Four
“Kiss me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Kiss me. We have to practice.”
“I don’t recall there being a kissing clause in the fake girlfriend contract, Milo.”
“I don’t recall there being a contract at all. Know what I do recall? My grandmother. Forcing me to go to church every time I come home. A church where the sermon is curiously always about the wickedness and perversion of homosexuality. She’s already got her suspicions about me as it is. If we can’t even pull off a believable kiss, how the hell are we going to pull off three whole weeks as a couple?”
“Okay, fine, kiss me, anything to shut you up—”
He cut her off by leaning over the console of their rental car—parked on the gravelly road about a mile outside of the log cabin he’d grown up in—and pressing his lips to hers. She frowned through the closed mouth kiss. Upon opening her eyes, she found the same pained expression on Milo’s face.
He pulled away first, suddenly looking very worried as he cringed through the windshield.
“Hey, your family is uber religious, right?” She tried to find a silver lining. “They’ll probably be thankful if we aren’t the type of couple into heavy PDA. We’ll just tell them we don’t like to kiss in front of people. Lots of hugs and cuddles, but no lip on lip action.”
He snapped a finger and pointed at her. “Brilliant.”
“I try.” She shrugged as he restarted the car and resumed the slow drive up to the log cabin, tucked away in the trees, nestled deep in a mountainous terrain just outside Salt Lake, which greeted them from the distance. She took in the expanse of tall trees, the cold weather leaving them naked and stripped of the colorful leaves that had once lived on their branches but now littered the forest floor. Not another house was visible from all around. Just a wall of thick, green forest and what sounded like a stream trickling faintly in the distance. The clear blue sky gave no clues to the bitterly cold air that would await them once they exited the car, but they were already dressed in their New York winter gear, more than ready for the nippy weather that awaited them.
Viola sighed as the cabin grew closer, pulling a folded piece of paper from her pocket. Jon fuckin’ Baca’s phone number still greeted her after unfolding it, confirming for the millionth time that, yes, the best plane ride of her life had, in fact, actually happened. She’d already memorized his sloppy handwriting, tracing every dip and curve with stars in her eyes.
“Why didn’t he ask you for your number? Men only give their phone numbers to women they think are easy or desperate.”
Her eyes shot to Milo just as he parked the car. “I told you. He chased after me on the moving walkway. There was no time to ask for my number. You should’ve seen it, Milo. It was like something out of a romance movie.”
“If a man really likes you, he’ll make miracles happen. If he really wanted your number—” He made a swipe for the paper, but she snatched it away in the nick of time. “He would’ve made it happen. Why settle for some guy who’s willing to risk never hearing from you again?”
She hid the paper in a fist.
“All this secrecy,” he accused. “I just wanna know his name so I can help you stalk him on social media later.”
“No stalking necessary.” I already know his star sign, his favorite food, his worst fear, and the middle name of every girlfriend he’s ever had. “And you’re wrong on this one. You don’t even know him.”
“Was I wrong on Gleb? Or do you now have an HD snapshot of his crooked penis contaminating your phone?”
“This one’s different. You wouldn’t understand.” Protecting Jon’s phone number—as well as his name—at all costs, she shoved the number back into her pocket.
Milo grumbled something about what an easy mark she was while throwing open the driver’s side door.
She went to open her door as well.
“Hold on,” he said. “Mom’s probably peeking out the window. I’ll get your door.”
Viola chuckled as he raced around the car, opening the passenger door and offering her his hand.
“I can’t decide what’s more terrifying,” she said. “The memory of your lips on mine or watching you attempt chivalry.”
After helping her out of the car, Milo gave her his arm and began leading her up to the rustic, two-story log cabin that awaited them, their boots crunching on the grass and gravel at their feet. Viola drank in the thick brush of trees, gasping when they eventually cleared to reveal that the home sat alongside a trickling stream, sparkling under the sunlight. Coupled with the stunning mountain views—all of their peaks dotted with snow—the small home became downright delightful in her eyes. The earthy scent of pine and old fallen leaves filled her nose with each breath, reminding her for the first time in years what fresh air actually smelled like.
