A Christmas Secret

  Christmas Shorts

  Yolande Kleinn

  Published by Yolande Kleinn, 2022.

  Copyright 2022 Yolande Kleinn

  ISBN 978-1-946316-29-5

  LICENSE NOTES

  Thank you for purchasing this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Christmas Secret

  Cover Design

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  Also By Yolande Kleinn

  About the Author

  A Christmas Secret

  by Yolande Kleinn

  Everyone has finished opening presents by the time Charlie Corbin's phone rings.

  He was already mentally checked out from the festivities, not that anyone's likely to chide him for being distracted. For one thing, Charlie looks every bit as exhausted as he feels. Sleeping alone for the first time in months was always going to suck, and the fact that every low buzz from his phone made him jolt for the nightstand didn't help. For another and more urgent thing, he's still waiting for decisive news.

  The fact that Mia is actually calling him now, instead of peppering him with restless insomniac texts, means there must finally be a substantial update. Really good or really bad. Nothing in between.

  "I gotta..." he mutters disjointedly, and hauls himself up from the couch.

  Charlie hasn't really understood most of the updates Mia's been sending throughout the morning, and he's not sure whether it's because he lacks some fundamental knowledge about childbirth—or because his best friend is even more sleep-deprived than he is and stopped making sense hours ago. But he doesn't need to understand to be supportive.

  There's nothing else he can do in any case. Best he can offer is letting Mia use him as a pressure valve while she frets about her wife and the baby. Charlie understands enough to know Amber's labor isn't going well. They're considering surgery, but because of medical stuff way above his pay grade, surgery would be dangerous too.

  What a fucking Christmas.

  He wishes he could be there in person. He's all but useless here, on the wrong side of the continent. It's not every day his best friends have their first baby, and they could all do with less dramatic circumstances. He should've told his parents he couldn't make it for this year's big family Christmas, but Mia and Amber told him to go. They called him an overprotective worry gremlin and insisted he was being ridiculous, pointed out the due date was two weeks away, told him to fuck off and enjoy his holiday.

  And Drew, the absolute traitor, had agreed with them.

  Drew Scott. The real reason Charlie let himself be persuaded onto a plane. Drew would have insisted on staying in California with Charlie—no way he would've tolerated spending Christmas apart when they've finally got their shit together.

  But Drew is family, as far as Charlie's parents are concerned. He always attends the mammoth get-together of friends and family hosted by Stephen and Elma Corbin. If he failed to do so this year on Charlie's account, his absence would look suspicious as hell. Both Elma and Stephen are way too canny to miss such a blatant clue.

  Charlie bumps against the heavily laden Christmas tree on his way out of the room. But while the ornaments and string lights sway a little, the tree doesn't wobble too badly. None of the two-dozen occupants of the crowded living room seem to notice—not even the children sitting clustered around the edges of the tree skirt playing some anime-themed card game Charlie can't decipher.

  The ringing stops just as he tries to answer, and Charlie curses as he unlocks his phone. It's possible he took too long and it went automatically to voicemail. He calls Mia back, forcing himself to stare out the big kitchen window instead of pacing back and forth between fridge and pantry.

  The line rings in his ear. Charlie takes in the icy waterline at the edge of his parents' property, the blustery snow making wispy spirals across the sloping lawn, the rich green of spruce trees in a precise line along the hill. The kitchen smells of cinnamon and mulled cider and sugar cookies. His phone rings out and sends him to Mia's voicemail.

  "Hey, this is Mia Melendez. You know what to do."

  "Fuck," Charlie growls and disconnects. Tries again. When a third call fails the exact same way, he makes himself stop. Mia's battery clearly isn't dead—the call wouldn't be ringing through for such a long time if it were—which means she's busy and can't answer. Whatever's demanding her attention must be important, and Charlie blowing up her phone will only get in the way.

  He drags a hand angrily through his hair, making an even bigger mess of the sleep-mussed strands. Then he heads back into the busy living room, with its cheerful tree and strains of a Lorie Line holiday album pouring through hidden speakers. One corner of the room is almost shouting in the throes of some trivia game Elma got for Christmas. Stephen offers a sympathetic look on Charlie's way past. And of course, there's Drew, slouched comfortably at the opposite end of the couch Charlie just vacated. He watches with quiet worry as Charlie returns to his side.

  "Everything okay?" Drew asks as Charlie deftly maneuvers around and between all the people—not just kids—who insist on sitting on the floor.

  "No idea." Charlie tries very hard not to sound as rattled and scared as he feels. Drew may not be especially close with Mia and Amber, but he knows how much they mean to Charlie. He probably feels guilty for throwing in on the Let's just get on the plane side of the argument. Drew is an excellent boyfriend—even if he is, for the moment, Charlie's best kept secret. "The call didn't connect. I'm sure Mia will try again."

  Despite the general chaos of the room, Charlie can feel eyes following with concern as he folds his lanky frame down onto his end of the couch. Aunts, cousins, friends of his parents. There's nothing any of them can do to quiet the aimless thrum of panic in Charlie's chest. Thankfully, they all seem to intuit this and decide to leave well enough alone. No one says anything to address him directly, and after a moment, they've all found other things to focus on.

