Mikah
THE morning was still, cracking with cold. Wrapping a threadbare cardigan over my sweatpants and T-shirt, I crept out of my bedroom. As an afterthought I tucked my worn copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude under my arm. It was a comfort book, and my night had, once again, been restless. I expected the typical morning commotion of my father’s house: Elena sprawled on the buttery leather couch, half working and half watching the news; Luca and my father sipping coffee and droning on about clients and cases; Naomi flitting about in her fancy yoga clothes and making sure everyone had eaten enough breakfast. But the quiet of sleep blanketed the house. A glance at the ornate wooden clock over the mantle revealed it was not quite seven.
Drifting toward the illuminated Christmas tree—the tree from Matt’s farm—now tastefully decorated with crystal icicles and silver ribbon, I wondered if Matt was awake yet. I liked imagining his calm, steady presence greeting the early risers purchasing last-minute Christmas trees. I pictured him moving through his morning: stretching in bed, muscles tensing as he pushed his body into the realm of wakefulness, stepping out into the sharp edge of a cold wind, his clear blue gaze drifting over the snow-dusted trees. The start of December meant Matt and his family were busier than ever selling Christmas trees and holiday greenery. He was so busy, in fact, that we’d only managed to get together a handful of times over the past two weeks for quick coffee dates and a series of kisses that left me so achy and distracted with desire, I was lucky I’d made the drive back into Jackson in one piece. It was probably for the best. There was no question that I was in way over my head.
Still, every moment we spent together felt precious. Whenever we were apart, Matt was all I could think about. The way his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that told me he was really listening to whatever I was saying. His adorably candid admission that, until we’d gotten dinner together, he’d never been on an actual date. The fact that just being in the same room as Matt rendered me overwhelmed with wanting. We’d texted a lot, and most nights we talked until I fell asleep on top of my phone. But I missed him. And I liked him. A lot. Too much.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, jarring me from my increasingly dirty thoughts about what I’d like to do with Matt the next time we managed to get together. The sight of Matt’s name on my phone’s screen planted what I knew was a goofy grin on my face. I was glad everyone else was still asleep.
“Hey,” I huffed out, trying to keep my voice even. I could be cool about this, even if I had answered the phone on the first ring.
“Hey.” Matt’s voice was low and soothing despite the roar of background noise.
“Where are you? It sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel.”
“Oh, uh, sorry. You’re on speaker. I’m driving into Jackson, actually. For the market. It doesn’t start till two, though. I was hoping you might want to hang out?”
Silently praying I managed to suppress the tiny squeal of delight at his words, I nodded. Then I realized he couldn’t see me. “Yes. I mean, yeah. Totally. That sounds good. Do you want to meet for breakfast or something?” Okay, so I was kind of failing on the whole be cool about this front.
A smile was audible in Matt’s voice as he rattled off the name and address of a bakery and ended the call a minute later with a promise to meet me there around nine.
After the world’s fastest shower, spending way too much time deliberating over which sweater to wear, and suffering through an immobilizing storm of self-doubt over whether or not I would end up brokenhearted again, I was only about ten minutes late. I managed to find a parking spot right in front of the bakery, a little white house with black trim and window boxes bursting with sprigs of holly and glittery pinecones. Already there was a line out the door, but thanks to his height, I spotted Matt immediately in the crowd. His eyes never left me as I trudged across the snowy sidewalk to meet him.
“Sorry I’m late. I, uh, got a little lost,” I muttered the totally fake excuse, heart in my throat as Matt grinned and clapped me on the shoulder with an easy confidence I could never pull off. Was I supposed to give him a hug? Kiss him? Would he be okay with that in broad daylight on a crowded street? I knew my cheeks were flushed, but I hoped Matt would chalk my blush up to the cold and not to the heady mix of excitement and desire burning through me.
“Don’t worry. There’s plenty of time.” His hand drifted from my shoulder to my face, fingers trailing the edge of my jaw and sifting into my hair. As always when I was with him, my doubts and fears evaporated. I hummed at the contact and leaned in close to him. We could totally forget this whole breakfast plan and make out in his truck if he wanted to.
Unfortunately for me, Matt actually wanted to eat breakfast, so we ended up crammed into a tiny corner table, sipping delicious coffee and tucking into giant plates of food. Or at least Matt ordered a giant breakfast. I’d opted for granola and almond milk, whereas Matt had ordered eggs, sausage, toast, and an extra side of sweet potato hash.
