Page 4 of Missile Tow
“I’m done mourning, Mom. It’s been a year; Evan’s not coming back to me. If he can find someone new, so can I.”
After some small talk and a few more attempts at getting me to go to Hawaii with her, we hung up. I was determined to keep my positive outlook and my Christmas wish on track. I was exhausted from dragging my dick in the dirt while Evan and his new man built a life. Obviously, I wasn’t meant for Evan, so now I had to build something for myself.
Living down the hall from him and his new man was not healthy. Not to mention, if I didn’t spot them first, I’d step into the elevator with no warning, and there they’d be. Bumping into them was like reliving a slow death over and over.
When Evan announced we were over and that he’d met a new guy, I was devastated. I’d thought we were happy. We had our friends. We had our careers and our gym bodies. We were A-listers in Seattle. A gay couple with money, the right condo in the right neighborhood, and with a rare thing these days, true love.
I guess someone should have warned me about hook-up apps. Or better yet, that my partner was using them. He used them, all right. When I discovered his profile on an open laptop, I also found he’d cast a big net in his search for a new man.
I’ll be honest about things. Ever since Evan found happiness with a guy he met from Montana, I’d been curious. Hell, I’d even fantasized about doing something similar. Perhaps I was crazy, but I believe in making life happen.
Perhaps the message I received was more about my internal fantasy to discover a new man like Evan had. However, I wouldn’t be using a silly app. I was old-fashioned that way. I would go town by town in my search. I wanted a new guy for Christmas. And I was hell-bent on getting one.
“Merry fucking Christmas to me, you doubters,” I muttered, checking the hall mirror as I had a full-on discussion with myself. I leaned closer to the mirror, turning my head from side to side. “You’re fucking handsome, Vance. You’re kind.And, you care about others,” I soothed. “So,big deal! You got your heart broken. Now is the time to saddle up and start looking for your happily ever after. I bet there’s a guy waiting for you, too. Time to go get him.” I backed away and then touched the mirror with my finger, tapping at my reflection. “Youwere born on Christmas Day! YouandJesus!” I exclaimed, feeling a divine right to get my way. “I’m going to find a Christmas present to unwrap.”
CHAPTER THREE: Chip
Snow accumulation overnight added another six inches to a base of perhaps a foot or so. Outsiders would probably freak, but Missile locals were used to heavy snow in these parts. The county had been kind enough to plow Main Street and the exit off of I-90 that led to the mercantile. Serious storms were common and never surprised us with the dumping of three to four feet of snow, so a few inches overnight was nothing.
To prove my point, seventy-five-year-old Bertie and her rusty pickup truck were already in the parking lot, beating me to the store as usual. Snow didn’t deter the self-proclaimed queen of Missile. I used to tease John that he, not Bertie, was the real queen. Which was funny because he couldn’t have been more opposite of a queen. John, like me, was country. All man and built hardy. Growing up in these parts contributed to being masculine. That was generally the only acceptable trait for the men around here.
Our small community wasn’t bad, though. People here believed in the old adage oflive and let live. No one asked the serious questions, and no one shared what happened behind closed doors. John and I weren’t out, but we weren’t in either. No flags were waved. No attended parades made us feel proud to be gay.
We just lived who we were. We assumed they knew, and they assumed we knew they knew. With five hundred people spreadover twenty or more miles around the town, and only sixty actually living in town, no one seemed to give a shit.
Kicking snow off my boots, I pushed the front door of the mercantile open. A pair of bells dangling from a small chain gave my arrival away. I raised a hand to Bertie, who was on the phone arguing with the beer driver about whether he could get through the pass coming out of Idaho. I heard her call him a wuss and then hang up on him.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed. “When did men become such pussies?”
“And good morning to you, too, grumpy.”
“Screw that!” she declared, waving me off. “Glad you could make it in, bossman.”
“I’m no bossman.”
“That’s a fact, but the deed says you own this joint now, and I’m just being respectful,” she stated.
“Since when?” I asked. “You’re as old as the dirt this place sits on, lady. Why start now?”
Bertie laughed and began refilling the cigarettes behind the counter. Truth be told, I never would’ve made it without her knowledge and experience of the day-to-day operations around here. The woman was getting long in the tooth, but she was tireless.
She’d been here with Grampa first. Then he retired. Bertie stayed. Then she worked with Mom and Dad. They were killed. Bertie stayed. Grampa came back after my folks died, and I helped out during the summers. Grampa died. Bertie stayed. She was the backbone of the store, and frankly, I was amazed she was still with me.
“We open on Christmas?” she asked, knowing damn well we were. “Cuz I sure as shit ain’t coming in on Jesus’s birthday.”
“It’s my birthday, too,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but you ain’t Jesus.”
“I’m gonna be here,” I said, squatting below the counter, nudging her out of the way, and opening the safe so we could restock the petty cash. “I got nothing else going on,” I mumbled.
My love of Christmas died a year ago when John left. I’d been the king of Christmas in this town before that, and took my duty of being born on the actual holiday very seriously. Now I hated Christmas. Actually, I hated every holiday. And if I heard Mariah and that fucking song one more time, I was blasting the sound system, or my brain, with my shotgun.
Bertie huffed her disappointment, turning toward me, hands on her hips. “Can you at least try to get out of this funk?” she began. “John left ya, boy. He obviously ain’t coming back as it would appear. Hell, even his folks don’t talk to him,” she added, twisting her mouth into a disgusted frown. “He’s embarrassed by what he did, is what it is,” she stated.
“Don’t matter,” I replied, standing up and opening the cash register. “I never liked Christmas anyway.”
“Bullshit!” she said, waving me off with a dismissive snarl. “I never met a boy who loved Christmas the way you did. Birthday and all, you loved this time of year.”