“So this is the cabin my Milo Moore was raised in, huh? I think I love it already, just because it grew you. A more amazing flower has never been bloomed. It’s adorable.”
“It’s on its last leg. Been in the family for generations and it shows.”
“Looks nice and cozy to me. Nothing says Christmas like a warm, toasty log cabin. I bet the inside smells like nutmeg and candy canes. All that’s missing is a few inches of snow.”
“A few inches of snow on that old ass roof? It’d be a miracle if the house doesn’t cave in on itself.”
“Okay, you’re determined to be negative. I quit.”
Thankfully, Milo was the only one determined to be negative, as evidenced by the middle-aged brunette who threw open the door of the house before Milo and Viola had even made it halfway across the yard. One look at the shoulder-length brown hair—curled at the ends—slender body—encased in mom jeans with a long red sweater—and a smile that lit up her entire face and Viola instantly knew it was Milo’s mother, Mary Moore, lingering in the doorway with her smiling mouth hanging open. She’d know Mary’s kind blue eyes, slightly wrinkled at the corners, anywhere, all thanks to her both hilarious and adorable presence on social media. Milo hadn’t had the heart to decline his mother’s Facebook friend request, years ago, seeing as Mary only had 39 friends of her own, a number that hadn’t much budged over the years. Sometimes it felt like Mary spent more time on Milo’s Facebook page than Milo himself, leaving adorable comments that only a clueless middle-aged mother could manage, on each and every one of his posts—regardless of context.
Photo of Milo bent over a toilet after chugging from a beer keg at spring break: “Hey, honey, it’s Mom. Great picture!”
Milo mooning Manhattan from a rooftop bar on a drunken night in Times Square: “Hey, hun, it’s your mom, please bundle up, it looks cold!”
Milo flipping off Trump Tower during a walk down 5th Avenue: “Your mother loves you.”
There was no photo too offensive, too foul, or too grotesque that would stop Mary Moore from popping in on her beloved son’s Facebook feed with a sweet word. Her postings never failed to kill the vibe. Directly responsible for the rapid deaths of too many sarcastic and perverse conversations to count as his friends went running for the hills at the sight of someone’s mom. The braver of Milo’s friends sometimes stuck around: “Aw, Milo, your mom is so cute! Hey, mom!”
He’d never unfriended her though. Instead, he kept her account restricted. She didn’t know she was restricted since Facebook didn’t send notifications, but there were many postings—most of which alluded to Milo’s sexuality—that Mary would never see. Seeing her smiling face right then, Viola understood why Milo couldn’t find the heart to just unfriend her. If her mother were as adorable as the one charging across the porch with a squeal, arms wide open as she raced toward them in glee, she wouldn’t have the heart to do it either.
Mary’s long, willowy limbs raced across the yard, and she threw her arms around Milo’s shoulders, pulling him into a half-laughing, half-sobbing hug. “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you!”
“I missed you too, Mom.” Milo rubbed her back.
“It’s been way too long.” Mary pulled away and cupped his face, frowning softly at him like a dermatologist searching for irregular moles. “Have you been eating right? You’re looking thinner than I remember.”
“I’m fine, Mom.” Milo motioned to Viola. “This is—“
“Viola!” Mary abandoned him to draw Viola into a bear hug as well. “Of course, I’d know Viola from a mile away, hun. She’s all over your Facebook. And all this time I thought you two were just friends.” Mary pulled away and cut a playful look at the two of them.
“The heart wants what it wants, Mom, what can I say?” He could barely say it with a straight face.
Viola cut a look at him, fighting her own amused smile.
“I feel like I already know you.” Mary squeezed Viola’s arms.
“Likewise,” Viola teased. “I feel like I’m meeting a celebrity. Your comments on Milo’s photos light up my world more than you’ll ever know.”
