the statement of the ginseng relative, the Hedera helix. I can keep adding to it as my life changes.” He was starting to tickle, so I slapped away his hand.
“And the statement is?” He purposely dove in for tickling, so we ended up wrestling around for a couple of minutes. When we stopped and were again lying side by side and panting, he turned and looked at me. “So what’s the English ivy saying?”
I shrugged. “It’s considered a guardian and protector and is a symbol of friendship and fidelity. Kinda like a super superhero. One that’ll take root and grow around someone and always be willing to protect him.”
He gave me a long look, his finger tracing the plant vine as it went from behind my ear to my waistband.
“So what you’d really like to be when you grow up is someone’s protector?” he asked softly.
“Only if he protects me,” I whispered back. “I’m no superhero, but I wish I were.”
We lay for a long time watching the tree lights twinkle inside and the snow fall behind the window glass. I was humming “Silent Night” when John turned to me.
“I want a tree. A live one like yours. You’ll pick it out with me?”
Was he kidding? Hell yeah.
Chapter 10
We got the tree the next day, as well as swags and mistletoe and holly and ivy, and decorated the hell out of his half of the house. I even talked him into stringing twinkle lights along the white picket fence and over the archway spanning the gate. Above the gate itself, we hung a huge pine wreath and added another one on the front door. In a single day, we turned Scrooge’s cottage into a holiday home and a showplace for Old Town Stone Acres.
With only a few days until Christmas, Cuttings went from zoo to madhouse. Wreaths and swags disappeared faster than I could make them. Fredi and his clients descended like bees on a flowering bush.
I would hit the house around midnight every night, so tired I could barely make it up the stairs. Like a diligent 1950s housewife, John was waiting with a hot meal, a massage, and festive cheer—after he’d been working some of those nights at the restaurant. David remarked that he’d never seen John so happy and young-looking. On the other hand, I shuffled around like I belonged in a nursing home.
No one saw hide nor hair of Leo, although Lloyd came around a few times to ask if we had. I worried that Leo was practicing his kind of Christmas cheer in the Bay Area, or maybe another city, and was exploiting and abusing another group of homeless guys. I just wished there was something I could do about it.
However, the longer Leo stayed away, the more buoyant Ricky became. He was the kids’ and moms’ favorite at the nursery. In the growing chaos, Beth set aside a kids’ area and splurged on craft items so the kids could color poinsettia pictures with Ricky while their parents shopped.
The day before Christmas, my mother appeared like a whirlwind and took over my rooms. After meeting John and Ricky, she went into full-on mom mode and took charge of the whole house. That night when Ricky and I got home, him covered with glue and glitter and me covered with sap and pine needles, we walked into my mother’s version of an adequate Christmas.
“Why are you two home so late?” she complained.
“Oh, Mrs. M! Today was so exciting!” Ricky’s energy level flattened me. I was trying not to slide off my chair and fall under the table. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and wake up without aching in every joint. It could happen, maybe.
I tuned out their chatter as John gave me an upper-back rub, his fingers sticking to my shirt every once in a while. My mother eyed us with a speculative gaze that said she was watching me do something amazing. I wondered if she was tuning Ricky out until she answered him, finally taking her eyes off me and John.
* * * *
Christmas day I creaked and moaned since my body ached. I swore I could feel the English ivy tattoo heavy on my skin. I even had to take out the eyebrow ring before it pulled my forehead to my chin. Ricky, in contrast, jumped out of bed raring to go. I would have thought guys in their early twenties would be immune to the idea of Santa. Apparently, I was wrong.
Fortunately, we’d agreed to have dinner and the unwrapping of presents in my living room and not John’s, so I didn’t have to try getting downstairs.
My mother presided over the table like a queen and we her minions. Mom preened while we shoveled down food as if we hadn’t seen the stuff in years. We complimented her on the meal and on the
