Page 7 of Ship Happens

Time heals all wounds.

Right.

But how much time? That’s the question Owen’s been asking himself for the last year. He’s been waiting for the day to come, for the morning to arrive when he’d wake up, open his eyes, and realize that he’d finally fallen out of love with Jacob Morrison.

No amount of time has been enough so far. But at the very least Owen had distance. The thousands of miles that provided a buffer strong enough that Owen was able to avoid thinking about Jacob all of the time.

Tomorrow. He’ll be back tomorrow, and Owen can’t stop it, can’t tell him to go somewhere else, can’t find somewhere else to be himself. Now all he can do is suffer through.

At least he’s always been pretty good at that.

Chapter Two

Taking “Don We Now Our Gay Apparel” Literally

“What do you think?” Kaitlyn stands in the doorway of the kitchen in just a bra and her underwear, holding up two different Christmas sweaters. They’re both hideous, though Owen can’t quite tell if they’ve been designed that way on purpose.

One is bright green and sky blue, decorated in Minecraft creepers with blocks of varying textures sewn in. Even just looking at it makes Owen’s skin itch. The other features Rudolph, with a giant red bulb sewn right into the nose and a battery pack weighing the hem in the back down. “Where did you even find these?”

“Haight.”

“Rudolph is better than Minecraft, I suppose,” he tells her, switching off the stand mixer.

“Great, get changed!” That’s when Kaitlyn lobs the sweater at him.

“Wait, what?” Owen asks, voice muffled as the sweater smacks him in the face.

“Get changed!” Kaitlyn repeats, her own voice muffled as she pulls the other sweater over her head. “I got one for everybody!”

“You’re not serious.” Owen eyes the monstrosity in his hands, the red bulb blinking like it’s mocking him.

“Very.” Kaitlyn smiles at him slyly, continuing to hover in the doorframe. “Now put it on.” Her tone tells him that he doesn’t have a choice.

Owen exhales deeply, knowing that tonight’s going to be hard enough, so he might as well play into the holiday spirit. And the look on his best friend’s face when she sees the glowing lightbulb on his chest is worth it.

“How do I look?” he asks her, holding his arms out proudly.

“Like an asshole.” Kaitlyn snorts, and Owen rolls his eyes as he turns his attention back to the controlled chaos of the kitchen.

Sure, Kaitlyn had assured him that the group would be just fine with the cookies after he’d settled on snickerdoodle and chocolate chip, both gluten-free, thanks to his own recipe. But as he squatted on the floor, watching the cookies bake in the oven, breathing in the warm scent of melting chocolate, he felt deep down like it wasn’t enough.

Maybe it’s his inferiority complex, the need to always prove his usefulness to those around him. Maybe it’s because he knows that Jacob is going to be here. If Owen wants to be nicer to himself, he can blame his desire to make his friends happy, to provide for them in some way.

Those insecurities had led to him starting on the gingerbread cake, a hit with the group when he made it a few years ago. Only, Abigail doesn’t really like gingerbread, or cinnamon. So Owen started on his quick and reliable cheesecake, throwing together a simple fruit topping.

It took Owen sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through his baking supplies, to figure out that he still had date palm jaggery from when Ravi brought some over to make patishapta, which everyone loved at Friendsgiving, and the recipe is one he can throw together quickly. It’s really only when Owen is mixing water into the batter, double-checking on brownies, when he realizes something.

He didn’t make Jacob’s favorite cobbler.

For the first time in a year, he pulls his skillet from the warming drawer underneath the stove.

“Breaking out the skillet?” Kaitlyn asks suggestively. “Any particular reason?”

“No, not really,” Owen tells her, setting it down and checking the fridge for blueberries. There’s even a lemon, so he can make the glaze the way Jacob likes.

“Nothing at all to do with the fact that my brother is coming back to town and that’s the same skillet you always used to make his favorite cobbler?”

“Blueberry cobbler is his favorite?” Owen feigns ignorance, stacking another bowl in the sink to clean. He tries to do dishes as he’s done with them—helps keep any cross-contamination in check—but he’s been so distracted that it’s been easy to let the mess rack up. “I had no idea.”