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There are a few bonuses to playing for a small market team, Georgie’s found. You’re recognized less often when you’re out and about doing your business, though benefit has faded the longer he’s stayed with the team. People will give him these looks like they can’t place him — not from work, no, the gym, maybe? It happens so often it’s become predictable, Georgie smiling and nodding along when they inevitably came over, laughing when they stared up at him and said they expected he’d be bigger. It’s the skates, he always says, like he didn’t have to stoop to clear half the door frames in his old home by the time he left, doesn’t still have to when he comes back to visit.
Small market teams don’t play the Winter Classic, and nobody really wants to watch them on New Year’s Eve either, so Georgie has generally had them off since he got to Hartford, and this year’s no exception. He feels different though, on the flight back home. It’s a little early to be the meds, but maybe there’s some placebo effect in it.
Or maybe it’s just the circumstances — Christmas over, Will engaged and everybody delighted about it, wedding venue aside. Georgie got out of dodge right when things got testy too, flying out just as the kids got strung out and cranky a few days after Christmas, Tessa bored without her friends, Toby tired of Tessa always trying to involve him in her games. Melissa took them on field trip after field trip, and she didn’t have to say a thing for him to know neither of them were particularly cooperative: Tessa pulling faces in every picture, Toby scowling beside her.
You’d think that’d be enough to make him appreciate the distance, but it doesn’t, really. If anything, it just makes him think that if he were there Tessa wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls and Toby wouldn’t look so sullen. He knows it isn’t true — Tessa would be climbing him like a tree, and Toby would be complaining that Mom made mac and cheese way better. Grass is always greener.
Except there’s nowhere else Georgie would rather be, New Year’s Eve, than with the kids, counting down to midnight — from London, five hours ahead. Toby’s all for it, even joins the count down, but Tessa seems suspicious. Probably his fault — Georgie thinks he’s been a bad actor, lately. It’s like he doesn’t quite know how to do it anymore.
He stops at the grocery store on the way to Robbie’s place — Robbie said that he had dinner handled, he didn’t need to bring anything, but Georgie was brought up to never come empty handed, and he thinks they both knew, even as Robbie said it, that Georgie was going to bring something anyway. It’s a bit of a mob scene, enough to make Georgie glad he’s in Springfield. He’s a big guy, still hasn’t learned how to keep his head down. People pick him out of a crowd.
But they don’t that night, thankfully, Georgie among Bruins fans across state lines, or maybe just everyone in too much of a hurry to get wherever they’re going. Georgie wanders the prepared foods aisle, picked over by now, only the worst left — a limp veggie platter that already looks unappealing, a fruit platter that’s mostly just cantaloupe. He gets a charcuterie board that actually looks okay — he doesn’t think either of them would say no to a little extra protein.
There’s a line everywhere but self checkout, but no way Georgie’s dealing with that, he doesn’t care if it’d be faster. He ends up in front of a flower display, standing face to face with a spray of white flowers — he doesn’t know what kind they are, except maybe what they’re not. When the line moves forward he takes the flowers with him. He already knows that Robbie’s going to give him shit about them, but he also knows that, beneath all that, Robbie’s going to be pleased.
He wonders if Ted brought flowers, rejects the thought, forceful. Even more forcefully rejects the thought it might have been the other way around. He’s reconsidering the idea entirely, but by then he’s at the front of the line, so he buys the meat and cheese, and the flowers, already feeling a bit absurd, even before he’s belting them into a car seat, securing them for the ride. That’s a lesson Georgie doesn’t want to learn again, spend New Year’s Eve on his hands and knees picking salami and cheddar out of the back seat.
Georgie’s only a block away from Robbie’s house when he realizes that Robbie’s making spaghetti bolognese, probably with plenty of parm, and Georgie decided to bring a meat and cheese plate. Not a veggie platter — though Robbie would be eating it alone — or a fruit platter — even if it was mostly cantaloupe — or a nice champagne they could toast with at midnight. He brought more of what Robbie’s already making and flowers that look a lot less like something when he’s taking them out of his car.
He goes to Robbie’s door, the porch light a halo above his head. There’s warm light coming from inside, curtains half drawn, so he can see a slice of Robbie’s living room, tidier than it was the last time Georgie saw it, like Robbie had just come through with a steadying hand.
He knocks, but nobody comes. Robbie’s probably in the kitchen, maybe listening to music — singing over it, if the song’s any good, though Georgie doesn’t know if he still does that. He’s in the kitchen, or maybe the bathroom — he’s not out, his car right in front of Georgie’s, a fine mist of snow on the hood.
But for a moment Georgie thinks maybe this is it. The punishment. That he gets to know just what he’s missing, that all this is what he decided to lose. He wonders if they show all sinners a glimpse of heaven first, just so they know what it is they’ve squandered, or if it’s just him.
Maybe not, he thinks. And maybe the meds aren’t working yet.
He knocks again, and from where he’s standing he can see Robbie stride out of the kitchen. Sees him stop, stock still, like he’s forgotten something, before he disappears from view, and when he opens the door, his hair’s as perfect as it hadn’t been a moment before.
