Page 15 of Must Love Christmas

As if to prove his point, Garen picked up his maraschino cherry and dangled it near Simon’s mouth. Simon wasn’t a fan of the fruit, but he was definitely a fan of the look on Garen’s face as he took the cherry between his lips. He had a fierce urge to boop Garen’s nose with a dollop of whipped cream.

“Still,” Simon said when he’d swallowed the cherry, “that sort of experience must leave a mark, even if you don’t remember it consciously.”

Garen shrugged. “That’s what my sister says. She teaches English to primary-school kids in Eastern Europe—she knows, like, six or seven Slavic languages.” He chased his cake’s chocolate shavings around the plate with his fork. “Anyway, she’s always sending me articles about how early childhood experiences allegedly affect us as adults. Karen really leans into the whole being-adopted thing, whilst I—”

“Wait, her name is Karen? You two are Karen and Garen McLaren? Are your parents comedians?”

“Just stubborn. My mum’s German, see, and she wanted to give me her uncle Garen’s name, cos he was her favorite. Dad was like, ‘You cannae call him something that rhymes with McLaren—that’s madness,’ and she was like, ‘We agreed we’d each name one twin, no questions asked.’”

“That deal seems like their first mistake,” Simon said.

Garen laughed. “Seriously. So my dad was like, ‘If you call him Garen, I’m calling her Karen,’ thinking Mum would back down. But she didn’t.” He waved his fork again. “They’re not together anymore. Shocker, right?”

“Sorry,” Simon said. Garen didn’t seem particularly bothered by his parents’ divorce, but then again, most people wore masks to hide what truly distressed them. “So if you’re Russian-born with a German mum, what do you call yourself?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, my da immigrated from Greece when he was fourteen, and he still calls himself Greek. I usually go with Greek British. I guess it’s a generational thing.”

“You mean how do I identify? I’m totally Scottish. These days, it’s not about where you were born, what blood you’ve got, or what accent you talk with. These days, you don’t have to be Scottish to be Scottish.”

“Really?” Simon heard the skepticism in his own voice. Though statistically speaking, Glasgow was slightly more diverse than Liverpool as a whole, there seemed to be no place here like his home area of Toxteth, with its vibrant mix of immigrant and minority-ethnic communities.

“Really,” Garen said. “See, people here in Scotland—most of us, anyway—we see ourselves as part of a bigger world. Which means when that world shows up on our doorstep, we don’t chase it away.” He offered his wine glass in a toast.

Simon clinked his glass against Garen’s, wondering how welcoming Scotland would be if it had to accommodate as many immigrants as England did. It was easy to embrace diversity when it was too small to be a “threat.” Ever since the Brexit vote, it was clear people like Simon’s father weren’t truly welcome after all.

But at the moment, Simon didn’t feel like challenging Garen’s optimism. He took a long sip of wine, though his head was floating from the rush of sugar and the lingering hum of orgasm.

Garen screwed up his face. “Note to self, cake makes this wine taste excruciatingly dry.” He took another sip anyway. “So tell me about your family. Are you out to them?”

“Just the close relatives who live nearby. I’m rather dreading the holiday trip to Lindos—that’s the wee fishing village me grandparents live in.”

“Why?”

“Cos they don’t know I’m gay, and I think Papou won’t be best pleased about it, especially with me being an only child. It’s my duty to carry on the family name and all.”

“What about your gran?” Garen asked.

“Both grandmothers know, and they’re pretty cool with it. And Ma and Da have been amazing. That’s one benefit of being seriously ill as a child—your parents are so grateful you’re alive, pretty much anything you do brings them joy.”

“They must be so proud of you, getting this big promotion and all.”

“They are. They’ve worked incredibly hard so I could go to uni. I’m the first in the family.” Simon wondered if admitting that would put some sort of class divide between them, so he changed the subject. “You’re a zoologist, eh? Do you work at the zoo?”

“I work at one of the university science museums. We’ve got some live animals, mostly reptiles and amphibians. I lucked into an internship as an undergraduate, and I’ve been there ever since.”

“You like it, then?”

“I love it, else I would’ve left long ago.” Garen swirled the wine in his glass, his lips curling up. “I’ve a very low tolerance for miserable situations.”

Simon returned his smile, but mentally tucked away that useful bit of information. He’d be guarding his heart with this man, for sure.

* * *

69 Days UntilChristmas

Garen woke to the gentle sweep of a hand against the back of his shoulder. It didn’t startle him, as he’d been dreaming of Simon just a moment before. He relished the feeling of one lovely reality slipping seamlessly into the next.

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