Wreck the Halls Read online

  Mike had been the son who’d done everything right. He had a wife, four children, two dogs, one house—and an obnoxiously successful career. Despite Paul being the one to open a business, it was Mike who was the adored son. After their sister, of course, who was the favorite.

  Paul made awkward conversation and drank his beer, stiffening when Mike stopped talking about himself and started prying into Paul’s life. He should have seen it coming when the kids had been called away to get ready for bed, but Paul’s day had been long and he was only half paying attention.

  “What’s new with you? Mom said the business next door filled.”

  “That’s about the extent of the excitement around here,” Paul said, bracing himself for the inevitable.

  “Any chance we’ll see you sometime?” Mike asked.

  “No.”

  Mike laughed like that was too fast of an answer.

  “Seeing someone again?”

  “None of your business,” Paul said, annoyed that he’d been single long enough for even his brother to notice. He ended the conversation fast and was considering another beer when he heard the strains of Christmas music again.

  Fuck that. He was just going to bed.

  “YOU’RE REALLY putting a tree up. In here,” Sammie said after punching out. She’d just finished up the last of the dishes and was texting for a ride. Nick’s Restaurant was wiped and swept down and most of the lights were off, but Nick was assembling a small fake fir in the few feet of window ledge space he had by the door.

  “Really,” he said. “It’s two weeks until Christmas, and I’m actually behind with decorations.”

  “Uh-huh. Is this because Paul’s put up lights and stockings?”

  “What?” Nick asked, fluffing up the branches. Maybe Sammie would believe that he wasn’t walking past Paul’s to peek in every now and again. He wanted to know what Paul was doing—he seemed to be Nick’s nemesis now, and as such, it was Nick’s responsibility to keep an eye on him.

  Also, decorations were a good idea. Nick had put a few things up in his apartment, but he had plans for this fake tree. Good plans. Christmas giveaway plans. He just needed to make a stop at the store to buy a few small items to put under the tree when he was finished. He’d probably make it a drawing, unless someone else on staff had a better suggestion.

  “You’re competing with Paul still.”

  “I was thinking of picking up a few prizes, tossing in a few gift certificates, and entering everyone who spends more than twenty dollars into a drawing.” Nick finished sprucing the fir and plugged it in briefly. The lights still worked well, even though the tree was a good five years old now and had been sitting in storage.

  Sammie looked up from her phone. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “But make it thirty. Two for over fifty. And I don’t think you’re over him turning the sign on you.”

  “That was weeks ago, and I messed with his waiter, so we’re even.”

  “Right. That’s why you peer through his windows like he’s up to something, and he glares at me every time he’s around when I’m taking the trash out. You two are obsessed.”

  Something about that annoyed Nick. He was used to his obsessions being sexual or romantic interests—someone he wanted to fuck, someone he wanted to get to know. He wasn’t sure he liked Paul being referred to as his obsession, not after how he’d almost hoped they could get to know each other the first time they’d met.

  He’d told himself he was trying to figure Paul out that night in the parking lot, but really Nick wasn’t too sure if he’d wanted to have a drink with the man in order to learn what he might be plotting—or because he was intrigued by Paul. Grumpy as he was, Nick could see there was someone stubborn and loyal beneath that, and Nick liked those qualities. He himself had trouble settling. This was his third business in about a decade, more because once he’d gotten far enough, he got bored with everything and moved on to something new.

  Generally this fucked up his relationships too. He was the best boyfriend—at first. Exciting and motivated, his boyfriends tended to enjoy time together so much, they decided they wanted further commitment, and then Nick was screwed. He just wanted to live, move from one thing to another, one place to another, as the mood took him. Still, he craved the kind of cool stability Paul had, but Nick could never seem to grasp it.

  Sammie was staring at him. He leaned back and grinned at her.

  “What do you think? I have gold and red ornaments to match the paint in here, or….” He reached into the bag and pulled out a package of glittery orbs. “Rainbow.”

