A Snowy Little Christmas

The first fight—the only real fight—Jasper and I ever had was about a kiss.

It was over two years ago, not long after he’d first come to me about leaving our old company to join him and Ben in the venture that would eventually become our current firm. Ben had been away for an extended leave, but was working a metallurgist recruit our boss wanted badly enough to let Ben and Jasper out of the non-compete that was keeping them from starting their own firm. If Ben could close the deal, Jasper could do what he’d been working toward since the day I’d first met him—go out on his own.

But then, Ben kissed the recruit.

“She’s a distraction,” Jasper had said to me that summer day in my office, pacing in front of my desk, his jaw tight.

“He did the right thing,” I’d told him calmly. “He’s got feelings for her, and he told you he can’t work with her. He’s following the rules.”

“He’s forgetting about the job,” he’d said, a little angrily, and I’d felt a jarring sense of discontinuity, a sinking, embarrassing sense of disappointment in myself. The night before, Jasper and I had ordered tacos from our favorite place and stayed at the office until ten, going over a contract while an Astros game streamed on my computer screen. It had been the most fun I’d had in months, and when I’d gone home, flushed with the pleasure of being around him—the tie-loosened, talkative Jasper it seemed no one else ever got to see but me—I’d thought, Maybe I could ask him out sometime. Maybe me and Jasper, we could make it work.

But seeing him like that—not even acknowledging that Ben, his best friend since their college days, had found someone he liked enough to jeopardize such a big job—had felt like a glass of cold water to the face, a reminder of how ridiculous it would be to break my professional boundaries for a man who so clearly didn’t care about relationships. When I’d found out, not long after, that Jasper had nearly sabotaged things between Ben and Kit to get the deal, I’d told him to forget about the new firm, that I’d be staying put. I’d stood in his office with my hands on my hips and told him I’d never been so disappointed with someone in my life, and I hadn’t even been exaggerating.

Of course we patched it up, eventually. He’d apologized to Ben, had apologized to me, and he’d done it sincerely, with genuine remorse in his voice and in his eyes. But for a while, it had strained things between us. Or at least, it had for me. It was my feelings for him—my feelings outside of friendship or collegiality—that had made me so completely disappointed, and I’d known it was unfair to him, unfair to our work together. I’d tried, after that, to keep a better distance. To keep work at work, to enjoy our friendship but not expect more from it. I’d even dated a little, though pretty unsuccessfully, and Jasper and I had gotten back into a good routine.

But I don’t have much hope for that routine as I prep for our trip.

Because I kissed him.

How do you reestablish a routine after that?

Through e-mail we agree to meet at the airport, an early indicator of how awkward it will be, since our buildings are barely a half mile from each other and we normally would’ve shared a car. By the time I get to the gate I’m flustered and feeling sorry for myself—the security line long and irritating, but also full of reminders of where I was meant to be flying today. I see a young woman carrying a tote bag full of wrapped gifts and feel a pang of envy; I see a family—the parents harried-looking but the kids, wearing matching snowman sweatshirts, giddy and energetic—and think about Kelly and Malik and the kids.

Jasper’s sitting in the spot he always prefers at a gate—end of a row, facing a window. He never works right before a flight, at least not in any of the obvious ways. He puts his phone away in the front pocket of his bag and reads a book, usually a paperback he’s bought from one of the airport shops. “You’re overpaying,” I always tease. “Go to the bookstore next time.” And he always smiles and says, “Too much choice at the bookstore.”

I wish he had a paperback right now, so I’d know how to open this conversation, our first face-to-face since last week. Instead I sit beside him and settle for a neutral “Good morning,” and for a long minute I think the only thing he’ll say back is his quiet repetition of the same. But finally, he speaks.

“I know we need to talk about it,” he says. He keeps his eyes ahead, staring out into the predawn dark, the white body of plane huge and stark. “I’ve been thinking about how to talk about it.”

Despite the fact that I’ve never had to talk to Jasper about something like this between us, I know, from all the years I’ve worked with him and been his friend, what this means. It’s how he approaches any problem he has to solve—a quiet retreating while he works it out, understands all he can. A forceful returning once he has the answer, an unyielding commitment to seeing it through.