“His father always tells me to just leave him alone. Says I’m embarrassing him. But you don’t mind, do you, hun?”
“No, Mom. I don’t mind.”
“Do I embarrass you? I just wanna know you’re okay, that’s all.”
“You don’t embarrass me.”
Viola was in the midst of searing Milo with a knowing squint from the corner of her eyes when the feeling of being completely off balance suddenly overtook her body and stole a startled cry for her lips. Like a bulldozer had just hit her right in the shins hard enough to take her off her feet.
One look down at her legs, however, proved that the bulldozer was actually nothing more than a tiny little blonde boy wiggling between her legs, gripping the fabric of her sweater dress for leverage. Viola gaped down at him as his tiny feet stomped all over her black boots, wondering how this fun-sized little devil had managed to make it out of the front door and across the yard without her even noticing. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence as he navigated her legs like his favorite jungle gym, sneaking his head under the hem of her dress.
Too stunned to move, Viola couldn’t even find her voice, only managing to gape down at him when his curly blonde head popped out from under her dress. He looked up at her. The round glasses hanging on the tip of his freckled button nose made his big blue eyes seem giant. Like an adorable little fruit fly who’d sprouted tiny arms and legs that were now completely entangled with hers. There was no feeling in the world like the weight of a young child against her—she guessed he wasn’t a day over two years old—and she’d forgotten how nice it was.
“Is that’s yours ‘gina?” A mouth full of tiny gapped teeth smiled proudly up at her.
“Beau Moore!” Mary beamed, covering her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Sorry, Viola, that’s our youngest, Beau.”
“What’s a ‘gina?” Viola crossed her arms and squinted down at Beau. Of course, she had some idea of what he’d just asked her—despite his notable lisp and abhorrent grammar—but didn’t want to risk corrupting him unnecessarily.
His high-pitched voice rose. “My mommy says I has penis and you has ‘gina.”
Viola nodded as he confirmed her suspicions, just as Mary bent down and swept him off his feet, setting him on her hip with a bashful smile.
“I’m sorry about him,” Mary said, her cheeks red as she bounced him softly on her hip. “We’re trying to teach him the real words for body parts but haven’t quite figured out how to explain why it’s not socially acceptable to say them to strangers.”
Viola raised her eyebrows at him. “Yes, Beau, you have a penis, and I have a vagina.”
Beau’s face lit up, his smile blooming to twice its size.
“You are correct, sir.” Viola nodded. “You did very good. You should be very proud of yourself.”
He cheesed harder, his shoulders rising high as he brought his fisted hands up to his smiling lips with a soft giggle.
“Thank you,” Mary mouthed to Viola before giving Milo a look of approval, as if she’d decided right then and there that this one could stay. They shared a soft smile before Mary nodded over her shoulder toward the house. “Your grandmother’s inside. Come on.”
Milo wrapped his arm around Viola’s shoulder as they followed Mary up the stairs of the porch, sharing a secret high five. They’d cleared the first hurdle—his mom.
“Where’s Jackson?” Milo asked.
“Still at school. He would’ve been here by now, but he got after-school detention—again. You’d think the staff would be anxious to get the last day before break over with, but apparently, his defiance was too flagrant to ignore. I swear I just don’t know what I’m going to do with him. Your father’s going to be furious.” Mary’s voice echoed through the vaulted ceilings of the house as she stepped inside and set Beau in his high chair, located at the end of an old kitchen table in the dining room to the right.
“Detention for what?” Milo asked, taking off his coat, as well as Viola’s, and hanging them on the rack next to the door.
“Smoking in the bathrooms, can you believe it? So glad you’re here, baby. He needs a positive influence in his life so badly right now. Your father and I just don’t know how to get through to him anymore.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
As Milo and Mary spoke about “Jackson”, Viola’s eyes searched the small living area and dining room of the log cabin, which were all in one room separated only by two different types of flooring—peeling laminate wood floors in the living room and tattered tile floors in the dining room. Every piece of the furniture in the house qualified as an antique, but Viola could tell they’d been maintained with love and probably would’ve fallen to pieces years ago had they been tended to by a less caring hand. Just like she imagined, the home smelled like gingerbread cookies and cinnamon. The fragrant aroma of beef and potatoes filled the house as well, promising that the feast Mary was whipping up for the family wouldn’t disappoint.
