Havoc for the Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

4. Ezechiel

Chapter four

Ezechiel

T he extent of my Friday night plans involved a dozen boxes still needing to be unpacked and a hot date with reruns on Netflix. Oh, how far I had fallen. Three weeks ago, my weekend would have been kicking off with gallery shows, cocktail hours, invites to the club, or a quick meet-up with a man I only knew by his username and profile picture on Grindr. I scanned my surroundings with a defeated sigh. I'd been putting this task off for so long, but the reluctance to make this move a permanent one was quickly shifting into frustration over living out of boxes.

The guest house on my mother’s property was at least three times larger than the studio apartment I'd given up in the city, but it was filled with a claustrophobic feeling as I wandered around the stacks of boxes to figure out the best place to start. Mom had apologized at least ten times for how small it was. If only she had seen the size of my postage stamp accommodations. Maybe with time, this would feel like home. My eye caught on a box labeled “Pictures” and I knew instantly where I needed to start.

With classical music playing in the background, I sliced through the tape and revealed the complete history of my dance career from start to finish. Sobered by my new reality, I went in search of the small tool box Mom had left me so I could rehang my pictures and try to turn this charming little cottage into a place I actually wanted to spend time in.

The photographs covered two decades. Me in my first dance class with my mother as the instructor. My first recital. My first day at the dance academy in the city. My first stage performance. Shots of every single show I choreographed after an injury prematurely ended my career as a professional dancer. Dozens and dozens of smaller pictures featuring the sights of the Big Apple. They all meant something to me. They all stuck out in stark contrast to the quaint surroundings of the countryside cottage. Nevertheless, they all found a place in the rooms and hallways of the two-bedroom house.

Discovering just how much more space I had to spread out now made the rest of the unpacking process much easier. Going from a one room studio where my bed doubled as a couch and my nightstand doubled as a dining table came with a lot of surprising benefits. The more I relaxed, the more buoyant my spirits became as the classical notes of the Nutcracker ballet filled my new home. Before long, the routines I'd created, practiced, memorized backwards and forwards had my feet dancing through the sweeping space of my cavernous cottage.

I would never again dance on stages around the country, but at least I could still dance. Whenever I would find myself mourning the loss of professional dancing, I tried hard to remind myself of how much worse it could have been. There was noticeable stiffness and a perpetual ache in the knee I’d blown during a lift gone wrong, but I was fortunate to have as much mobility as I did. I was doubly blessed to still be able to dance and teach. If I could just stop slipping into melancholy over my chance in circumstances, being grateful for this new opportunity would be so much easier.

With no more boxes left to unpack and a racing mind, I decided to get a head start on my paperwork. Taking over a family business was something I should have prepared for much earlier in my life. This was always an inevitability, but I had wrongfully assumed I would have years to prepare. One look at the lines and lines of numbers and income reports, expense ledgers, and enrollment numbers had me balking. My top priority would be finding out if this speck of a town had an accountant, because there was only so much my mind could handle and numbers were most definitively not it.

My hand hovered over the folder of contacts and student information as a slow smile spread over my face. What better way to kill two birds with one stone than to contact the redhead I couldn't stop thinking about. An innocent question about local resources wouldn't look too suspicious, after all. Especially since the man had offered to give me a tour of the town, albeit at his friend’s insistence. My smile turned into a grin as I flipped through the documents to find his name.

It wasn't hard to find, but what I learned upon discovering his contact information gave me pause. Oliver and Rebecca Branson weren't filed with the majority of the client information. My head cocked to the side as I pulled the sheet out of the folder to read it closer. Stapled to the form was another piece of paper that made my chest squeeze with sympathy. Low Income Grant Application. My skin crawled as I read over the intensely personal information I shouldn't have been studying in search of a contact number. Despite that, I couldn't stop myself.

Ollie was only twenty-two, just three years younger than I. His daughter was five, which could only mean one thing—he had been a teen parent raising a child before he was even legally old enough to vote. There was no information listed for Rebecca’s mother. The emergency contacts on file were none other than Lincoln Townsend and a couple with the same last name and a Florida phone number. The grant application required income information and my heart grew heavy as I checked the math and realized just how impossible it would have been for him to give his daughter the gift of dance without this financial assistance.

My skin crawled over this accidental invasion of Ollie’s privacy, but that didn't stop me from jotting his cellphone number on a piece of scrap paper before tucking the paperwork back in the folder. My woe-is-me mood lingering under the surface diminished greatly with this revelation. The stark truth was that I was incredibly fortunate. I'd been gifted so many opportunities in my life that I'd taken for granted. Not everyone had it as easy as I did, and Ollie was a prime example of that. I eyed the scrap of paper with determination and a growing need to reach out to this veritable stranger. Not only because I found him utterly endearing and incredibly attractive, but also because he was likely far stronger and more resilient than his awkward, shy exterior displayed. Truth be told, I was fascinated.