But since he doesn’t say anything else, I guess he still doesn’t have an answer.

“Jasper.”

He drops his eyes from the window, looks over at me.

“I am so sorry. I know the kiss was awkward, and—”

“That’s not the word I’d use for it,” he says, his voice sharp.

I swallow. “It’s not?”

“No. It was the best kiss of my life.”

“Oh.” Oh. It’s the only thing I can say, think. My brain feels like it’s been put through one of the wind turbines of that plane out there. The best kiss of his life.

He clears his throat. “But I know the rules here. I know why we have them, and I know they’re important to you.”

“I’m the one who broke them.” It’s the thing he doesn’t seem to have worked out. He’s acting like the kiss was all his, and I don’t like it. I don’t like the way it takes away my agency, makes us unequal. I open my mouth to protest, thinking of Kelly’s words to me—that Jasper and I are partners, not boss and employee—but Jasper speaks before I can.

“I can’t lose this,” he says, staring down at where his hands rest loosely clasped in his lap. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

He’s said it so seriously, with such feeling, and for a split second I let it echo through me, some ringing holiday bell of hope. But then I remember. Jasper’s this, the this he can’t lose—it’s the job. It’s always going to be the job. He’d done as much as tell me so himself, back when we’d had that fight about Ben.

“Good morning to everyone in the boarding area,” comes a too-loud, slightly crackly voice over the gate speakers, and both Jasper and I raise our heads. “We’ll now start boarding at Gate A6 for Flight 2124 to Boston, starting with first class and business class—”

“That’s us,” Jasper says, shifting his hand to his bag.

“That’s you,” I tell him, relieved. I need some space after that exchange, that reminder.

His brow furrows in confusion.

“Carol said, remember? There was only one business class seat on this flight. I told her to give me coach.”

“I”—he blinks down at his ticket—“I don’t remember that. I would remember that.”

He looks so confused, and frankly, I get it. He would remember that. When it comes to the business, he remembers every detail.

“It’s no big deal.” It’s under four hours to Boston, and it’s not like I don’t have work—or my incredibly painful interpersonal issues with my colleague—to distract me.

“You’ll take my seat.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Kris,” he says, swiping a hand across his face. The gesture is so vulnerable, so unlike him. I have such an aching feeling of longing that I have to look away. “I don’t want to argue.”

“So don’t,” I say, too sharply. “You’re six foot four, Jasper. I’m not taking your legroom.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t be. You’ll be cranky and uncomfortable. Just get on the plane. Take a nap. I’ll see you when we land.”

He stands, and I think maybe he’s relented, but instead of heading to the boarding lane he walks to the ticket counter. The woman not swiping passes looks up at him and after a stunned blink, she smiles. I resist the urge to snort knowingly. She’s going to do her best, even in spite of the fact that she’s wearing a jingle bell necklace and elf hat, but Jasper is probably not going to notice. His mind is so one-track, all the time. If he went up to that counter to try to get a second business-class seat, then that’s literally all he’s thinking about. I once saw a waitress undo two buttons of her shirt while he asked her about the dinner special and his eyes didn’t stray once while he ordered the rockfish. I still remember the exact, slightly befuddled way he’d said, “What?” when he looked back at me after she’d walked away.

She makes a few keystrokes on her computer and they exchange a few words, Jasper turning to nod his head my way at one point. Ugh. Now we seem like those people. Like we’re so important, we just have to be in business class. I pretend to be interested in my phone.

“Here.”

A ticket appears in front of me. I look up at Jasper. “There’s no way.”

Forget that the ticket agent thought he was handsome; even a face like Jasper’s doesn’t make a new business-class seat appear on a full flight three days before Christmas.

“I switched our tickets.”

“Jasper, I said I didn’t—”

“I can’t be comfortable,” he says bluntly, still holding out the ticket. “I can’t be comfortable if you’re not. Just take it, please.”

When I look up at him, I hear that holiday bell again. All the years I’ve known him and I’ve never seen emotion like this on his face, something so desperate and yearning. I know, I know I shouldn’t hear it, but I do.

I reach out a hand and take the ticket.

But I don’t look at him when I walk away.