Just For The Holidays (Home for the Holidays)

17. Nichol

Chapter 17

Nichol

Snowed In

A loud clang rings over hushed stirrings in the kitchen, abruptly waking Nichol, lying on his belly and draped off the edge of the futon. The furry little guinea pig, weaving and nuzzling against his fingertips, squeaks and scurries back into her hut at the corner of the room.

He clasps his throbbing head in both palms, rolling onto his back, and scanning the now familiar asbestos tile ceiling with foggy eyes. “Shit,” he grumbles, under his breath, pulling the blanket up over his face and burrowing down to hide in shame. Only to be met with the stench of his own putrid breath, bouncing back at his face—twisting his stomach.

Nichol throws the cover back, spinning up off the mattress, urgently rising to his feet, scaling the aluminum gate and charging toward the washroom, covering his mouth with both hands.

Teddy quickly shifts aside, out of Nichol’s path, dropping his jaw to speak but forming no words.

Nichol slams the door behind himself and folds over the toilet, knotting his arms across his empty belly—dry heaving.

“You okay?” Teddy asks tentatively, gently knocking on the door.

Nichol winces until his head slows spinning. He clears his throat, and replies, “Yeah,” in a short manner, twisting the sink’s faucet on to wet his hands, and scrubbing away the embarrassing events of last night—coming back to him all at once.

I’ve had a crush on you since I was thirteen.

“ Fuck,” Nichol breathes. His guts twist with guilt as Teddy’s drunken confession plays on repeat in his spinning mind. He curls his arms around his naked chest, lit with goosebumps from the cold wash closet, and opens the door.

Sweet Teddy is standing on the other side, offering a glass of water from his outstretched arm with a tender smile stretched across his beard.

Nichol accepts and swigs it down, cooling the acidic burn plaguing his throat. He passes the empty cup back to the baker and collects his shirt off the shop floor, slipping it over his head, and plopping down on a stool.

“Coffee?” Teddy asks.

“Please,” Nichol grumbles.

The machine hisses as Teddy fills two cups, adding oat milk to Nichol’s before delivering it to the counter.

Nichol reaches back to collect it, without turning to face Teddy, standing in the kitchen, and stares out the storefront at snow-buried Main Street. The first hint of daylight in the sky casts a pale-blue glow over the town, and the stillness of winter is peaceful, as the awkward pair sip their brews in silence.

The baker’s reflection fades as the mirrored window panes transform back to glass with the emerging sun.

A massive truck with flashing hazard-yellow lights plows through the blanket of snow—easily over a foot deep—piling it over the sidewalk, against the front door.

“I don’t think we’ll be seeing any customers this morning.” Teddy notes.

“Sorry about last night.” Nichol blurts out, blushing and continuing to stare out the window. Mortified that he’d lost his dinner, mid-hookup.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Teddy assures him while topping off his cup with a fresh pour. “More coffee?”

“Sure.” Nichol spins on the stool, finally facing the baker. Teddy's glow is remarkable, considering they were drinking last night, his ginger beard glistens in the sunlight cutting across the storefront.

“That was the last of the oat milk though.” Teddy wrinkles his face—collecting Nichol’s cup.

“Regular milk is fine.” Nichol puts on a crooked smile.

“I’ve got to bake some bread, burger buns and pies—for Gretchen.” Teddy shifts the energy hanging between them, returning Nichol’s full steaming cup of coffee.

“We can get started after this.” Nichol blows ripples across the brew and sips.

“Deal.” Teddy smiles into his cup, gazing over the rim.

A small clean up crew in neon reflector coats and wool-lined ear-flap hats continues to work at clearing the streets and sidewalks outside while Nichol and Teddy spend the morning mixing doughs, setting them aside to rise, and then pie crusts.

They don’t exchange much conversation, aside from Teddy listing off the ingredients and their measurements for each of Gertie Monroe’s recipes with Nichol double-checking to make sure he’s following all the steps correctly.

Teddy assigns him the task of washing and preparing berries for pie fillings after witnessing how Nichol shouldn’t have been involved with kneading bread dough, giggling the entire time, as he struggles to comprehend the process.

“Pump it with your fists, flip it over, give it a little tug and a smack.” He instructs with a sly smirk—going unnoticed. “You have to work the gluten.” He gives up, crinkling his face, when the salacious analogies seem lost to Nichol’s intense concentration.

Nichol is fully aware, but he's avoiding the flirtatious banter he’d typically dive head-first into, still reeling with embarrassment and guilt. He has no intention of taking advantage of the baker, after last night’s confession. Emotional distance is a skill he’s well practiced in.

He’d never expected there was a history of feelings on Teddy’s side of things, and he’s not going to lead the poor guy on.

He steps back, sipping a third cup of coffee, watching the baker pour the berries into their crusts, then layering them with chunks of butter, sugar and spices, before applying top crusts and painting each with an egg wash, followed by a final sprinkling of sugar crystals.