The Promise of Snow by Elizah J. Davis Page B

with my facial hair.” He scratched at his cheek and realized he actually did need to shave, but that was his call to make, dammit.
     
     
    B RANDON DIDN ’ T show up for the party until nearly seven, more because he could than because he had anything else going on. He might’ve waited longer, but he started to get hungry, and if nothing else, the neighborhood Christmas party offered a wide array of delicious appetizers and desserts to choose from.
    His mom gave him an exasperated look when she answered the door. “I was wondering if you were going to make it after all.”
    “The place looks great, Mom,” he said and kissed her cheek. She had clearly gone into decorating overdrive after he left earlier. There were garlands and wreaths and lights everywhere, but the effect was surprisingly pretty. “It smells even better.” He shrugged out of his coat and started wandering toward the kitchen, where he knew the food would be laid out.
    “Go put your coat away.” His mom grabbed his arm and steered him toward the guest room. “And at least say hello to people before you start grazing.”
    “Can I say hello on my way to grazing?” he asked, but she’d already bustled away again to resume her hostess duties.
    Instead of throwing his coat on top of the pile on the bed, Brandon hung it in the guest room closet, feeling a momentary smugness. It was his parents’ house. He could open closets if he wanted. With all the decorations and the sound of Christmas carols playing softly in the background, Brandon could feel himself getting sucked in by the seasonal cheer and goodwill. It was horrible. He would have to be on his guard.
    The first wave of people were in the family room, mostly the ladies of the neighborhood, sitting on the couches and chairs, catching up on whatever it was they talked about. Most of them were his parents’ age or older, though in the past five years or so, a few younger couples had moved in, bringing fresh blood into the group. They turned on him en masse as soon as he walked into the room.
    “Oh, Brandon! We’re so glad you could make it,” Jodi, the lady from two houses down, said. “Don’t you look handsome!”
    “Hi, hello.” Brandon gave the room his winningest smile and shoved his hands in his pockets, feeling both awkward and a little bit flattered by everyone’s noises of agreement. He was never overly fond of being the center of attention in a room full of women. “I got a little held up at home. How are you all doing?” He nodded dutifully at their various answers and said, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to grab something to drink.”
    With that Brandon beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, where most of the men were gathered in a half circle around the food, talking about sports and drinking their beers.
    “Where’s the good stuff?” Brandon asked his dad quietly, hoping not to draw too much attention to himself. He could talk Ohio State football if he needed—he’d learned that a long time ago in self-defense—but he tried to avoid it whenever possible.
    “Liquor is in the dining room on the buffet,” his dad told him.
    Bless his parents’ insistence on an open bar. Brandon could always crash in the guest room if he needed to. It was one of the perks that went along with being able to hang his coat in the closet. Yep, Brandon was living the high life, all right.
    There was only one other person at the bar, everyone else clearly having liquored up already. Brandon didn’t recognize him from the back, and wondered if it was one of the new guys on the block, none of whom Brandon really knew. They all looked alike to him: tallish, brown hair.
    “Anything good here?” he asked, walking to the makeshift bar.
    “Well, now there is.” The guy turned, and Brandon froze when he saw his face. It was yuppie Paul Bunyan. In his home. Getting a drink. Was yuppie Paul Bunyan married to one of the women in the family room?
    “You really don’t recognize me, do