Things got trickier as I opened my messaging app and plugged his number into the recipient field. Hookup apps were so much easier. I couldn't very well start the conversation with a straight to the point question about preferences, times, or locations. Hell, I barely even knew how to engage in small talk with an attractive man face to face, let alone through texts. Apparently, Ollie wasn't the only one who grew incredibly awkward in the face of conversation. With a mental slap in the face, I forced myself to jump in feet first.

Ezechiel: Good evening, Oliver. It was good to see you again today.

I grew instantly impatient as the message was read and the bouncing dots showed up on the screen and continued to jump up and down for a full five minutes. Just before I decided to send a second message, my screen filled with damn near fifty different emojis and jumbled letters, numbers, and symbols that made no sense. I boggled in confusion and nearly jumped off the couch when a FaceTime request appeared.

With an arched brow, I accepted the call. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it most definitely was not a little girl with riotous red curls and a pinched expression.

“You’re not Nana,” she accused with a squint. “Mr. Ezechiel? Why’re you in Daddy’s phone?”

“Uh… hello, Rebecca. I was trying to… um. I was trying to talk to your dad. Is he there?” Oh God, this was a nightmare I hadn't prepared for. My discomfort rose as the little girl eagerly nodded before the screen became a jumble of movement that threatened to make me motion sick.

“Yeah, I get him.” A slight pause as more movement blurred the video. In horror, I realized too late that the camera was now facing a bathroom shower curtain. “Daddy! Mr. Ezechiel's in your phone, look!”

“What—ack!” Ollie shrieked and slammed the pink princess themed shower curtain closed again. “Shit, shit, shit. Um, baby girl, please tell him—wait, shit.”

I tried to stifle my laughter as Ollie’s mumbles and exclamations echoed through the phone over the sound of running water. He peeked one eye around the plastic curtain.

“Right, Ezechiel. I'll call back. Five minutes. Becs, press the red button. No, the red—that one, yes.”

The call ended and I had to clutch my stomach for how hard I was laughing. I flopped my back down on the couch and continued to chuckle off and on as five minutes became ten minutes and ten minutes became twenty minutes. I'd just about given up hope on him calling back when my cell started buzzing on my chest. Sure as shit, when I lifted the phone, his name appeared on the screen. I swiped to answer without bothering to sit up.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't peep-show Ollie. I didn't think you'd call back.”

“Oh God,” Ollie groaned. “I'm so sorry. I never… it was… she knows not to play with my texts when I let her use my phone but… she forgets sometimes.”

“She was disappointed I wasn't Nana. I didn't know she was about to burst in on you in the shower when I asked her to put you on.” I intentionally refused to apologize for the abrupt invasion of his privacy courtesy of his daughter. Truth of the matter was that I wasn't sorry at all. Despite myself, I entertained images of his damp hair and flushed skin covered in water from the shower as we talked. Sue me—I only had so much restraint.

“Yes. We had a long talk about bathroom rules. Again. It's… a work in progress.” A shaky laugh followed his words. “Was there… is everything… um, did you need something?”

“It would be apropos to ask for another peep-show, wouldn't it?” God. Reel it in, Ez. I cleared my throat as he sputtered. “I'm sorry. I actually called to see if you could recommend an accountant and perhaps inquire about that tour you offered?”

“Oh.” The phone went so silent, I checked to see if the call was still connected. When I pulled it back to my ear, I caught the tail end of a wavering sigh. “Yes. I m-might have time t-tomorrow?”

My smile spread and spread until I didn't think it could spread any further, and then it grew wider still. “If you do have time tomorrow, what time might that be?”

“Oh. Um, noon? We could meet at the… uh… coffee shop? You're familiar with it?” The sound of rustling and footsteps carried over the line. It sounded a lot like he might have been pacing.

“I am indeed. That sounds perfect.” I paused to listen to the whisper of another sigh before continuing. “I'm looking forward to it. Thank you, Oliver.”

“Yes,” he squeaked before coughing in an attempt to cover up the sound. “Me too. Tomorrow. Right. Okay, bye.”

“Goodnight, Ollie.”

“Oh. Right. Goodnight, Ezechiel.”

I hung up with a quiet sigh of my own. Suddenly, I was feeling quite optimistic about the new direction my life was taking, thanks to a certain young man with an incredibly adorable amount of awkward shyness I was looking forward to exploring. Still smiling, I hurried to shut off all the lights and head to bed. Tomorrow would come even faster if I went to sleep, and I really, really wanted it to be tomorrow. The strange blossoming warmth in my chest was foreign, but not at all unpleasant as I let my eyes close to relive the the conversation with Ollie replay in my head.