Regardless of all the delicious scents permeating, Viola also picked up a soft hint of mold as she breathed in again, which she supposed was inevitable in a house as old as that one.
Christmas decorations accompanied the pepperminty scent all around, dotting various areas of the living and dining room. Stockings hung from the fireplace mantle with eight names written on each. Viola was touched to see there was a stocking with her name as well. Mixed with the Christmas music playing softly in the background, a wave of warmth so strong rolled over her, tears almost stung her eyes.
The moaning and groaning of the staircase straight ahead, however, tore Viola away from her sentimental thoughts before they could come to fruition. A pair of beige orthopedic shoes with white socks were the first to appear as they descended the staircase, followed by an ankle-length red floral dress. A white lace cape buttoned around a wrinkled neck. A veiny hand, gripping the railing with trembling fingers. And, finally, a wise, smiling face—lips painted red—along with a head full of shock white curls that shook in delight the moment Milo came into view at the bottom of the steps.
“Oh, my goodness, Milo, get over here this instant!”
Viola smiled as Milo crossed the room and embraced who she could only assume was his grandmother, Betty Moore, in a bone-crushing hug. The two laughed into the embrace for a long while, with Betty being the first to pull away so she could cup his face in her hands.
“You’re too skinny!” she instantly accused.
“I’m literally the exact same size I was the last time you saw me,” Milo deadpanned, clearly already sick of explaining his weight.
Betty curled a lip, unconvinced while tightening her fingers around the book she held against her chest. The book was open as if she’d been in the midst of reading it before coming down the stairs. The cover depicted two cartoon children, a boy and a girl. The girl was holding her dress up, and the boy was pulling the waistband of his pants out, both leaning in to take a gander at each other’s goods. Viola had to bite back a laugh as she read the book’s title—Boys Have a Penis, Girls Have a Vagina—before shooting an amused look into the kitchen, where Beau was finishing lunch in his high chair, legs swinging as Mary refilled his juice bottle.
“Grandma, this is my girlfriend Viola. Viola this is my grandma, Betty.”
Viola was snapped out of her thoughts as Milo guided Betty over to her, offering her hand with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Betty.”
“Your girlfriend?” Betty clarified, raising her eyebrows high and cocking her head at Milo.
“Yes, grandma, my girlfriend. Viola.”
“Well, I never thought this day would come.”
“Well, it has, Grandma.”
“Thought I’d drop dead first.”
“Well, you’re alive and well.”
Betty placed her hand in Viola’s while smiling brightly. “The pleasure’s all mine, Viola.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, Betty. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Come sit in the kitchen with Beau and me. We have so much to talk about.”
“Would you like some eggnog, Viola?” Mary asked from where she’d gone into worker-bee mode in the dining room.
Viola nodded as she, Milo, and Betty all took a seat at the ten-seater dining table, each chair creaking as they sat down. Two miniature Christmas trees sat in the middle of the table, flickering with colorful lights, flanked by tiny porcelain statues of Santa, his elves, and his reindeer. The rest of the table was lined with green oak leaves sprinkled with white glitter and the occasional pinecone dotting the table finished the festive look.
“I love eggnog,” Viola said. “Definitely.”
“Me too.” Milo raised a hand.
“Two eggnogs coming up. I’ll whip up some turkey sandwiches, too.”
With a big smile from her seat next to Beau’s high chair, Betty leaned forward and lifted a plate of gingerbread cookies that sat in the middle of the table, silently offering them to Viola.
“Heck yeah, thanks.” Viola found herself pleasantly surprised as she accepted a cookie off the plate and took a big bite, nearly melting into the chair as the spicy sweet flavor took over her entire body.
