Merry and sprite, p.11
Merry & Sprite, page 11
Fidgeting, Forrest nods, thumbing at the bag of churros like he’s strumming a guitar. Jonathan can feel the intensity of his emotions coming off in thick waves. Eve would probably have a few choice words about his energy right now.
Forrest opens his mouth once, twice, and then says, “Listen, whatever else you think of me, I need you to hear this. I don’t lie to get guys into my bed. I’d never do that, string someone along, or cheat. Pretend I’m looking for something more when I’m not.”
He leans closer, looking right into Jonathan’s eyes. “When the time comes around again to shack up with a guy? Someone who I want so much it’s knockin’ around in my chest all day long, someone who wants me back just as bad? You can bet I’ll give as good as it gets. I’ll do anything, every damn thing, to keep him feeling safe and loved. So don’t treat me like I’m some thoughtless, lying prick. All right?”
Jonathan’s eyes are wet. He swallows, blinking back the tears threatening to fall. He nods, his stomach fluttering as he and Forrest stare at each other. He feels well and truly foolish for having Forrest wrong this entire time. Jonathan let himself color his perception of who Forrest is with the poison of his ex’s lies.
But Forrest isn’t David. He’s a good, honest man. And he has incredible abs. Sure, he legitimately loves folktronica, but it’s been well established that Forrest will listen to pretty much anything, and we all have our flaws. It’s just that Jonathan’s are more the kind currently flashing in bold neon lights right above his head.
Dropping his gaze, Forrest breaks their connection and goes back to wiping down the bar. “Why do you care so much who I sleep with, anyway? Nosy. I haven’t even had sex in”—he looks upward, counting back—“like, over a month. Sure, I get some, but it’s not like the entire world is out to bang me.”
Jonathan can’t help but snort. “Forrest, even our seventy-five-year-old neighbor wants to feel you up.”
“Who?” Forrest asks curiously. “Fern?” He tilts his head to the side, like he’s considering.
“Esther.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve def caught her checking me out. Seen her eying you up, too.”
Jonathan’s stomach drops in relief. This he knows. This banter is the ground he’s used to walking on. “Okay, that’s so not my point.”
“Not sure there is a point, since you don’t want to do me. I definitely received the message loud and clear on that one. You’re not into me, I hear you, and I’ll lay off with the flirting, all right? Let’s call it good with being friends.” Forrest raises his eyebrows, sticking out his hand. “Shake on it?”
All things considered, it makes perfect sense that just as Jonathan has embraced the idea that he certainly does want to “do” Forrest—same as the rest of the world, even if Forrest has yet to realize—the guy takes that offer off the table. This makes any sexual play Jonathan might attempt turn from simply saying yes to convincing Forrest that he seriously wants him and can totally deal with it being a friends-with-benefits situation, when Jonathan knows without a doubt only one of those points is actually true.
Sleeping with Forrest is an extraordinary emotional risk to take, considering Jonathan now knows Forrest would date. If the right guy came along. To be that physically close to Forrest and still not get chosen as a romantic partner would absolutely crush him. So, yes, friends it is.
Forrest is still waiting on him, hand extended in the hope of a deal, this “come on, dude” look on his face. Jonathan nods, moving in quickly, palm meeting palm. There’s a moment where he holds his breath, waiting for Forrest to leer or crack one of his lines, maybe let his touch linger a little too long. But there’s none of that, just a brief shake along with a friendly grin.
“Cool,” Forrest says. “So whose wish are we granting today?”
Jonathan pastes on a smile. “Already taken care of.” He’s trying so hard to sound upbeat. “Fruitcake delivered to Lauren at My Little Peony.”
“Fruitcake?” Forrest blanches. “Seriously? And really, we should just open a food delivery service and it will solve half the wishes in this town.”
“Heh.” Jonathan forces a chuckle. “That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
His stomach drops. Forrest really meant what he said about only being friends. Hooking up with him is officially not an option. It should offer Jonathan some relief—he messed up any chance of being intimate with his mixed signals and outright name calling. Forrest doesn’t want him. But damn, Jonathan didn’t expect it to feel this excruciatingly disappointing.