  “Red and gold,” Sammie said. “Unless you’re trying to send a message to Paul. I’m in the kitchen too much to notice—does he glare through our windows too?”

  “I hadn’t noticed. I’m always running around,” Nick said, but he had seen Paul, on occasion, frowning inside. Sammie was right, though—the red and gold was more appropriate. He’d use the rainbow ones on his own tree, which already had a mismatched assortment of ornaments from his mother’s travels. She seemed to think they were good gifts, and despite it ruining any potential uniformity his tree had, he’d been hanging them so long that it would look strange to have something coordinated in his home. The rainbow orbs would go fine with the rest of it.

  “My ride’s here. See you tomorrow.”

  Nick said goodbye to Sammie and let the silence of the empty restaurant press in on him. The tree rustled as he placed ornaments, and the sounds of people and cars lurked faintly outside, but he decided the restaurant felt eerie at night. He hadn’t bothered to ask whether it was haunted when he bought the place, and he laughed at himself for thinking such a thing. But he still got up and turned the music back on.

  It was Christmas music, of course. Upbeat, happy, nostalgic—a great way to block out the bubble of silence here and the noise of people along State. Nick could imagine Paul glaring at him if he heard it—Paul seemed like the kind of guy who loathed seasonal music—and almost laughed. Maybe if he was still feeling petty, he’d take a gift certificate over and give it to Paul as an insult disguised as a truce. He imagined Paul would hate twenty dollars of free food at Nick’s.

  When Nick was finished, he decided he’d walk the long way around the block, more to peer in Paul’s windows than anything. He should be home by now, cooking something that smelled good and playing classic rock. Nick shoved his hands in his pockets to avoid putting on gloves and shook his head. It would figure Paul played music he liked.

  To his surprise the lights were all on in the back of Paul’s Café, and only one small glow came from the windows of the apartment above, probably a night-light from the bathroom. Nick was confused. Paul’s closed half an hour before his restaurant did, and Nick had stayed late to put up the tree. He leaned in toward the window, almost pressing his face to the cold glass.

  The front of Paul’s was dark, chairs stacked on tables, fake evergreen garlands and a series of red-and-white stockings visible even in the low light. But the kitchen area was flooded with light, and Nick could see movement. Paul’s silhouette emerged from the door to snatch a couple tableware rolls from a workstation and darted back into the kitchen.

  Something was going on. Nick pulled back, suspiciousness gripping him more firmly with every step back toward his apartment. Paul was up to something. Nick didn’t know what it was, but he knew it had something to do with him. It had to.

  Paul was still at war with him. He’d have to be wary.

  “I GOT them,” Paul said, bursting into the kitchen and waving the new menus he’d just had printed. They had been a rush—but then, everything had been a rush. He’d had the new cooks in for working interviews, and although only two showed up, one was exactly who he wanted. He’d offered Erica the job immediately.

  “Great,” she said, pulling away from prep to take a look at her work. Erica was young, trans, and always smiling. She had taken his cheese curd dish to the next level, and if it didn’t put Nick out of business by New Year’s, t
hen Paul figured his café was doomed to fail anyway.

  “There’s no way he can compete with this,” he said, laying out a menu. Erica leaned forward to peer at the listed food, Paul feeling smug. The fried cheese curds were now part of a chicken and waffles dish, waffle topped with fried chicken and curds, gravy, bacon, and green onions. It was more expensive than whatever Nick was serving—but it was better.

  “Think I can take one home?” Erica asked, and Paul handed her a menu. Considering she’d done most of the reworking of the dishes, he couldn’t really tell her no. “So, are you two exes?”

  Paul stiffened. “No,” he said, so quickly that Erica laughed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s my first day, and I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on here.”

  “Good food is what’s going on here,” Paul said, tapping the menu. “Nick’s been trying to drive me out for months, and I’m not going to let him.”