“So…” Betty breathed, her bright blue eyes dancing back and forth between them. “Are the two of you planning on getting married? Or just keep living in sin?”
Viola nearly choked on her first swallow of gingerbread, her wide eyes flying across the table to Milo, who didn’t seem nearly as surprised.
“Oh, Betty, will you leave them alone?” Mary chided, returning to the table with two glasses of eggnog and two club sandwiches that made Viola’s mouth water on sight. “They just got here.” Mary took the seat next to Viola while rubbing her arm. “We’re a little traditional around here, Viola. Might be a bit of a culture shock from NYC.”
“I was actually born and raised a few towns over,” Viola said. “About a three-hour drive from here.”
“Ah,” Mary beamed. “I had no idea.”
“So then you’ll understand why we’ve already set up two separate rooms for you and Milo,” Betty said.
“Separate rooms, Grandma? Really? She’s my girlfriend.”
“Is she your wife?”
Milo and Betty shared a long stare, neither appearing in any rush to be the first to break it or speak.
“Separate rooms is fine,” Viola jumped in. “My mom is the same way. No way she’d be okay with Milo and I sleeping in the same bed under her roof. Not even if we were married.”
Betty and Mary burst into laughter, and Viola saw the exact moment Milo’s shoulders relaxed as the tension in the room dissipated. She gave him a secret look across the table. A look that screamed relax.
“What church does your mother go to, dear?” Betty asked.
“Glendale Baptist.”
Betty gasped and immediately went into a diatribe about how Glendale had the best choir in the state and how the pastor was one of her dearest friends, long overdue for a visit to the house for Sunday dinner.
“Is there a single pastor in the state of Utah you don’t know on a first name basis?” Milo teased Betty. “Is there a single pastor in the country?”
Mary giggled and went to speak, but the sound of another car pulling up outside wiped the sentence from her lips. She sat up higher in her chair, craning her neck to look out the window, which was lined with white lights and had a round Christmas reef hanging down the middle.
“That’s your father,” she said.
Moments later, the front door opened and a middle-aged man with a deep line between his gray eyebrows stepped inside, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He wore navy pants and a navy coat with a UTA patch on the shoulder. He dropped his workbag, letting it thump heavily down to the floor while licking his teeth and slamming the door shut. He had a handful of mail in his free hand, which he’d picked up on his way inside the house. He moved into the kitchen with a huff, eyes down. His hair was just as gray as his eyebrows, skin showing every stress line he’d earned over a lifetime. Viola instantly saw Milo all over him. His pensive brown eyes, his olive skin, and his debonair aura screamed dusky Italian even though he was as Anglo as they came.
He shook an envelope in the air as he entered the kitchen. “Do you know your son got another attendance violation? Where is he?”
“Detention—again. Smoking.”
Robert’s jaw clenched, appearing in the midst of a full-on explosion. But then his eyes shifted to the table, landed on Milo, and every frown line, every clenched tooth, and every inch of fury scorching his eyes eased. Replaced with a soft smile in what felt like the blink of an eye.
“Milo,” Robert exhaled, holding out one hand.
Milo left his seat and moved toward his father’s outstretched arm. The two men embraced fiercely without a word, hugging so tightly Viola wondered how they were even breathing. Clapping each other’s backs so hard she was sure they must be hurting each other. But the smiles on their faces told a different story. Robert was the first to pull away, cupping the back of Milo’s neck while shaking him gently.
“Don’t you ever do this to us again, you hear me?” Robert’s voice trembled. “Don’t you ever go this long again.”
“I won’t, Dad.”
“Give me five minutes to go get cleaned up.” Robert nodded up the stairs. “Then you’re gonna tell me everything about the big city, alright?”
“I swear, you guys act like you don’t call me on the phone twice a week. There’s literally nothing new to tell.” Milo chuckled.
“We wanna hear it in person,” Robert said, clapping his shoulder before moving toward the stairs.
