Later Jake kissed away the discomfort that furrowed Ned’s brow, and he kissed him again in the driveway to Ned’s house. “I think we just started our own holiday tradition,” he joked, running a hand through Ned’s crazed hair to smooth it down. “Merry Christmas, babe. Call me tomorrow?”
No words of love, but Ned always assumed they were implied. In the kisses, the s*x, Jake’s eyes, his smile. Ned thought he didn’t need to hear them spoken out loud.
* * * *
These memories of Christmases long, long ago come to Ned in dreams. Each year rolls over him like the incoming tide, washing away a little more of his resolve, until his soul is bare to the elements. Wind whistles through him, cutting across his skin as it buffets his storm-torn heart. As he fights against the tide of memories, he drift