  “Well, pork ’n’ curds omelets and kitchen-sink burgers are going to bring you business, even if they aren’t that healthy for you, that’s for sure,” Erica said. “You want me to stay away from him?”

  “And his staff,” Paul said. “He tricked one of my waiters into walking off about a week ago.”

  “Sounds like you’re at war.” Erica turned back to the kitchen. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you win.”

  It was fairly easy for Paul—all he needed to do was advertise his brand-new menu and let word-of-mouth and Erica’s cooking do the rest of the work for him.

  Two days after he switched over his menu, his place was full again, Christmas shoppers dropping in from the cold for rich comfort food. On the morning of the third day, Paul walked by Nick’s window to see how decreased his customer base was, noting there were definitely fewer people than normal eating there. By the afternoon he caught a glimpse of Nick himself peering in, none of his usual smile on his face.

  Paul waved. His mood had definitely improved. He watched Nick turn and walk back to his restaurant as though he hadn’t seen Paul, and for the first time since Nick’s had opened, Paul felt like the place wasn’t a threat.

  Well, it wasn’t anymore. Merry fucking Christmas to him.

  The problem now seemed to be people mistaking his place for Nick’s.

  “How many entries does this get me?” asked a customer as he brought over their bill. Paul liked to stay engaged with his customers—something he noted Nick also did, but he liked to think he was more professional about it.

  He stared at the woman. “I’m sorry, what?”

  He listened as she went into a story about a clerk in a store telling her about this place on State Street that served great food and gave you an entry into prize drawings for spending a certain amount on a meal. Paul focused on not frowning as she spoke, finding himself increasingly pissed as her tale went on.

  “I’m afraid you’ve gotten Paul’s Café confused with Nick’s Restaurant,” he told her when she finished. “We’re the place with the good food. Next door has the prize drawings.”

  “You’re not the same restaurant? I thought this was all the same place.”

  “Sorry, we’re not,” Paul said, hoping she wouldn’t insist.

  She insisted. She hadn’t gotten what she’d expected, and she apparently didn’t care to leave without something. Paul offered her a free dessert instead, glad when she refused and left anyway. He didn’t want to have to start handing out free food because Nick’s was somehow screwing him over again. He was annoyed the rest of the day and dealt with similar questions a bit more shortly than normal.

  “Last table?” Erica asked at the end of the night.

  Paul was taking a few dishes back, and he nodded at her. She’d been working nearly as many hours as he had every day, and he was hoping she was teaching the other cook what to do. He needed to reduce her hours back to something normal when he could. She’d said she was happy with extra work until Christmas, but Paul needed to be looking ahead constantly.

  “Yeah, we’re all seated for the night,” he said. “Table eight?”

  “I have the ticket here,” Erica said.

  “Great. One last thing—could you make up a curds and waffles to-go after that?” Paul didn’t want to cook tonight, he wanted to eat delicious shitty food and drink. He’d pull out whatever last piece of pie was lurking in the cooler and call it a meal.

  “Make that two,” said the last waitress on shift, sliding another slip over. She shot Paul an apologetic glance. “I got a to-go called in and figured you’d be all right with it. I mean, this table’s not getting up yet anyway.”

  Paul nodded. He didn’t care. He stalked around the restaurant, righting things, then pulled out some paperwork and got to work at an empty table. By the time table eight had left, he was ravenous and more than willing to eat the last piece of apple pie even though it was a boring flavor. He pulled it out, boxed it up, and noticed two to-go bags sitting on the food counter.

  “Sorry about that,” the waitress said as she walked over, pulling on her coat. “He just called again, said he was waiting in the parking lot.”

  Erica flicked off the kitchen lights as she and the dishwasher headed out.

  “I’ll take it,” Paul said, and she nodded. He scanned the inside of his now-quiet café before following his staff out back. They dispersed almost immediately, moving quickly through the snow currently falling. It was coming down hard; large, wet flakes taunted Paul with more work. He didn’t look forward to shoveling it tomorrow.

  He saw the last customer walking toward him through the snow and pulled up short when he recognized who it was.