The house is warm, borderline hot against the chill of the night, and smells incredible, just like Georgie remembers Robbie’s house smelling like, the nights he came to visit, Georgie eating the best food of his life with white knuckled fingers, flinching every time Mr. Lombardi looked his way, furious he wasn’t the only one.
“Are those flowers?” Robbie asks. Georgie had expected laughter, but instead he’s getting suspicion, incomprehension.
“I thought, uh,” Georgie says. “My mom says to never show up empty-handed.”
“Mine too,” Robbie says. “Hospitality gifts or whatever the fuck, she says.”
“And it’s still pretty close to your housewarming, so,” Georgie says.
“You were there, though,” Robbie says, which Georgie supposes is true, but he doesn’t think they were quite at flowers yet, then. He’s still a little stunned they are now. Not that Robbie’s invited him in yet. Maybe that’s the test. Maybe it’s real until he asks for it, and that’s when he loses it all.
“Can I—“
“Yeah, fuck,” Robbie says. “Sorry, what am I doing here, come in. It cold out? What are these?”
“It’s not so bad,” Georgie says. “And what are what?”
“The flowers,” Robbie says. “Like, they’re not roses, obviously, but I don’t know flowers, so.”
“Oh,” Georgie says. “I don’t either. I just — I saw them and thought of you. I do that a lot.”
“See things and think of me?” Robbie asks, and Georgie’s pretty sure it’s meant to land in the vicinity of a chirp, maybe some light banter, but it doesn’t turn out that way. Which is fine. That’s one of the things Georgie likes best about Robbie — whatever he’s saying, however he says it, it ends up landing true.
“You know I do,” Georgie says.
“Right,” Robbie says. “Right, um. I don’t have a vase or anything, I don’t think, but maybe — bowls work, right? Or cups? That’s just — yeah, obviously they work, give me a second.”
Robbie disappears with the flowers, ducking his face into them, less like he’s smelling them, more like camouflage. Georgie was wrong about the laughter, but right about him liking them. That’s fine. Right, even. Next time he should get one with a vase. Learn the names of the flowers in case Robbie asks.
Robbie’s gone a little while, but he can be particular like that, making sure every flower’s just so before he lets things be, seeing faults that Georgie has to squint to see.
“Minor food emergency, don’t panic!” Robbie calls from the kitchen, and because there’s no panic in his voice, just the laughter Georgie’s been waiting for, Georgie doesn’t, just follows his voice to see if he can help.
“I’m good, I’m good,” Robbie says, when he arrives in the doorway. “Ma said sauces always want you to leave them alone, right until you do. Hey shit, you brought a cheese plate too?”
“I—“ Georgie says. “I thought — wasn’t really thinking.”
“There’s cheddar in there, right?” Robbie asks. “Perfect, I was thinking omelets tomorrow morning. I make a mean fucking omelet. You don’t have anywhere to be, do you? I know you don’t have the kids, but I—“
“No,” Georgie says. “No. Tomorrow’s clear. All yours, if you want it.”
“Oh,” Robbie says, then looks pleased again, like just before he buried his face in the flowers so Georgie wouldn’t see. “Well. I want it, then.”
“Okay,” Georgie says.
“Okay,” Robbie says. “Shit, before I forget — you remember that coffee you wanted me to tell you about, but I said — never mind, it doesn’t—“
“I remember,” Georgie says.
“Oh,” Robbie says. “Um — yeah, I put some aside for you, if you wanted to, you know — fuck, I haven’t even gotten you a drink yet. You want a beer? I’ve got some in the fridge.”
“I was actually thinking about quitting,” Georgie says, and when Robbie looks over. “You know, no better time for it. Plus you’re not really supposed to drink with anti-depressants, so.”
“Oh, shit,” Robbie says. “I didn’t even — I had a glass of wine making dinner, but I don’t have to —“
“No, no,” Georgie says. “Go ahead, I know you like wine. Sorry, I was thinking of getting some for you tonight, but I figured I’d get it wrong and you’d hate it, so. I got cheese.”
“Shit, wait one sec, I’ve got to,” Robbie says, crouching down to peek into the oven. “Usually ma does this pepper dish with it, I’ve seen people literally cry over it, but I know you’re not really a pepper guy, so I’m doing roasted broccoli with a shit ton of garlic. How’s that sound?”
Georgie watches him, the curl of his ear and the nape of his neck, the way his hair’s already come undone, maybe the heat of the small kitchen, or more likely the way he runs his hands through it every time he’s flustered. And he is. They both are, and Georgie doesn’t know why — this is the part that’s supposed to be easy.
Except maybe easy was never the word he wanted, no ease in the way Robbie frowns, poking, dissatisfied, at the broccoli he made because he knows that’s the only vegetable Georgie will eat. Which isn’t entirely true anymore — he swears some of them have gotten better since he was a kid — but they’re still his favorite, even now. Frowning and prodding even though it looks delicious, Georgie knowing already that it’s going to be great. Easy isn’t the right word, but he can see why he picked it.
Robbie straightens up from the oven, already turning his way. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, you good?”
“Yeah,” Georgie says. “Yeah, babe, I’m great.”