“Jonny.” Forrest is snapping his fingers, just as magnetic and golden as ever. “I asked if I can get you a beer or whatever to make you, waaait for it”—he pumps his hands in the air like a complete jackass—“hoppy?”
The only thing that is hopping is the thump of Jonathan’s heart as he watches Forrest playing the fool to get a grin, which Jonathan gives him easily. His stomach flutters with hummingbird wings when Forrest smiles back.
Well, crap. Jonathan is definitely screwed. Just not in the way he was hoping.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT’S BEEN TWO long days since they sealed a friendship agreement with a shake of their hands. Forrest has been charming as ever, but he won’t look at Jonathan in that lingering way he used to, and he hasn’t tried a single pick-up line no matter what bait Jonathan throws out. Yesterday Forrest said he was busy when Jonathan asked if he wanted to help with a wish. That was a first.
Jonathan’s morning is spent serving tea and pastries and anxiously awaiting a wish to come through so he has a chance to text Forrest, but so far, nothing. Finally, as his shift draws to a close, a customer brings in a wallet that was found just outside the shop and a vision comes fluttering into view.
It’s Noah. But he’s not at the toy store, he’s working a mall Santa photo op the next town over. Jonathan’s spotted Noah working at a surf shop down by the sea, too, and he has to wonder just exactly how many jobs this guy holds down.
This is the first wish he’s gotten off someone’s item rather than the actual person, and he wonders if that means anything towards solving the spell. But that’s not exactly important to him right now. What matters is that he has a perfect excuse to text Forrest.
Jonathan: Can I get a ride from you?
Jonathan watches as the little dots bounce in the text bubble, hoping Forrest might come up with some pervy joke about exactly the kind of ride he’d like to give. A minute goes by, but when a text from Forrest finally comes through, all he gets is: Ya where to
That’s it. Like every dirty line Forrest ever used on Jonathan never existed.
CLICKING HIS SEATBELT into place, Jonathan lays out the plan. “Noah needs his wallet brought to work ASAP because he’s taking a guy out to eat on his break.”
Forrest shifts the car into gear, slipping down main street on their way out of town. “Who?” he demands. “Who’s Noah into?”
“Some guy who works at Claire’s.”
Forrest scrunches his nose in distaste. “Adam?”
“Medium height, skinny, platinum-blond hair?”
“That’s him. Noah can do better,” he decides.
Jonathan takes a second to wonder if Forrest might be a little jealous, but doubts he has any reason to be because, from what Jonathan can gather, Noah could be his if Forrest snapped his fingers on any given day of the week. “I guess that’s up to Noah, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Forrest says. “You’re right. But dude has been dumped, like, a zillion times, and I just want it to work out for him one of these days. Adam is a club-dwelling drama queen who will ditch Noah in a week. But like you said, it’s his life. Let’s get the man his wallet and make all his twink-loving fantasies come true.”
When some dated folk song that Jonathan doesn’t recognize suddenly blares through the car, Forrest asks, “Could you pick that up for me,” nodding to his phone. Jonathan checks the name on the caller ID. He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Maybe something along the lines of FORREST’S SECRET BOYFRIEND WHO HE WANTS A MILLION TIMES MORE THAN JONATHAN, but glancing down, it just reads: Mom.
“Hi, honey,” she says after Forrest greets her through speakerphone. “Oh! Oh gosh, no.” There’s a rustling noise, and then she continues, “Forrest, the rooster is after your father again! I’ve asked him a hundred times not to play Nirvana out in the yard. He never listens.” She shifts the phone away from her mouth to holler, “You never listen, Paul! There he goes dashing off again. Paul, stop running, you maniac! You’ll only egg him on. Stay in place! Maintain eye contact! Turn the damn music off already, for god’s—”
“Mom,” Forrest cuts in patiently. “Was there a reason you called?”
“Oh, yes.” She clears her throat. “Sorry about that, hon. It’s about Christmas. Your sister wants to know what time you’re arriving so she can set up a Zoom.”
Forrest makes a petulant pfft sound out the side of his mouth. “Why didn’t she just text me? I haven’t even heard from her in over a week.”
