Just For The Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

1. Nichol

Chapter 1

Nichol

The Disaster

T he pitiful town’s lone traffic light blinks hazard-yellow warnings— surely subliminal Morse code from the universe —into the glass roof of the stupidly overpriced rental car.

Nichol tosses his hands up; defeated, as the Model S creeps to a dead halt in the middle of Main Street, slamming both palms back down on the rectangular steering handle.

“Fuck!” he winces at the sharp bolts cracking through his wrists.

The sleek dashboard tablet glows, 3:33 am— supposedly a sign of good luck—as a pixelated frowny face appears on its screen but blips into the void, on the final watts of battery life. Maybe, not so much.

He’d spent the last crumbs of his financial dignity on the luxury electric chariot; because obviously, if he’s coming back to this shitty podunk provenance of his messy existence, he’s doing it in style, at the very least. There’s no way he’s about to let these people see him failing at life. However; a failure, is exactly how he sees himself right now.

Back in Seattle, Nichol couldn’t care less about anyone‘s opinion of him. He’s a success there, even when his life is falling apart; but here, he was always a joke.

This will be his first holiday visit in about a decade. He’d left for college over twenty years ago and manufactured every excuse to avoid making the trek back for any reason imaginable. He loves his family, but can’t understand why they’ve always hesitated to just come see him in amazing Seattle.

He’s determined to keep this visit short and sweet, with no intention of sticking around any longer than he has to. Soon enough, his good friend Colby will hook him up with a new gig—because that’s his expertise as a corporate recruiter—and Nichol will head right back to the city.

Colby promised he’d have something set up before New Year's.

Yes, he did say that for Pride in June, End of Summer in August, and Halloween in October, but Nichol believes in him. The job market is just shit right now—according to Colby—and he shouldn’t have put off the hunt when he was laid off back in January.

Breaking down isn’t an ideal way to end nineteen hours on the road, setting a nauseating tone for this long overdue return. Disaster could be his middle name if his parents had known better.

The humiliation of slowly selling off his belongings, on social media marketplaces, over the last several months hadn’t been soul-crushing enough. The rest of his life is now crammed into three suitcases and one cardboard box in the rental car’s trunk.

Main Street has barely changed. The pharmacy has a fresh coat of paint and Murphy’s Hardware replaced its stained-wood door with a steel and glass model. Everything else is the same.

He should have listened to the car’s warnings and stopped at the Walmart, several miles back. It’s the only charging dock listed in the entire county, but he figured there was enough juice to make it to his sister’s house. He hadn’t accounted for the energy drain, that blasting the heater was sucking up. Minnesota winters are brutal. The closer you are to the Great Lakes, the colder it gets.

Just three-point-two more miles and he’d have made it.

Everyone is likely sleeping, so it doesn’t matter that his stupid phone has no service here.

“This was a mistake,” Nichol grumbles, climbing out of the car and scrutinizing the street.

The storefronts and businesses look abandoned at this hour, except for old Mrs. Monroe’s Pepto-pink bakery, Buttercup Confections. The big paned window, with its matching striped awning, is wrapped in colorful string lights, which cast a twinkling rainbow on gold and silver tinsel, draped around a variety of display cakes inside.

She must be making those famous donuts already. He’s sure she’ll let him use her phone.

Nichol stuffs his useless device into the pea-coat pocket, lifts its collar against the nipping air, and makes his way up the center of the street, slick with a fresh coating of Midwest snow. His Italian loafers struggle to grip pavement under wobbly legs but he skates along, flailing his arms for balance.

There weren’t any funds left for a hotel, after spending everything he had on the flashy hunk of high-tech metal that’s left him stranded. Hell, he didn’t have cash for the cup of coffee he was desperate for, six hours back, but it was imperative for staying awake. He quietly manifested his credit card processing, without decline, while the cashier tallied him up—grateful when it went through without a hitch.

The overdraft fee will make it the priciest brew he’s ever purchased, and that’s something, considering he’s coming back from the world's coffee capital. That convenience store sludge wouldn’t have been worth it, had it not been for the caffeine boost that carried him for the rest of the drive.

Colby had offered to let him crash in his guest room, but with the severance package all dried up, he had nothing left to contribute and couldn’t justify mooching off his friend until the next gig came along. He’s cursing those absurd prideful morals, passed down from his dad, and regretting that decision right now.

Especially after wasting ten of the last twelve months, slacking off, thinking he’d grab a job when it was really necessary. He burnt through his severance pay and then his savings, at lightning speed. Nicholas Disaster Anderson has a ring to it.

A ridiculous increase in his rent, two Caribbean cruises, and a trip to Spain hadn’t helped.

YOLO! —right?

But he has no regrets. It was a blast, and it’ll be a while before he can do anything like that again.

Those beautiful Spanish men were worth every penny, especially Javier.