  All except Drew Scott, of course, who peers at him intently. Charlie doesn't mind the scrutiny. If anything, he wishes he could get Drew alone without raising eyebrows. All he wants is to wrap himself in Drew's arms, close his eyes, breathe deep, and never let go.

  But if keeping Drew in California at the expense of well-established tradition would've tipped people off, such a blatant display of neediness would be even worse. And the possibility of showing their hand when they've been so careful...

  Look. It's complicated.

  The soft way Drew's watching him tells Charlie he's not the only one wishing they could be alone.

  So Charlie offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and kicks his legs lengthwise across the couch cushions, almost close enough to nudge his red-and-green stockinged feet into Drew's lap. But not quite. Drew's smile turns wry, and Charlie finds himself momentarily distracted by how goddamn handsome Drew is.

  A head-turning silver fox on any given day, Drew looks even lovelier than usual this morning. The warm gray sweater he has on—a gift from Charlie that came out from under the tree this very morning—sits soft and squashy across his broad shoulders, the smoky hue bringing out the blues of his eyes, exactly the way Charlie knew it would. Drew hasn't shaved since arriving in Maine a couple days ago, and the salt-and-pepper of his stubble matches perfectly the scattered silver in hair overdue for a trim.

  Add to this the invitingly comfortable way Drew occupies his side of the couch, sipping cider from a Muppet-themed mug... It's frankly a wonder Charlie is managing to keep a respectable distance.

  It's probably deliberate, the way Drew's gaze turns out across the room. Better than meeting each other's eyes and giving too much away.

  It's not that Charlie doesn't want people to know they're together. God, he wants that desperately. They both do.

  But it doesn't feel as simple as making an announcement and waiting for everyone to take the new information in stride. Hell, it might be that simple. Anything is possible. But it might be an absolute disaster—because how can anything be straightforward about dating his mom's best friend? Even if Drew Scott weren't twenty-three years Charlie's senior. Even if he hadn't worked for Stephen Corbin long enough to raise a whole lot of eyebrows. Even if he and Charlie hadn't started this thing in secret, for all those reasons and more, which means any confession will need to come with an apology for lying to everyone for the better part of a year.

  Charlie is twenty-six. He can date whoever the hell he wants. But he is also practical enough to concede that the optics of the situation aren't great. No matter how overwhelmingly, undeniably, greedily in love he is with Drew—no matter how patient and exasperated Drew is in his willingness to move forward—Charlie still hasn't figured out how to explain so that his parents will understand.

  "Your friends will be okay," Drew says, reaching out to pat Charlie's ankle. It's not enough contact, but it's a whole lot better than none at all. "Nothing bad's going to happen to them on Christmas."

  It's not that easy. It can't be. But Drew makes it sound true, and Charlie clings to the certainty in Drew's beautiful, baritone-gravel voice.

  He's so grateful he could cry.

  "Still no word?" Elma pauses beside the couch to hand him a mug of tea—Charlie can't handle anything as sweet as cider this early in the day—and gives his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

  "Nothing." Charlie heaves a soft but miserable sigh. It takes every scrap of willpower he possesses to keep from cursing in front of a room full of children.

  Another hour clips cruelly onward. Lorie Line makes way for Enya, and the kids wander off to play in the snow outside, leaving a living room full of tired but mostly happy adults lingering around the lavishly decorated tree. All of them know why Charlie is anxious—a few have even met Mia and Amber Melendez—and they do the best job they can of keeping things lively and noisy, though not quite distracting enough to prevent Charlie from squirreling away inside his own head.

  When his phone rings again, Charlie bolts up from the couch even more quickly than before, nearly spilling in his rush to set down the mug of cooling tea. He doesn't bother waiting until he's out of the room this time before swiping his thumb to answer the incoming call. He heads for the kitchen again, heart racing and steps quick.

  It's only as he raises the phone to his ear and blurts a breathless, "Mia?" that he realizes he didn't check the name on the lock screen.

  But he doesn't get the chance to cringe at the possibility of some other friend calling to wish him a Merry Christmas before Mia's exhausted voice carries along the line.

  "Amber's out of surgery. She and the baby are fine."

  "Oh, thank fuck," Charlie gasps, and only manages to stay upright by bracing his free hand on the counter. Outside, his littlest cousins are playing with all the other kids in some kind of complicated snow battle, but Charlie barely registers the sight. His entire focus is on the phone in his hand, as the prolonged thrum of adrenaline in his blood tips into shaky relief. Belatedly, he remembers to add, "Congratulations."

  Mia laughs, and despite the obvious fatigue in her voice, the sound is bright and electric. It echoes with real, trembling, incredulous joy—like she still can't entirely believe they made it through.

  "Thanks," she says. "Wish you were here right now so I could choke you out with the world's biggest hug."

  "Me too." Charlie grins so wide his face hurts. "Holy shit, you're a mom now."

  "Yeah," Mia says, and she sounds even more winded than before. "And you're default babysitter until the end of time."

  "I can't wait to meet this kid. I'm trying to imagine just how much of a weirdo any child you and Amber raise is gonna be, and I honestly can't figure out what to predict."

