The Holiday Party Pact
What do you want for Christmas?
Ryder stood freezing on the front porch of his friend Marissa’s modern farmhouse, the prickly chill of the air nipping at his nose. He rolled his shoulders back and put his chin up, holding a bottle of Cabernet in one hand, and a shield of emotional armor in the other. His social anxiety seemed to be permanently on level 100 for the past month and a half.
It’s just another holiday party, he thought to himself. You’re almost 40. Relax. You know these people.
As he stepped through Marissa’s front door, warmth enveloped him like toasted cinnamon fog. But in spite of it, he still felt a sting of nerves he couldn’t shake.
“Ryder! You made it.” Marissa floated over to him in a shimmer of red satin, wrapping him in a peppermint-scented hug. He held up the bottle.
“Only the good stuff,” he said. “You throw the classiest party in town.”
“You could’ve brought Franzia and I’d still let you in,” Marissa laughed.
He smiled, relaxing for the first time that day, and looked around. He saw his co-workers from the marketing agency scattered around drinking eggnog, and a few of Marissa’s cousins he had known since forever laughing on the couch. The music, the clinking glasses, the friends: it was perfect. Maybe he could handle it after all.
But all of sudden, Marissa’s face changed. Her smile evaporated and her lip began to quiver.
“So, white elephant in the room,” she began, wincing slightly. “Please don’t hate me.”
Ryder blinked. “That’s never a good opener.”
“I invited Sam.”
The air fell out of Ryder’s lungs. “You what?”
“I know!” she rushed. “But he really needed the work. I’m paying him to play Santa tonight. Long story short, my hired Santa bailed, and, well.”
Ryder opened his mouth to say something composed, something mature, but all he could mutter was a stammer.
“I know things ended badly last New Year’s Eve, but time heals all wounds, right?”
As if on cue, the hallway lights flickered, and a deep, warm voice called out behind him.
“Ho, ho, ho! Someone order a Santa?”
Ryder froze. Slowly, painfully, he turned.
And there he was. Sam. Dressed in a Santa suit that was…not standard issue. The tight velvet coat clung perfectly to his arms, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the kind of chest that had once left Ryder breathless. The pants were fitted, the boots were polished, and the hat sat on Sam’s head, adorably crooked in a way that made him even more handsome than Ryder remembered.
“Did I mention he’s a sexy Santa?” Marissa admitted. “I wanted the party to have some edge.”
“Hey, Ry,” Sam said softly. His eyes locked onto him like a missile. Despite almost a year passing without having looked into them, his hazel irises were still perfectly empathetic and alive.
Ryder’s pulse kicked. Hard. “Hi,” he managed to stutter, too quietly. The raucous laughter and holiday music that played around them turned into dull background noise. It was just the two of them in that moment. And Ryder’s chest began to ache all over again. Just like it had last New Year’s Eve when Sam had uttered the words that had split him open like a freshly chopped piece of firewood.
Marissa cleared her throat, stepping between them with anxious eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Ryder lied automatically.
Sam swallowed. “I can go if —”
“No.” Ryder’s voice surprised even him. “You’re working. I’m not going to ruin that.”
Sam nodded, a soft tension easing in his shoulders.
“Well,” Marissa said, exhaling, “who’s ready for photos? Our Santa needs to earn his paycheck.”
Ryder shot her a sharp look.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Ryder, you don’t have to sit —”
“It’s fine,” Ryder said again, as he felt a tiny, reckless smile manifesting on his face. “I don’t wanna be left out.”
Sam blinked, stunned. Marissa blinked, more stunned.
Ryder surprised them both, and himself, as he walked toward the velvet armchair set up for Santa photos with confidence and control. Only he knew that inside, his heart was hammering and his palms had begun to sweat. What am I doing? he almost said aloud. But something had taken over him. He didn’t want to show Sam how unnerved he was. He wanted to appear as though the past year hadn’t been as mind-numbingly tortuous as it actually had been. He wanted to exude that “cool guy confidence” he always aspired to, but that was always just out of reach.
Santa Sam sank into the armchair in slow motion, like his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment. As Ryder awkwardly, gingerly lowered the tiniest corner of his butt onto Sam’s lap, the air thickened. Ryder wondered if the other party guests could feel the tension, or if it was a moment reserved just for he and his ex. Sam’s breath hitched, and not only did Ryder hear it, but he felt it, absorbed it down his spine. Ryder settled one hand lightly on Sam’s shoulder for balance, their faces inches apart.
