Page 6 of Mr. Frosty Pants
Casey Stevens.
Just standing there smiling at him like he’d never gone away, wearing clothes that could probably fund Joel’s father’s stay in the nursing home for a month or more, and glowing like he’d been spit-shined and polished. Brighter than a shiny nickel. Brighter than the plastic glowing Virgin Mary statue Casey had kissed that night so long ago in Mr. Maples’s yard.
Dammit. Why now?
Joel didn’t have time for the pain twisting through him like a snake curling up tight in his chest, hissing and protective. Promising him that,yes, he still had the same unmanageable feelings, andyes, he still had a heart that could break. Alas, he hadn’t managed to kill off that weak part of himself quite yet. Not for lack of trying.
“Hey,” Casey said, smiling and sticking out his fist like a grenade, the start of an old handshake they’d made up the summer they were fourteen. The same summer Casey got braces, and Joel had agonized over his own crooked—still crooked—teeth. And the same summer he’d fallen in love with the boy from the “right side of the tracks,” and his father had punched him in the mouth for being a moon-eyed sissy about it.
Joel tossed his chin up, withholding his hand. “S’up. Long time, no see.”
Casey left his fist out long enough for it to become awkward, but Joel only raised an eyebrow and didn’t put him out of his misery. Finally, Casey let his arm fall. His brows dropped, and the corners of his pillow lips drew down. Joel’s brain itched with irritation that some part of him wanted to smooth Casey’s brow and shush his discomfort away.
Instead, he put out his hand and Casey took it. After shaking like Casey was any old customer, Joel sighed. He’d always given Casey too much leeway. “How’s the big city?”
“New York is, uh… It’s fine.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.” Joel pursed his lips and flicked a strand of his dark hair out of his eyes. He put on a smile, but it felt tight and wrong on his face. His heartbeats were all wonky, and the air seemed to whir in his ears, making his own breathing sound strange.
He cleared his throat, trying to get a handle on what to do and where to look. Not at Casey’s face—anywhere but in his amber brown eyes.Get it together. Treat him like he’s just another customer.“Can I help you find something? We have a lot of Christmas items discounted in the back of the store.”
He’s driving a Lexus, dumbass. Like he needs your stupid discounts!Joel wiped a hand over his upper lip. What the fuck was Casey doing here anyway? Why wasn’t he in New York City where he fucking belonged?
Casey frowned, and Joel knew he was probably coming across like a total dick. He shook with the effort to keep himself together. Tight voice, tight chest, barely holding back the betrayal and hurt he’d felt when Casey had up and left him behind. Never even looked back. Like Joel had been nothing and no one at all. Joel chewed the inside of his lip, adrenaline rushing cold in his veins.
It’s not like he was your boyfriend. Get a grip, dipshit.
“My mom sent me for a tree.”
The uncertainty in Casey’s voice and the wavering hurt in his eyes awoke Joel’s stinging sense of self-righteous anger. Who was Casey to act hurt? He was the one who’d left, who’d never replied to Joel’s last text, who’d cut him off like deadweight.
Joel jerked his chin toward the organized rows of Fraser and Douglas firs and fresh Scotch pines. “Have at it.”
He turned back to the poinsettia display, shifting a few pots around. His gut tangled and his chest ached. His sweaty palms nearly lost grip on one of the pots as he moved it slightly left. Wiping his hands against his jeans, he ignored Casey, who stood rooted in the spot, Christmas lights reflecting in his golden-brown hair, apparently struck dumb by Joel’s rudeness.
“Oh. Well, right. I guess you’re busy.” Casey flicked a pointed glance around at the nearly empty parking lot. “With all these customers…”
Since when did earnest little Casey Stevens grow a snarky tongue? Joel almost admired it, except that it meant Casey was still standing there reminding him of feelings he never wanted to have again. It hurt too much when people just up and left. Like his mom had when she died. Like Casey had when he graduated.
If Joel had learned it once, he’d learned it over and over again: everyone left eventually.
“The work’s never done when you’re the boss,” Joel bit out, but his voice shook. “So, like I said, please, have at it. When you’ve picked out a tree, we’ll be happy to help you load it.” He gestured at the tree lot again before turning on his heel and stalking into the red brick block of Vreeland’s Home and Garden without looking over his shoulder.
“Fuck,” he whispered as the door swung closed behind him. His knees shook, and his stomach twisted up hard. He swiped a hand over his face, fingers raking over his scratchy whiskers, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Fucking fuckfuck.”
Joel’s mind raced. How was it that all the feelings he thought he’d stomped to death and buried deep beside painful memories of his mom came roaring back at just the sight of this grown-up Casey?
It was like a hand had popped out of the grave he’d marked “Love for Casey Stevens,” and in an instant the head and shoulders had emerged too, surprisingly intact and handsome. The creature’s face was smudged with a bit of dirt, but no sign of decay was in evidence as the rest of the zombie body emerged. Love for Casey Stevens approached, hands outstretched toward him, offering a friendly smile drawn out over straight, white teeth. Joel shuddered. He could feel fingers around his throat, choking him.
The plot for a new book dropped into his head. He’d call itMerry Christmas From Your Undead Lover, because why not? When his first (and of course unrequited) love rose from the dead during the holiday season, he was obligated to work it into a novel, wasn’t he? It was either that or burn the world down around him. One or the other. No in between.
His employee Angel stood next to the life-size Blow Mold Nativity scene he’d set up near the register. He’d chosen it for their inventory because it was reminiscent of the one in Mr. Maples’s front yard. Now, with Casey fucking Stevens wandering the length of his Christmas tree rows, it made his heart wring again.
Oblivious, Angel held a Sharpie in her fingers, a pensive expression on her face. A silver ring glinted in her thick, dark brow, and her blue eyes shimmered with mischievous anticipation. That expression faltered as she caught sight of him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
She tilted her head, obviously not believing him, but then she shrugged. Her black sweater dotted with white skulls stretched tightly over her ample bosom and wide shoulders. “Then I’ll carry on.” She leaned forward, shoved her chin-length, dyed black hair behind her ears, and stuck out her tongue in concentration. The Sharpie descended toward Mary’s face.