  "Be real, Charlie. You're going to be the biggest weirdo she knows."

  Charlie huffs a laugh. "What's her name?"

  "We haven't decided yet." Mia's shrug may as well be audible, for how clearly Charlie can picture the familiar gesture. "We thought we had a couple more weeks to argue about it."

  "I hope Charlotte is still a contender."

  "Fuck off," Mia says, and the smile in her voice is so bright that the tears Charlie didn't even notice blurring his vision begin to fall.

  "Are you okay?" Charlie says, even though he can hear how happy Mia is—even though this is exactly the good news he's been waiting for. As harrowing as the last twelve hours have been, waiting on the wrong coast to hear from his best friend, he can only imagine how intolerable the same window of time has been for Mia. There's no way she left the hospital. She probably hasn't eaten anything since Amber went into labor. There's sure as hell no way she slept.

  "Yeah," Mia says softly. "I'm good. Thanks."

  "Can I do anything?" He's on the wrong damn side of the country, but the offer is sincere. He scrubs happy tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand and stares again across the snowy lawn. A chaotic rainbow of winter coats tumbles across his vision as children run shrieking through deep drifts. They seem so giddy and excited, and even all that energy can't compete with the radiant bundle of emotion swelling in Charlie's chest.

  He spent all night wishing there were something he could do to help, if only to distract himself from the ragged anxiety clawing at his insides. Now he has a different, far more pleasant restlessness inside him, but the result is similar: he still aches to be useful.

  "Do you have that phone list I emailed you a couple months back?" Mia asks.

  "Maybe? Hang on."

  Charlie remembers the list she's talking about. Mia has always been thorough and meticulous, and she was terrified of inadvertently snubbing someone when the baby was born. She insisted on putting together a complete list of everyone who warranted a text or a call to announce the good news. When Charlie pointed out how much easier this would be if she just used social media, Mia had kicked him in the shin—not especially hard—and told him to go away if he only had unhelpful suggestions. Drew had been there with him and took Mia's side in the debate. Charlie still gives him shit for the betrayal.

  "Found it," he says, putting Mia on speaker as he pulls up an old email that he never got around to deleting from his inbox. The list contains a truly ludicrous quantity of names and numbers, but then, both Mia and Amber are the kinds of people who make everyone family. Charlie's always admired the ability—they do it as easily as his parents always have—and he's sure as hell not going to begrudge them now.

  "It's probably incomplete," Mia says, "but can you forward me that list and then start texting everyone on it? Let them know we're all okay? If I don't sleep in the next ten minutes, I might actually die."

  "Of course." Charlie is crying again, and his cheeks ache from smiling. His heart's racing, but it's a good rush now. "Separate texts?"

  "If it's not too torturous." Mia makes an attempt to sound apologetic, but it's a weak effort. She surely knows Charlie would say yes to anything right now, and won't consider it an imposition. "Can you imagine a group text that huge? Fuckin' nightmare, even if it doesn't break your phone."

  Charlie laughs. "Yeah, good point."

  "Just say both mom and baby are healthy, and we're going to be off-grid awhile. I'm gonna shut my phone down for at least seven hours. Do you have the number for the hospital? Just in case?"

  "Yeah," Charlie says. "Go sleep. Merry Christmas."

  He's still grinning when he heads back into the living room, head bent over his phone as he gets to work on Mia's request. His eyes keep going blurry, but he keeps them locked on the screen, thumbs flying as he pastes the same message again and again.

  Drew's presence is a reassuring warmth drawing him in, and Charlie heads for him without a word. The good news will be showing bright on his face, which means he can take the time to finish what he's doing before offering explanations, even though this is going to take a long damn time.

  Charlie reaches the couch a little bit clumsy, focused as he is on the endless string of texts and the answers trickling in. His peripheral vision is enough to let him drop onto the couch without falling over though, and he breathes a contented little hum as he tucks himself against Drew's side and folds his legs up onto the cushions. He's practically in Drew's lap, squashed close like this, and he lets the soothing heat calm him. Steady him. Ground him.

  The joy is pulsing so vividly incandescent that Charlie doesn't know how his chest can contain it all, but at least Drew is here to absorb the overflow.

  Only when Charlie finally finishes sending the last message and tosses the phone down onto the cushion, does Drew murmur, "Good news, then?"

  "Yeah." The phone continues to buzz with incoming texts, but those can wait a few minutes. Charlie closes his eyes and burrows in against Drew's chest with a contented sigh. "They haven't picked a name yet, but Amber and the baby are fine. Mia's sleeping."

  "Maybe you should be sleeping." The wry humor in Drew's tone is so unexpected that Charlie squirms back to meet his eyes, curious and confused.

  "Huh?" Charlie's brow furrows as he takes in the familiar crinkle at the corners of Drew's eyes, a flash of bright blue suggesting Drew is trying very hard not to laugh. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  "Charlie," Drew says, almost an admonishment, but far too fond to carry any sting. His fingers card through Charlie's messy hair, soothing along his scalp and taming the wild strands.

  "What?" Charlie blurts, still perplexed.

 

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