Page 94 of Switch Pitching

“That’s it. We gotta wear these all day.”

Ethan scoffs. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I hear heavy footsteps making their way along the hallway and down the stairs. We probably woke them up with our commotion.

“Let’s help get breakfast ready,” I suggest, guiding Ethan toward the door with my palm. He nods, and we head downstairs where Dad and Sofia are lazily serving themselves coffee. They both do a double take once we round the corner into the kitchen.

“Did you boys coordinate Christmas sweaters?” Dad asks, eying us with mock suspicion. Sofia tries to tamp down a peal of giggles by taking sips of coffee, but she fails and has to put her mug down.

“No,” Ethan replies. “I bought James’s sweater in Maine, and he got mine here.”

“The brands are different and everything,” I add.

“But they just so happen to look the same, even though youdidn’tcoordinate them?” Sofia muses. “You guys are so in love it’s sickening.”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Maybe I’ve spent too long outside Canada.”

“Merry Christmas, by the way,” says Ethan, and we’re all reminded of what day it is.

Christmas Day is low-key, as usual. My family is almost always loud and outgoing, but for some reason, that doesn’t extend to holidays. It might be because we collectively decide to recharge before foisting our merry personalities upon the world for the remainder of the year.

The next few days are more of the same. It’s always snowing outside, and I spend most of my time on the couch or in the kitchen, inadvertently joined at the hip to Ethan.

One of the days, I decide to take Ethan out to a rink so I can fulfill my Canadian duty and teach him how to ice skate. Because Ethan is Ethan, he pretends to shake and be nervous before chasing me around the ice at high speed, both of us pelting each other with snowballs and getting red in the face from being cold and excited.

Ethan makes sure I never forget that Americans can skate, too, especially if they’re from the Northeast. Getting a snowball lovingly shoved down the back of your shirt sears something into your mind forever.

Later, I’m dramatically sulking next to the fireplace, staring into the snapping flames, when I see movement next to me. Ethan’s wearing an apologetic smile and that green sweater I gave him that makes his eyes shine. He’s also holding two mugs. He hands me one, and it’s full of hot chocolate.

I take a sip. “I kinda forgive you, but that’s only because I love you,” I mutter, pretending to be angry.

“That’s your fault for underestimating me,” he says, planting a kiss on my head that makes my heart melt faster than the foam in my mug. I smirk as he sits next to me, letting him know that I’m not mad, and I lean in for a kiss. It tastes like chocolate and Ethan. Two of my favorites.

Ethan pulls back right as my phone beeps, and I lean over to check it.

“We’ve been invited to a New Year’s Eve party. Tonight. I forgot that it’s the 31st today,” I say.

Ethan puts his mug down. “Oh, that sounds fun. Who’s throwing it?”

“Luke, one of my close friends from high school.”

Ethan’s mouth twists into a knowing smile. “Is that the friend who you tormented with your excessive flirting?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I groan. “Yes, that’s the guy. And no, you’re the only guy I’m gonna flirt with. Don’t you worry.”

“I know,” replies Ethan, grinning. “You won’tflirtwith him. You’ll just be very friendly and kiss his forehead and snuggle him in his bed. Totally platonic, no homo at all.”

My fist closes around a couch cushion, ready to lob it right at Ethan before I decide against it. I’d risk spilling hot chocolate, and that would be a massive waste.

Instead, I sigh. “I know better now, and I won’t do anything with anyone that can be misconstrued as flirting,” I say, sarcasm seeping through every word.

Ethan and I step into the warm entryway of Luke’s apartment building, breathing in the vanilla and cinnamon-fragranced air of the lobby. I buzz Luke’s unit on the access console, and the sliding doors open to let us up to unit 2307. When we arrive, I knock twice, and the door swings open to reveal a half-drunk Luke Tremblay, a mug of spiced wine in his left hand.

“Yo, it’s James!” Luke exclaims, giving me and Ethan fist bumps before stepping aside.

We enter Luke’s apartment, and I introduce Ethan. They hit it off well, and the three of us are chatting and having fun like we’ve all known each other for ages.

“Okay, so, we’ve got loose plans to head to a bar on King Street for the countdown,” Luke says while backing into the kitchen. “I’m gonna get some more drinks, but you guys make yourselves at home.”

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