“Do you always do the farmer’s market by yourself?” I asked, raising my voice over the din of excited tourists and the whirr of the coffee grinder.
Matt shook his head, swallowing a bite of toast. “No. John’s gonna meet me over there later with the rest of the produce and eggs. I just—” His gaze dropped down to the table. “I just wanted to see you.”
The goofy grin from earlier was back with a vengeance, and I rested my hand over his. “I wanted to see you too. Although I kind of wish we could hang out at your place instead.” My tone was teasing, but I was dead serious. I loved spending any time I could with Matt, but I was pretty eager to get past the whole stealing-kisses-in-public phase of dating. Or hanging out. Whatever this was.
Matt shook his head, chuckling softly. “Me too. Wish things hadn’t been so busy these past couple weeks. Maybe I can make you dinner? I’m not a great cook, but….” He trailed off with a shrug.
“Yes. Please.” Once again I was probably overeager, but I didn’t care. A whole night with Matt all to myself? I couldn’t think of a better early Christmas present.
Clearly Matt was always a fast eater, because I’d barely taken two bites of my granola and he was nearly done with his enormous breakfast. He sat across the table, blue eyes trained intently on my face. A nervous laugh escaped my lips, and I set down my spoon, appetite for food completely gone.
“What’s your favorite book?” As usual my mouth moved too quickly, and I blurted out the first random question my overwrought brain generated.
“The Call of the Wild. Probably read it about ten times.”
The image of Matt’s big body curled up on the couch as he reread a cherished book warmed me from the inside out. “Oh nice, Jack London, right? I loved that book when I was a kid. After that movie Balto came out, I was obsessed with sled dogs. Do you read a lot?”
Matt shrugged, looking both amused and a little embarrassed. “Yup. I read a lot of romance books, I guess.” His eyes were fixed on his half-full coffee mug. If the idea of him reading animal adventure novels was adorable, it had nothing on the absurd cuteness of this giant of a man reading romance.
“Jesus Christ… seriously, how are you even real?” I beamed at him before I reined myself in. “I haven’t read much romance, but Elena’s a big fan. She reads all this queer romantic sci-fi stuff. What kind do you usually read?”
Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t know… gay ones. I don’t meet a lot of beautiful guys like you. Have to make do with the next best thing.”
Heat crept up from my collar into my cheeks, and suddenly the whine of the espresso machine and the jingling Christmas music faded away. The need to touch Matt, to wrap my arms around his thick torso and rub my face against the fabric of his flannel shirt, overwhelmed me. I squeezed my eyes shut.
Rough fingers brushed over mine on the table, and Matt smiled his small, almost shy smile. “Want to take a walk? There’s a bookstore around the corner. I have an hour or so before I need to set up at the market.”
“My dad’s place isn’t far.” My voice sounded needy even to my own ears, but I forged ahead. “You could come over and we could… hang out for a little bit.”
Matt drained his coffee cup and looked at me for a long moment. The heat of his gaze reminded me suddenly of my first kiss. Walking home from school on a crisp New York autumn day, the sweet smells of wet leaves and roasted nuts mingling with car exhaust. Truman Miller, my best friend, had glanced at me again and again as we walked close, arms brushing. Outside my building, for all the doormen and ladies in fur coats waiting for taxis to see, he kissed me. Now, just like it did then, the air thickened and crackled with energy. A hot hunger rocketed through my veins, but I somehow knew what Matt was going to say before he even shook his head.
“Mikah.” Matt’s voice was pitched so low, I had to lean forward. His clean pine smell pulled me even closer. “When we do that”—he bumped his knee against mine under the table and I shivered—“I’m not rushing it, okay? I want to take my time.”
I nodded, a little dazed at the thought of Matt taking sex so seriously. I didn’t know what to do with his intensity. It was both thrilling and terrifying. He was so unlike anyone I’d dated in the past. So honest that I felt I needed to be honest in return.