“You’re really committing to the bit,” Ryder murmured, voice low enough so only Sam could hear.
“You know me. Always giving one hundred percent,” Sam said as his lips curled.
“You wearing this,” Ryder whispered, “is at least one hundred and ten.”
Sam exhaled slowly. “You look great, Ry.”
“You look…different,” Ryder said, eyes drifting down the corners of Sam’s open jacket, remembering how he used to curl up on that chest before drifting to sleep. “But also the same. In ways I shouldn’t be noticing.”
Sam rested his hand lightly on Ryder’s hip, for stability, presumably, but the warmth of it sent heat curling through Ryder’s sternum.
Marissa cleared her throat loudly. “Say…candy cane!”
They forced smiles for the camera as the flash popped. As soon as it faded, Ryder leaned just a fraction closer.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Sam’s voice was barely sound. “Not even remotely.”
Ryder swallowed. “Me neither.” He stood slowly, almost reluctantly, and drifted away from the photo area as guests applauded Santa and requested their own pictures.
In a far corner, partially shadowed by a decorative wreath taller than him, Ryder sipped Marissa’s eggnog and made a face as he swallowed. Out of seemingly nowhere, Sam approached.
“Guess you tried the nog?”
“This stuff should come with a biohazard warning on it.”
Sam laughed. “I think there are, like, four different kinds of alcohol in it.”
There was a beat before either of them said anything. There was nothing to say that hadn’t been said before, and yet so many words and so many feelings that needed to be wrapped up in a pretty red bow.
“You look…really good,” Sam murmured.
Ryder’s heart stuttered. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things that feel like last year.”
Sam’s jaw tightened. He took a long breath and looked around to make sure they were out of earshot of the other guests. “Last year feels like a mistake I want to undo.”
“Sam…” Ryder exhaled sharply.
A group of guests approached, laughing loudly, forcing them to step apart. Ryder’s chest felt suddenly, painfully hollow. “I need air,” he said quietly, pushing past Sam to head toward the back of the house. For a brief second, Ryder glanced over his shoulder and saw Sam watching him go. His eyes were full of something raw.
Ryder slipped down the hallway near the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave right at that moment, take a minute to himself to gain clarity, or chug another ridiculously strong glass of eggnog. But then he heard soft footsteps behind him.
“Ry.”
Ryder turned. Sam was there again, his hand resting on the doorframe, his Santa suit glowing red and white under the hallway lights. His face held none of the festive charm he’d shown earlier. Just honesty. Hunger. Regret.
“Don’t run from me,” he said gently.
“Then don’t give me reasons to. This is exactly what you wanted, Sam. ”
Sam stepped close enough so that Ryder could feel the warmth of his breath. And the room seemed to tilt.
“I…was wrong. Tell me to walk away,” Sam whispered, “and I will.”
Ryder didn’t speak. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. How could he deny himself something — someone — he spent the last year obsessing over? He was trapped. Whatever answer he gave would just bring about more loss, one way or another.
The silence was enough.
Sam’s hand slid behind Ryder, pushing the bathroom door open. Ryder backed inside, pulse racing, and Sam followed, shutting the behind them. The lock clicked.
In the next breath, Sam cupped Ryder’s face in both hands and pressed him against the wall, kissing him. Not gently. Heat surged between them as months of longing and frustration and unresolved love crashed together in a torrent of tongue and spit. Ryder pressed into Sam, fingers curling into the velvet Santa suit, inhaling the familiar scent of cedar and warmth beneath the costume.
Memories flashed in Ryder’s mind about the people he had kissed in the last eleven months — of which there were only two — and how neither of them felt as perfect as that moment. Time froze. No one would ever be as right for him as Sam. It was something he just knew, deep down in his guts.
Their hands roamed, restrained, but desperate, over each other’s shoulders, through each other’s hair, gripping, pulling, rediscovering. Ryder’s back met the bathroom counter. He slid off Sam’s Santa jacket as Sam deepened the kiss, slowing only when Ryder gasped softly into his mouth.
Sam rested his forehead against Ryder’s. “Tell me this is just nostalgia,” he whispered, breath trembling. “Tell me you don’t still want me.”
Ryder’s voice broke. “I wish I could.”