  “Thanks,” Nick said, the word warm, but Paul noticed he wasn’t smiling. He had the money for his food in cash and extended it without meeting Paul’s eye.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The words were out of Paul’s mouth before he could really consider them, but he was pissed. Nick ordering his food felt like he was trying to steal Paul’s secrets. He’d only changed the menu this week—no way he wanted Nick to change his too.

  “Getting dinner,” Nick said. “Who’s the last takeout for?”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Paul said. “What’s your problem?”

  “Right now? I’m hungry.”

  Paul was not amused. “You’re spying on me,” he said. He blinked snowflakes out of his eyes. “You’re trying to figure out what makes my food so good.”

  “Mine’s still cheaper. Look, I was hungry. You’re the nearest place. I didn’t want to go walking in this.” Nick shoved the money at Paul again, but he wasn’t done being suspicious.

  “You have your own fucking kitchen.”

  Nick shrugged, smiled a little. “I’m curious.” He paused. “Do you want my money or not? The tip’s good.”

  No, Paul didn’t want his money, he didn’t want his business, and he didn’t want to be stuck out here in the snow arguing with him. What he wanted was for Nick to be gone. He wanted to go home, get out of his work clothes, and eat. And the only way he could see that happening quickly was by giving Nick what he wanted.

  Erica was a good cook. Even if he gave Nick this one dish, there was no way he could figure out how everything was made. Paul gritted his teeth, held out the to-go bag, and grabbed the bills Nick offered. Their fingers brushed, cold and damp in the snow, and Paul felt himself flare with heat.

  Another burst of anger. Had to be.

  “Enjoy your food,” he said, hoping it sounded like, “Fuck you.”

  “Thanks,” Nick said, then indicated Paul’s bag. “You too.”

  Paul turned and walked back to the building to open the door to his place before Nick could say another word. He didn’t want Nick suggesting they eat together like he’d suggested that beer.

  “YOU JERKING off?” Brandon asked.

  “Eating,” Nick said. “Fuck, this is good.”

  He tried to tilt the phone away from his mouth a little as he dug into the curds, chicken, and waffle m
onstrosity in the foam container. It was growing cold, and it was going to kill him, but it was delicious. Fuck Paul. This just wasn’t even fair.

  “’Kay. I was saying I’m going to be in Madison for New Year’s if you wanted to get together.”

  “Mmmmyeah.”

  “Seriously, put it down for a minute.”

  Nick set the food aside and leaned back into the couch. Everything was quiet from Paul’s apartment next door, and he wondered if Paul was on his own couch right now, eating the same meal too. No, Paul was more of an eat-at-the-table person. He didn’t have enough fun with life. Nick was almost jealous. The normalcy of eating at the table was tempting—his own was covered with papers, junk mail, the box of rainbow ornaments, and the few Christmas cards people sent him, unopened.

  “You currently single?” Nick asked. He and Brandon tended to hook up whenever their paths crossed. He couldn’t even remember when it started, just that it was normal to let off a little steam together. And Nick definitely felt himself getting wound up around Paul—he had a lot of steam he’d need to let off by New Year’s.

  “Are you?”

  “When am I not?” Nick asked. He eyed his food again, thinking he could microwave it if Brandon decided to chat for the next twenty minutes.

  “There was that one time—”

  “You’re dodging my question. Are you single?”

  Brandon paused, and Nick got up and took his food to the kitchen. He pulled out a plate and tried to slide the gravy-topped pile of food out of the foam and onto the ceramic with one hand.

  “It’s complicated,” Brandon said.

  “And you still called and asked.”

  “I thought we could catch up otherwise,” Brandon said. “Besides, like I said, it’s complicated. A couple of weeks and everything might be different.”

  “Then maybe you should call closer to New Year’s.”

  Nick managed to get the food onto his plate. He grabbed the fork he’d been using and scraped out the gravy that had pooled at the bottom with some of the bacon.