I floated out of the restaurant, clumsy with desire. The snap of cold against my skin did little to distract me. The sky was sharply blue, the sun glimmering off the snow. My boots slipped on the icy sidewalk as we walked the few blocks to the bookstore, and Matt steadied me, letting go of my shoulder far too quickly. I wanted nothing more than to hold Matt’s hand, to stake a public claim on this man in the middle of the sun-drenched sidewalk teeming with holiday shoppers. It felt silly, childish even. We’d already made out a handful of times and had just been vaguely discussing when we would finally have sex. I could grab his hand on the sidewalk, for fuck’s sake. All around us couples darted in and out of Western-themed tourist stores, laughing and holding hands without a second thought. Already exhausted with my fretting, I pushed down the butterflies in my stomach, reached forward, and slipped my hand into his. He smiled and laced our fingers together, tucking me in close against him as we made our way along the snowy street.
I’ve always loved losing myself in independent bookstores, and Jackson’s didn’t disappoint. Cozy and thoughtfully laid out, the store was packed with boisterous families, sulky teens, and couples clearly on romantic holiday vacations. Salt spots and snowy footprints dotted the gray wooden floors, and a cheerful older lady in a Santa hat greeted us as we pulled the door closed behind us. Matt let go of my hand as we crossed the threshold into the shop and immediately navigated over to a display of cookbooks. Extinguishing the small flare of disappointment in my chest at the loss of contact, I drifted over to the somewhat secluded, very deserted poetry section. The selection of titles was impressive, well curated, and eclectic. I lost all sense of time as I sank into a collection of poems by local Wyoming authors. Then the weight of strong arms winding around my shoulders from behind startled me back into the present. A smile glowed on my face as Matt pulled me against him.
“Sorry. I saw a cookbook I’d been thinking of ordering for my sister-in-law. Glad I didn’t, though. It had about ten recipes for fancy roasted chicken. And half of them had fruit. She hates fruit in savory dishes.” He pressed his lips against the top of my head, and warmth seeped down my entire body.
I laughed at this weirdly specific gripe and turned to face him, giving in to my desire to burrow my face into the soft flannel of his shirt. The fabric smelled as good as I remembered, like pine and clean laundry. For a long moment we stayed wrapped up in each other. Then Matt’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he groaned as he looked at the screen.
“Sorry. I gotta go.”
“Is everything okay?” I hoped I didn’t sound as disappointed as I felt.
Matt chuckled and rolled his eyes fondly. “Yeah. John decided to bring some extra wreaths and stuff to sell at the market, but we don’t have room. So he wants to sell in the parking lot.” He shook his head, a few short strands of blond hair falling across his forehead.
I reached up to smooth them back and ghosted my lips over the side of his mouth. His face was rough with stubble, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Mikah,” he sighed against my skin, “I can’t wait to see you again.” He kissed me fast and hard. Then, with a promise to call me after the market, he was gone.
CHRISTMAS was a few days away and, much to my selfish chagrin, Matt’s farm was once again flooded with customers. His sister-in-law put up additional flyers around town to advertise the trees, and as a result, the farm had been busy from early morning until well past sundown. So dinner at Matt’s cabin never worked out. In fact, we were back to lots of texting, calls, and occasional dates that ended far too soon and involved far too much clothing and far too little alone time. Matt was always on my mind. Every time he touched me, all of my nerve endings lit up like the Christmas tree we bought from him. My need for Matt was unlike anything I’d experienced with other men. I craved his presence, was stunned by his unique ability to turn me on and calm me down at the same time. Thankfully, though, I had devised a plan so the two of us could spend more than a few stolen hours together.
Today my morning routine played out as usual: burn my mouth trying to guzzle too-hot coffee, nibble a Nutella-slathered slice of toast, scroll through email. The sight of a familiar name in my inbox lodged a lump in my throat, leaving me breathless. Jordan Goode. I laughed fondly at the email’s subject line: Happy Non-Denominational Winter Holiday! Reading my former student’s words brought an enormous grin to my face.
Hey Mr. C!
I was gonna start this email with a holiday greeting but I have some pretty awesome news, tbh. I won the gold medal award in the MassArts competition you told me to enter! I ended up using the poem you and Ms. Fernandez helped revise, the one about the boy at my dad’s barbershop. My mom cried at the ceremony, which was actually embarrassing as hell. But you were right, she’s totally cool with the whole gay thing. She’s all proud of me for being a legit poet.
Now I’ll be polite and wish you a Merry Christmas. Idk if you’re already teaching at a new school or what, but we miss you and wish you could come back. Fernandez and Lasky both got lunch duty and none of the other teachers let us eat in their rooms, so now me and Santi have to suffer in the cafeteria. I swear my eardrums are gonna burst if I have to spend another period in there.
