The Décor Store got busier as the week went on. The good thing with busy days was that Tom’s shift went by in a blink. It was the slow periods where he wanted to gouge his eyes out. Tom didn’t see Hot Mall Santa for the next few days. He parked outside the North Wing to get to the store faster. Things were so busy that he ran to the food court for lunch and ate in the break room, where seasonal employees kept interrupting him to ask questions. By the time they figured out how to do their job competently, they’d be gone, so it was kind of a waste.

“I saw your BFF. He’s just as busy,” Kirsten said to him during one break room lunch. “The line is almost to the Old Navy.”

Tom wondered how exhausting it was being Santa. On the one hand, the guy got to sit all day. But he had to talk to kids, which was like its own foreign language.

By Saturday night, Tom needed a drink. He worked a twelve-hour shift because someone “called in sick,” but he didn’t care how tired he was. He needed a drink. Kirsten wasn’t available because she was at a classmate’s party, and it was just as well. Tom wanted to be alone. He didn’t have the energy to handle her energy.

After closing with Antonio, who didn’t ask him anything about Hot Mall Santa, Tom drove to the one gay bar in the area, The Wounded Soldier, which Tom learned through Googling was an expression for an alcoholic drink abandoned by its owner. It also stood for the metaphor of gay Americans who fought and gave their lives for equal rights, according to an old patron who Tom had met one night. The bar, like a troll, sat on a dirt road under a one-lane bridge on the edge of town. The Wounded Soldier had been here for decades, a relic of when gays had to live in the shadows. About five years ago, two wealthy gay men from Chicago who wanted to get away from the busy city life purchased The Wounded Soldier and gave it a complete renovation. Now, it only looked old and rundown, as part of its aesthetic. Inside were shiny new booths, a sleek juke box, and an extensive craft beer selection.

Tom ordered a beer and took a seat on a barstool closest to the back. The drink soothed his body after a strenuous week. He was too tired to make conversation, and if he needed anything else, there was always Grindr. A small dance space had been carved out near the jukebox. Some eighties song played. Tom recognized it from the soundtrack at The Décor Store, a song that Tom had heard approximately ten million times.

“Is this seat taken?”

Tom shook his head no without turning around. He spotted bright red pants and black boots from the corner of his eye.

“Hey.” Hot Mall Santa gave him a head nod. His Santa jacket was unbuttoned, and he wore another one of his white tank tops underneath.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asked.

“Grabbing a drink.” Hot Mall Santa flagged down the bartender. “What are you drinking?”

“It’s called a Daisy Cutter. It’s brewed by Half-Acre in Chicago.”

“I’ll take one of those,” he said to the bartender.

Tom was going to ask Hot Mall Santa what he was doing here again, as in Did you know you are at a gay bar? But he put two and two together. Tom hated when people asked him if he was gay. He just wanted them to know. And there was no way a guy makes the trek to The Wounded Soldier just for the beer selection.

Hot Mall Santa’s fake beard was pulled down to his neck. His cheekbones were a study in geometric precision, and his light stubble alone nearly set Tom on fire. “I like it,” he said of the beer. “Good call.”

“Yeah.” Tom couldn’t believe it. Hot Mall Santa was sitting next to him at a gay bar! Hot Gay Mall Santa was more like it. “How’d you find this place?”

“Google.”

“Right.”

“Do you ever wonder how guys found bars like these before the Internet?” Hot Mall Santa asked.

“Word of mouth, I guess.”

“But you had to be careful to ask the right people.”

Guys openly checked out Hot Mall Santa. One asked if he could sit on his lap. Tom wanted to shove the guy away, but to his credit, Hot Mall Santa declined more politely.

“I’m off the clock,” he said. “But I’ll be at the Oakville Mall tomorrow.”

The guy seemed like he would actually be there.

“I’m sorry you have to do deal with that,” Tom said.

“He’s no worse than the moms.”

“Have moms sat on your lap at the mall?”

He nodded. A bit of foam hung on his lower lip, and Tom wished he could lick it off. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. They don’t really say anything. They just get a picture taken for their Facebook feeds.”

“That’s not so bad.”