“How should I know? Wait… am I on speakerphone? Forrest Oliver Wilde, you know how I feel about speakerphone! Never put your mother on speaker!”
“Mom. Please. I can’t help it. I’m driving in the car with Jonathan right now.”
“Jonathan?” She pauses like she’s flipping cue cards in her mind, looking for a match. “You mean little Jonathan Thomas?”
“Hello, Dahlia,” Jonathan says, leaning toward the phone in case that helps with her apparent issue of being on speakerphone.
“Jonathan! Hi, sweetheart! Dang, it’s been a while. Are you still as cute as you were as a kid? Forrest,” she demands, “is he still as adorable?”
Forrest cuts a quick glance in Jonathan’s direction. “Oh, I’d say he’s even cuter now.” It’s the most flirtatious thing he’s said about Jonathan in days, and it’s directed to his mom. Still, Jonathan will take it.
“Oh. Ohhh. Forrest and Jonathan! Together. In the Subaru. Hmm.”
“Stop whatever you’re thinking, Mom. We’re just friends.”
“Well, you know what they say, honey. Friends make the best lovers!”
“Thanks for that sage advice,” Forrest says dryly. “We’ll keep that in mind.”
“Listen,” she says, “please text Amber and give her a time. I’ve got to run, you know how speakerphone calls give me a migraine. I’ve heard the 5G radiation waves hit harder when you turn on speaker. You two have fun, and remember, no one knows how to give you a hand like a friend!” Her cackle echoes over the line. “Paul!” they hear her bellow before she hangs up.
“So,” Forrest sighs, “that was my mom.” His face is flushed red like they just walked in on his parents dressed as woodland creatures in the middle of a passionate session of furry sex, but to tell the truth, Jonathan thought his mother was totally hilarious.
“She seems nice,” Jonathan tells him. “Funny, like you… Forrest Oliver.” He raises his voice on Forrest’s middle name, hoping to get a rise out of him, but Forrest only grunts and keeps his eyes on the road.
THE LINE TO visit Santa is ridiculously long and full of children dressed in bright, festive colors, screaming like they’re being led to slaughter. Forrest pulls Jonathan by the sleeve to the front of the line, cutting in front of a mom with two young children hanging off her. She gives them a look like murder is an option, but Forrest flashes his “you love me” smile and the side of her mouth hitches up. She allows it.
“No cutting.” A bored-looking teenager wearing an elf costume is working at the payment station. Forrest brings out the big grin again, but the elf just stares blankly back, popping her gum.
“Hey, so we just need to drop something off to my buddy Noah,” Forrest tries. “He’s working behind the curtain with Santa.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, unmoved by their VIP elf connection. “No one gets behind the curtain without paying for it.” She points a neon-pink fingernail to a price list tacked to the wall. It’s actually pretty shocking.
“Forty dollars for a digital photo!” Jonathan gasps. “One pose!?” It seems Santa is running a racket right here in the goddamn mall. What a complete ripoff for the opportunity to sit in the lap of a middle-aged man in a rent-a-costume that probably smells like last year’s sweat and eggnog.
“Our most affordable option is twenty-five for a Polaroid,” the Grinch of elves tells Jonathan, smirking, like giving him crap is the highlight of her shift. Which it most likely is.
“Fine,” he grits out. “We’ll take a Polaroid.”
She plasters on her best customer service smile. “Back of the line, sir.”
“Listen,” Jonathan leans in to meet her amused gaze, “price gouger, Christmas is the season of giving, and I’m giving you one more second to—”
“Okay,” Forrest cuts in, hooking his arm through Jonathan’s, dragging him away from the pint-sized menace. “Gotta do as the elf says.” He shoots her a wink, and she rolls her eyes, immunity to Forrest’s charm holding strong.
As they take their place at the back of the line, Jonathan stands with his arms crossed, a scowl on his face.
“Oh, come on, grumpy,” Forrest says. “Is it really that bad to spend a little extra time with me?”
“What? No!” Jonathan gives a quick shake of the head. “It’s the principle of the thing. They’re taking advantage of parents who have read a thousand articles demanding they check this off their yearly how-to-parent list. It’s unjust.” A beat, then, “I like hanging out with you, Forrest. I mean, there was the whole thing about you being horribly unattractive to get over—”
“Of course.”