“Milo has a girlfriend!” Betty cried before Robert could even take the first step, jamming a finger towards Viola as if to shout she’s real, she’s real!
“Oh, that’s right.” Robert waved from the staircase. “Viola, right?”
Viola stood from her chair. “Thank you so much, Mr. Moore, for taking care of my ticket. I haven’t seen my mother since I left for college—almost three years now—and it means the world to me. I can’t begin to tell you how much. Thank you.”
“Well, it means the world to me that you’re looking after my boy up there in New York.” Robert squeezed Milo’s shoulder. “So, don’t mention it. Just give me five minutes, okay?”
Viola nodded and gave another wave of thanks just as Robert began up the stairs, silently kicking herself for accusing these people of being bigots not even a week earlier. What a jerk she’d been to judge them so prematurely. So far, they seemed like the picture-perfect family. Like something out of a sitcom.
“You guys are so nice.” She spoke her thoughts out loud as everyone re-took their seats at the table. “You’re like the perfect family—”
An engine roaring outside tore her away from her words. A roar that grew more intense every second until it felt like it was shaking the floors. Until the eggnog in her glass began to dance along to every tremor like the bass of a hip-hop song.
Betty and Mary shared a stunned look.
“It can’t be,” Betty breathed.
“No.” Mary’s eyes flew to the window. “Oh my goodness.”
Viola turned to look out the window too, following Mary’s shining eyes just in time to see a motorcycle blaze into the front yard, coming to a growling stop next to Milo and Viola’s rental. The driver, wearing a pair of black jeans and a leather coat, parked the bike and stepped off without removing his helmet. He unstrapped a single duffle bag from the back and slung it over his shoulder.
“Oh my goodness, yes, yes, yes!” Mary raced out of the dining room at the speed of light, blasted through the front door, and jetted across the yard, launching her body into the arms of the speed racer who’d yet to remove his helmet, the same way she had Milo, minutes earlier. He caught her with ease and didn’t stop walking, carrying her across the yard with one arm as if she weighed nothing at all.
Viola’s eyes flew to Milo, who was leaning forward on the table and squinting through the window. Unlike Mary, no tears gleamed in Milo’s eyes. They only grew darker by the moment until Viola was sure he was seething. She looked back out of the window, but Mary and the speed racer had already moved out of sight.
A second later, the front door flew open again, and Mary entered the kitchen arm-in-arm with the biker. The brightest smile Viola had ever seen in her life was splashed across Mary’s face.
“He made it!” Mary beamed, slapping away the tears. “Can you believe it?”
Even Betty couldn’t help a joyous cry, clapping her hands with a whoop while standing from her seat and shuffling over to him.
“Come and say hello to your brother!” Mary beamed to Milo, waving him frantically over.
Milo didn’t move.
Neither did Viola, taking her cue from Milo—her curious eyes locked to the speed racer as he bent down and accepted the same neck-breaking hug from Betty as he’d just received from Mary. All while unlatching the strap of his helmet and pulling it off his head.
The moment his helmet was off, the color drained from Viola’s face, her mouth fell open, and her heartbeat came to a roaring halt.
“Milo has a girlfriend!” Betty pulled out of the hug and pointed a finger at Viola over her shoulder.
Viola couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t hear. Her limbs had gone numb. Her ears had closed up. Her vision had blurred. Not blurry enough, however, to stop her gaze from shifting to the living room mantle where eight Christmas stockings still hung. Where eight red names screamed out at her from the white fur, breaking through her foggy haze and shattering her flat-lining heart to pieces.
Her eyes danced over each name in utter disbelief.
Betty, Robert, Mary, Jackson, Viola, Milo, Beau…
And Jon.
Jon.
Eyes wide as saucers, her hazy gaze flew back to the speed racer who’d just removed his helmet. The speed racer whose blue eyes were just as wide as hers as their gazes locked across the kitchen.
She locked eyes with Jon fuckin’ Baca…
And her stomach hit her feet.