Hot Mall Santa shrugged. He tapped his finger against his glass. “They just want to look.”

He didn’t sound flattered, but Tom supposed it got tiring day in and day out.

“My friend Kirsten went to see you.”

“I remember. She kind of gave me a lap dance.” They both laughed at that.

“She said you were a complete professional because you didn’t ‘react.’” He said that last word in air quotes. “Now I get why.”

“One woman grabbed it outright while her three kids waited by the elves.”

“Are you serious? You could get her arrested for that.”

He raised his eyebrows in doubt. “‘Mall Santa Sexually Harassed’ is a headline most people would laugh at.”

Tom didn’t want to admit he was right. “I guess it’s cool that so many people want to see you.”

“I guess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with people thinking you’re good looking.”

“It’s weird when all people do is compliment something about you that you had no part in. It’s not like being praised for something I’ve done or made. Just something I am. Like a zoo animal.”

Tom didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted like that, to be lusted after. He always thought guys like Hot Mall Santa had it made, especially in the gay community. Hell, even now, there were a few pairs of eyes checking him out, while Tom was glossed over. But he saw for the first time that perhaps being the center of attention came with its own perils. He wasn’t sure what exactly the downsides were to being beautiful, but judging by Hot Mall Santa’s expression, they did exist.

“Let me get the next round,” Tom said.

“I won’t stop you.”

“By the way, I’m Tom.” He held out his hand.

“Randall.”

They shook. Hot Mall Santa—er, Randall—had a firm grip.

* * *

Some time later, they sat across from each other in one of the booths against the wall. Tom cut himself off after the second beer so that he could drive home, but Randall moved onto his third. The alcohol had worn off Randall’s cool, Hot Mall Santa varnish and turned him into an animated storyteller.

“He enlisted to fight in the Civil War at age forty, where he was shot in the arm, the knee, and the chest, but he still survived and went on to become president. Rutherford B. Hayes was a badass.”

“I’ve never seen someone so passionate about our fifteenth president.”

“Nineteenth,” Randall said in between beer sips. “There’s this whole period of one-term presidents people have forgotten about.”

For the past twenty minutes, Randall had regaled Tom with random facts about past presidents. Apparently the grandsons of John Tyler, our tenth president, were still alive.

“Have you always been such a history buff?” Tom asked.

“No. To be honest, I never paid too much attention in school. On long car trips though, listening to music gets boring fast. So then I moved onto podcasts, and I listened to one about crazy facts of American history. Then I picked up an audiobook on George Washington, and it turned into this thing where I’m making my way through all the U.S. presidents. Hayes was tough because there aren’t a lot of biographies on him, unfairly so.”

“Isn’t it weird when you find yourself wanting to learn things you had no interest in at school? Last year, I found myself re-reading To Kill A Mockingbird for fun.”

“There’s this adult part of my brain that’s like ‘knowledge is cool,’” Randall said in a robot voice.

“Is your brain a machine?”

“I have no idea why I did that voice. I like to think that my brain speaks in a British accent.”

Tom broke into a loud, hyena-like laugh that didn’t feel embarrassing in the moment. Probably because Randall’s laugh, more like a guffaw, was just as silly. They attracted odd looks. You guys wish you were having as much fun as us!

Randall picked a piece of lint off his coat’s faux-fur trim.

“Why are you still in your Santa costume?”

“I came from work. I really needed a drink and to not be around kids.”

They clinked their glasses to that. The beer matched the ring of amber in his irises. Tom figured he shouldn’t be studying his eyes so much.

“Your co-workers seem cool. I didn’t mean to embarrass you the other night,” Randall said.

“We weren’t expecting a celebrity to walk into our store.”

Speaking of co-workers, Tom’s heart clenched up when he thought he saw Antonio come into The Wounded Soldier. He didn’t know why, but being around Randall and Antonio at the same time sent his awkward meter off the charts.

“Do you see someone?” Randall peered at the front entrance. Even the way his hazel eyes squinted and lips parted slightly was like he was forever posing for a magazine cover.

The guy walked up to the bar, and phew. Not Antonio.

“I just thought that was my boss.”

“Oh, he does kind of look like the guy I saw the other night, the one with the blond husband.”

