“Can you take those potatoes to the table, love?” Carol, my stepmother, hands me an enormous bowl of butter drenched mashed potatoes.
“Sure.” With a gentle kiss on the cheek, she hands me the hot bowl, and I can feel the heat radiating through my fingers.
She cups my cheek and thanks me, her eyes lingering on the stubble that’s appearing. “You’re becoming more and more like your father.” Making a humming noise, she runs her hand over the rough salt and pepper hairs that are sadly looking more salt than pepper. A family trait or so I’ve been told.
Whenever I hear the comparison, my heart constricts with a mix of emotions. In the lineage of Santa Claus, my father holds the record for being the youngest Santa Claus ever, while I, at thirty-one, am poised to become the oldest Santa Claus in history.
When his father suddenly died on his way back to the North Pole on Christmas Day, my father was forced to take over the role at barely eighteen.
Although this time of year is what we spent the entire year working towards, it is tainted with an incredible amount of sadness for my father. The loss he experienced only grew worse when we tragically lost my mother in a sledding accident during the week leading up to Christmas, when I was just ten-years-old.
Losing two of the most important people in his life had made him feel bitter about the whole thing. I even remembered a time when he debated quitting and letting another family take over the role.
That was the year he met Carol. Their whirlwind romance had blown us all away, and after more than a decade, they were still so utterly in love. I guess when you meet the right person, you just know.
I often found myself jealous of their love, having a person to come home to and share your life with. I had assumed I would just find somebody. By my age, my father had already settled down with my mother, who lived in a nearby village, and I was on my way into the world.
I had zero prospects.
My future title, as Santa Claus, intimidated everyone too much to even attempt anything romantic with me. Sure, everyone wanted to fuck the future Santa, but in reality, no one wanted to stick around and love him.
I made my way through the kitchen to the dining room table. My thoughts spinning about my future came to a crashing halt when the front door flew open and my stepbrother Kris walks in.
As he enters the dining room, my jaw drops open involuntarily. I’m captivated by the sight of him, bare chested with his overalls tied loosely around his waist. My eyes lock on his tight pecs, which almost seem to flex under my scrutiny.
My eyes betray me as they continue their inspection, lowering to the smooth muscles of his abs that cut sharply in. A path for my eyes to follow, leading directly to the spot I was aching for but forbidden to touch.
I wasn’t sure if my brain had imagined the light dusting of dark hair at the end of that v, or if his overalls were tied so low that it could be seen.
The smear of grease that traveled from his collarbone over to one nipple made me lick my lips. I could imagine his calloused hands marking my body, making me as dirty as he is.
Tripping, I stumble into the dining chair before not so casually catching myself and placing the potatoes into the middle of the table. Thanking every God that I didn’t throw a bowl of steaming mash all over myself.
Looking up, I gave Kris a quick nod, trying my best to ignore the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and the way his gaze traveled down my body before stopping on the bulge now growing in my suit pants.
“Kris,” Carol exclaimed as she came through the large entryway into the dining room, causing me to jump. Carrying a roast chicken on a large platter, which she hands to me so she can properly greet her son. I take the distraction to gather my incredibly stupid thoughts as I place it on the table next to the mash.
“Hey Ma.” The husky timbre of his voice has me gripping the back of the chair to stop myself from drifting towards him. I don’t know what it was about Kris, but he had always pulled these reactions from my body.
When Kris first moved in I had thought it was just a hormone response, my need to explore my body like any normal teenager, that had me jerking into my fist multiple times a day.
In school, we were told it was normal to develop sexual attractions towards people, but we were never told how to react when that person was not only of the same sex but living under the same roof.
How could my feelings ever be normal if they were towards someone who not only was the most breathtaking man I’d ever seen, but also someone who now most people in the village referred to as my brother?
I told myself when I met the right girl, these feelings would disappear. Sixteen years on and I still jerked into my fist regularly over the thought of what he could do to me.
Swallowing the lump caught in my throat, I excused myself to the kitchen to grab some water. Kris’ jade green eyes locking on mine as I crossed the room.
A few minutes later, I stood at the stove stirring the gravy as Carol entered back in.
“Oh Nick, you didn’t have to finish that.” I shrug.
“It’s fine Carol, my pleasure.” Looking around the room and noting Kris’ absence, “Where is Kris?”
“Oh, he just ran upstairs to clean up before dinner. Don’t want to get grease all over Grandma Holly’s favorite table cloth.” Humming we wish you a merry Christmas, as she applied the finishing touches to the last of the vegetables. We work in companionable silence as we both mull around the kitchen.
Though I’m sure her thoughts aren’t filled with the dripping wet man washing himself in the bathroom above us.
“Are you ready for the big night, my boy?” My father asked, shoving another fork full of roasted meat into his mouth. His voice naturally booming so loud it just about shook the crystalware off the table.
“Of course, Father. You’ve been preparing me my whole life for this. I’m more than ready.”
I didn’t feel ready.
In fact, I felt so far from ready I would be more than happy to pack a bag and go live off the land never to be seen from again, but as a Claus I had no other option.
“What are your plans for tomorrow?” My father’s cheeks appeared redder tonight. They usually had a rosy hue to them but the butterscotch brandy he had been drinking all meal had clearly taken its effect, adding more color to his cheeks and a slur to his words.
I have never seen my father drunk before. As Santa Claus, his life ran on schedules and routine. The need to be available at any moment for an emergency had taken its toll on his spontaneity, and the carefree man now sitting at the end of the table almost felt like a stranger.
“I have a meeting with Teddy in the morning to discuss where we are in the preparations, a walk through the workshop to oversee any final making and wrapping of presents, and probably finishing my night off with one last check through the list.” I rattled off, using my napkin to wipe away any gravy from my lips, catching Kris staring at the movement out of the corner of my eye.
The list was sure to turn my already graying hair white by Christmas Eve.
How could one decide if a child had been good or not? What was the line of no return for a child to be moved to the naughty list? Is a child who forgets their chores destined for the same fate as one who intentionally sets their neighbor’s yard on fire?