Anyway, I know this is cheesy as fuck (you’re not my teacher anymore so I can swear!) but I just wanted to thank you. For everything. You actually made writing fun and it’s stupid that we don’t have creative writing anymore bc it was totally everyone’s favorite class. So thanks, dude. You’ll be hearing from me soon when I start begging for college letters of rec.
—Jordan
At the outset of my second year teaching, I had immediately, wrongly, labeled Jordan as a difficult student. Strolling into class late, if he showed up at all, he’d rolled his eyes through my carefully prepared lectures and scoffed at my terrible puns and dad jokes. He mocked everything from my clothes to the framed picture of my family on my desk. He didn’t like me, and I was frustrated by my inability to connect with him. Then I read his writing. Vivid prose that transported me to his chaotic, loving home in Jamaica Plain. Poetry that brimmed with such striking, fresh imagery, it always made me pause and reread with held breath. The boy had a gift. So I was honest with him: told him his attitude sucked but his words were profound, that he was too smart to waste class time staring at his phone. And for some reason, he listened. He brought in a spiral notebook full of intensely beautiful work and asked for my feedback.
“Texting your man?” Elena’s voice pulled my attention from the effusive, likely embarrassingly sappy email I was tapping out in response to Jordan.
“No. Emailing a student. Well, former student. He sent me the nicest email!” Excitement hitched in my voice as I showed my sister the message.
“Aw, look at you having an impact on youth.” Elena helped herself to a large gulp of my coffee. “You must be psyched about the Walton interview.”
I was not. Rationally I knew as a teacher with only two years of experience, I was incredibly fortunate to even be considered for an interview at the elite Manhattan prep school my siblings and I had attended. A large portion of the Walton School’s faculty had doctorates. Many taught at Ivy League universities prior to gracing the classrooms of the Upper East Side campus. Although I’d excelled academically at Walton and stayed in touch with a few of my favorite teachers, I wasn’t exactly a notable alum. I’d followed in my father’s and Luca’s footsteps, applying and getting accepted to Harvard. Unlike the other Cerullo men, though, I’d focused my studies on literature and creative writing. My dad and Luca went on to law school. I got a master’s in education.
A few weeks after Boston Public Schools made the announcement that they planned to eliminate over a hundred teachers, I’d gotten an email from Dr. Yang, my ninth-grade English teacher and all-around inspirational hero. Dr. Yang had captivated me while I cowered in the back row of her classroom, thrilled by the material but too terrified to raise my hand and participate. She gave me books by Octavia Butler and introduced me to the work of Frank O’Hara, to this day my absolute favorite poet. She showed me, although in my blood I already knew, that it was okay to be queer.
Now, as the newly named head of the Humanities Department, Dr. Yang invited me to interview for an open position teaching creative writing at Walton. Reading between the lines of her email, it was clear the position was mine for the taking. On paper the job was ideal: prestigious, well-paid, and promising the kind of pedagogical freedom I’d never had in public schools. But I wanted nothing more than to go back to my old job: finding ways to engage students who hadn’t grown up with a team of tutors to help them with every paper, bolstering the school’s gay-straight alliance, and organizing very laughable but weirdly fun poetry slams.
“Tutto bene?” Elena waved her hand in front of my face, concern rippling over her features.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I shivered, my awareness returning to the present. The kitchen was cold. Peering at the towering stone fireplace that served as the centerpiece of the house, I found the hearth dark and empty. When I’d arrived back in November, my father had demonstrated how to build and effectively light a fire. Although it seemed straightforward enough, it clearly wasn’t my strong suit. Now, as I stacked dry logs and crumpled newspaper, I heard the distinct sound of my father’s leather slippers shuffling across the knotty pine floors. No time like the present to put my plan into motion.
“Faccio io.” My father gave my shoulders an affectionate squeeze and squatted down next to me in front of the fireplace and took over without my asking. Although his face still bore a few lines from his pillow, he was, as always, neatly composed. His navy blue pajamas, undoubtedly Egyptian cotton, were devoid of wrinkles, and he smelled of the expensive woodsy cologne he always wore. The lenses of his stylish tortoiseshell glasses were never smudged, his close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard never unkempt. My father had grown up poor, my nonna struggling to feed four children and pay the rent on their Palermo apartment on her teacher’s salary. Now, my father wasn’t shy about basking in the financial success of his law firm. His standards were high. Anything worth doing is worth doing right. I bet he’d said those words a thousand times.