“Boyfriend,” Tom said quickly. “Boyfriend. They’re just boyfriends.”

Randall cocked an eyebrow.

“They are! Why are you looking at me that way?”

“In what way?”

“In that way with your eyebrows and your eyes and your mouth.”

“Those are parts of my face.”

“You know what I mean.”

He seesawed his head and gave it a second of thought. Tom could watch him make any facial expression.

“You don’t seem that enthralled with the idea of your boss being married.”

There was no use lying to Randall. He felt he could trust him, if only because he didn’t talk to anyone Tom knew. “I might have a slight crush on him.” Tom put his head on the table. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m such a cliché.”

“I’m sure you’re not the only one.”

“Thus the cliché part.” Hearing him say it out loud make Tom realize how pathetic pining for someone he couldn’t have was. It was like still believing in the Tooth Fairy. Or Santa Claus.

“What am I doing? It’s so dumb. He has a boyfriend. They will probably get married.”

“Probably.”

“You think so?”

Randall held up his hands in defense. “I’m just going off of your information.”

“You’re right. Now I get why they’re called crushes. They crush you,” Tom said. He watched couples dance to the jukebox music. What did they know that he didn’t? “What about you? Any boyfriends?”

“Nope,” he said proudly. “I like having the freedom to do what I want, go where I want. I have a goal to visit all fifty states.”

Tom raised his glass. “Welcome to the Land of Lincoln.”

“And besides, people just wind up letting you down anyway,” he said, with a sudden edge to his voice. “Like with your crush, you only see your boss as this perfect guy, but if you were to actually date him, you’d find his flaws. You’d see he wasn’t so perfect.”

“We all have flaws. Well, except for you.” Tom reached over and took off his Santa hat, revealing thick brown hair that any comb would get a boner going through. Even after being under a hat all day, it still maintained its volume and shine.

“Oh! I know this song!” Randall put back on his hat and got out of the booth. “Will you dance with me?”

“I don’t dance.”

“It’s the song from Footloose. It would go against the message of the movie if you didn’t dance.” His large hand remained extended. It could not be refused.

Tom joined him in the dance space. He felt eyes on him, wondering how the hell he got so lucky. Randall had this natural cool aura to him so that even though his moves weren’t different from what others were doing, he came off like the best dancer in there.

Tom watched his body turn and spin. He glimpsed the tight ass inside those unflattering red pants. But he found himself coming back to the goofy smile on his face. That was the most interesting part of him in the moment, the one that put Tom at ease and made him let go of his inhibitions.

He danced with just as much abandon as the Hot Mall Santa across from him. For the rest of that song, Tom didn’t care who was watching or what they thought. Especially himself. He most definitely cut loose. Footloose.

The next song that came on was Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

“Finally, an actual holiday song,” Randall said.

The dance space cleared up. Tom went back to their booth.

“Where are you going?”

“Someone ended the dance party.”

“Not so.” Randall’s large hand beckoned him again.

Is he really asking me to slow dance? Are we at senior prom?

Tom thought it was a joke at first, but his hand didn’t move.

He rejoined Randall on the dance floor, and they slow danced together, their chests not an inch apart. Soon, other couples joined them, taking one spotlight off Tom. But a stronger one remained.

Randall kept looking at Tom. His eyes were lethal weapons that could get Tom to do anything in the moment. He licked his full lips, and Tom had to make sure he wasn’t dancing too close or else there’d be a poking situation.

“You’re still in your Santa suit,” Tom said.

“I know.”

“People are probably wondering what you’re doing in a Santa Suit here.”

“So let them wonder.” Randall leaned in for a kiss.

Tom got to feel and taste those full, warm lips himself. It was like a door to a new world. Narnia maybe, if he’d read those books. Randall pulled away, but Tom wanted more. He had just gotten a hit of the best drug on the planet, and he was having instant withdrawal.

“What are you doing after this?” Tom asked him.

“Dunno.”

“Do you want to come back to my place and watch a movie?” Tom chided himself for such a hackneyed line.

Hot Mall Santa rubbed circles on Tom’s hand with his thumb. “Only if it’s a Christmas movie.”