“—but once I made it past that, I noticed you are…” There’s a pause as Jonathan searches for the right words.
“Are what?” Forrest asks, and his expression is so painfully vulnerable that Jonathan’s heart breaks all over again for the way he treated Forrest on the tree farm.
“A person I very much enjoy being around,” he says, wishing for a better way to express the care he feels for Forrest without leading them into quicksand. Trying to put it into Forrest’s language, he says, “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together,” and immediately has to hold back a groan. This is why he leaves all the cheesy lines to Forrest.
A silence so awkward that Jonathan’s ears start to go warm lingers in the air. Forrest clears his throat. “Huh. Well, thanks. I like hanging with you too.” He looks away, craning his neck toward the front of the line. “I’d say about ten more minutes.”
About twenty-five minutes past that, packed full of Jonathan rambling about the tea production process to avoid any further embarrassment, they reach the front of the line.
“Hello,” Santa’s Satan greets them. “I’d love to offer you the deluxe package with Santa today, four poses, eighty-five dollars.” The smacking noise she’s making with her gum is a whole new level of baiting.
“Just one Polaroid, please,” Forrest says, bringing out his wallet.
“Total comes to thirty-five dollars.”
“The list says twenty-five!” Jonathan protests, tapping his finger against the laminated price guide.
“Ten dollars extra ’cause there’s two of you.”
Jonathan scans up and down the list. “Where does it state that policy?”
“It’s fine,” Forrest says, handing over the cash. It’s not fine, Jonathan thinks, but he’ll pay Forrest back later when they grab lunch and he plots to take down Mall Santa and this entire chain of messed-up capitalist greed that has devoured the very soul of Christmas.
“Have a holly-jolly holiday,” she tells them as they walk away, somehow managing to make even those cheerful words come off snarky as hell. If Jonathan wasn’t so pissed, he’d actually be a little impressed.
Behind the curtain, Noah’s stationed on a long golden carpet leading straight to Santa, who is perched on some sort of semi-lethal-looking wooden throne that seems way more Games of Thrones than Santa’s workshop.
Noah’s dressed as Mrs. Claus—whether by choice or because this sketchy operation ran out of elf costumes, Jonathan couldn’t say—and holding an oversized mug of candy canes in one hand.
“Dude!” Noah says when he spots them. He’s so stoked to get his wallet back that he tugs Jonathan into a tight hug, lingering even after Jonathan starts to pat his back in the universal signal to let him pull the hell away. Jonathan scooches just a little closer to Forrest once he’s eventually backed off.
“This is awesome, man. Thought my date was screwed.” Noah looks back and forth between the two of them. “Nice,” he says, nodding to himself with a lazy grin. He points to the receipt in Forrest’s hand. “You goin’ in on a Santa op?”
Looking at Jonathan, Forrest raises his brows in question. On any normal day of the week, the answer to whether Jonathan would like to sit on a strange man’s lap for a photo would be a resounding “are you shitting me?” But Jonathan isn’t sure how much time with Forrest he has left. Whether that’s because Forrest has tired of him now that he thinks he won’t get laid, or the spell breaks, or Jonathan decides to move back to Connecticut, their friendship has an expiration date, a ticking clock counting down how many more hours they have together. Call him sentimental, but Jonathan wouldn’t mind having a moment captured to take with him when it’s through.
Sliding his gaze to Forrest, he says, “Might as well. It’s already paid for.” He gets that “you love me” grin blasted right in his face, and the way his heart trips over itself in response says he’s most definitely not developed his own immunity to the charm.
Santa grunts a loud “oof!” as they each put their weight on either side of his lap. Noah holds up the camera. “Two grown men,” Santa mutters under his breath. “They don’t pay me enough for this bullshit.” It sounds angry enough that Jonathan leaps to his feet, ready to bolt before he lands himself some actual Christmas coal, but Forrest grabs him by the hand and tugs him back just as Noah calls, “Think mistletoe!” and the whirr of the camera goes off.