“I could have done it,” I grumbled, but before the words even escaped my lips, my father had a fire blazing in the hearth. Chuckling, my dad pressed a kiss to the side of my head and stood, dusting his hands off briskly.
“Are you and Elena cooking today? I have a call at nine. But afterward I can help.”
I snorted out a laugh at my father’s offer. He was, indisputably, a horrible cook. He’d never learned growing up, simply letting his mother and sisters stuff him full of their delicious caponata and homemade bread. His attention had been fixed solely on school and earning money. Now, anytime he tried to cook, he was too easily distracted by email or work calls to make it through a recipe.
“Yup!” Elena called from the kitchen, her voice rising over the sound of grinding coffee beans. “We’re going to the store when it opens. But I’m kinda worried about finding the right stuff. I mean, do they even sell baccalà out here?”
“I called ahead to order it,” I replied, trying and failing not to sound smug. Worried we wouldn’t be able to purchase the ingredients for the seafood-heavy Christmas Eve meal we always prepared, I special-ordered most of the produce and fish ahead. Then, distracted by a certain hot blond farmer, I promptly forgot to share this information with Elena.
“Smart boy.” My dad grinned at me. Then he pulled out his phone. I knew I had to ask him now or risk losing him down the email rabbit hole. My stomach clenched. I hadn’t even asked Matt about this yet. He probably had plans with his brother.
“Is it cool if I invite someone over for Christmas Eve dinner?” The words tumbled out so quickly, my dad actually looked up from his phone.
“Sorry, what?” he asked, stowing his phone in his bathrobe pocket.
Articulating the words slowly and clearly, I repeated myself, this time in Italian. I bumped my forehead with my fist. Maybe my grand plan was stupid. Would Matt even want to spend the holiday with some random guy he’d only known for a few weeks?
“The man you’ve been seeing?” He and Luca could have been identical twins rather than father and son in that moment: same squaring of the shoulders, same assessing gaze, same slight quirk of the lips.
“Yes. Matt. Honestly, I’m making the whole damn meal, so I don’t even know why I checked with you.” My dad’s dark eyebrows soared toward his bald head. A sigh escaped my lips. “Well, okay, it’s your house, so….”
He smiled fondly. “Mikah, of course he’s welcome. Naomi will be thrilled. I can’t wait to meet him.” He was being charming now, aware that his paternal protectiveness had irked me.
The moment our father wandered off to his office, Elena’s strong fingers closed around my bicep, and she yanked me into the kitchen. Our nonna’s recipe cards were scattered over the marble countertop.
Elena clapped her hands together in the kind of let’s-get-pumped gesture I remembered from her days of field hockey and competitive swimming. “So you like him.” Her eyes were lighter than mine, more whiskey than coffee, and the golden flecks caught in the crystalline morning light.
I felt my face tighten, and I made a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat. “What about you? Are you still seeing Sylvie?”
“Pretty sneaky, bro. Deflection isn’t going to work this time. And no. Anyway, I know that’s Mikah for ‘yes, I really like him but I’m pretending I don’t give a shit,’ right?” My sister saw right through my mask of indifference to the writhing tangle of desires and worries within.
“I guess.” I couldn’t look at her, so I pulled open the gleaming professional-grade refrigerator. As I stared at the neat arrangements of mineral water, cheese wrapped in brown paper, and Naomi’s green juices, Matt was all I saw. His angular jaw, the soft curve of his upper lip, the sweep of wheat-colored hair. Somehow, simply picturing his face slowed my pulse.
“This again?” I turned to find an expression of genuine exasperation on my sister’s face. “Look, I’m not going to act like Dad and Luca. You’re a grown-ass man who can figure out his own life. But I hate that you overthink shit so much that you never let yourself enjoy anything. You’re always so sure it’s all going to be a disaster, so you shut down before anything happens. When your school laid you off, you were totally convinced your teaching career was over, and now you’re interviewing at one of the best schools in the country. So, chill, okay? I know you had a rough year. But not every guy is going to be like Josh. Besides, it’s nothing but a holiday fling, right? You know you’re allowed to have fun.” Elena twirled a lock of chestnut hair around her finger. “Just try to let yourself be happy, okay?”
I felt the truth of her words on every inch of my skin. But if I handed Matt even a shard of myself, the barest sliver, I knew I would crumble into him. And I wasn’t sure I would want to rebuild myself again.