Christmas Lunch
by Rian Grey
From the collection “It Gets Better, I Promise”
Dad sounded snotty and tired on his end of the phone, trying to snuffle his sharp mini-sneezes in between our words.
“I’m sorry hun,” he said, “It came on so sudden. And we don’t want to be getting you sick now either.”
“We can’t just wear masks and gloves and stuff?” I asked, desperate.
“I don’t think you can really eat a Christmas lunch with a mask on, Luce,” he chuckled. “Besides, it’s no point risking it if we’re going to be zombies the whole time. Just not worth it darling.”
My heart sank a bit in my chest as he spoke. The truth was hard to hear. But I needed it. The first Christmas we’d planned for since the pandemic began, and it was still canceled.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay Dad,” I tried not to let the disappointment seep through. I held in a sigh.
“You can always go up and spend the day with Katharine,” he suggested.
“You know that’s not really an option.”
“I know,” Dad sighed. “Tell you what, we can have a makeup brunch when we’re better, and then we can meet the new girl too?”
“Greta?” I emphasized. Perched on my kitchen bench, lightly kicking her feet, Greta raised her gaze to lock with mine.
“We’re dying to meet her hun. Does that sound like a plan?”
I smiled at Greta. She quirked an eyebrow and almost broke a smile in return.
“That’s a great idea.”
“Great,” Dad said with finality. “Brunch it is.”
A few minutes later of checking in, the call ended. Greta was still on the counter, watching as she pointed and flexed her sock covered feet. She’d mentioned she’d been a dancer previously, this must’ve been a fallout of the years of practice.
I let out the sigh I’d been holding in to avoid upsetting Dad. It came out louder and longer than I thought, deflating me a bit against the cabinets.
“You okay?” Greta murmured, sliding off the counter and touching her toes to mine.
Eyes closed, I nodded. “Christmas is canceled,” I let out a dry attempt at a laugh. I was sad, and it hurt to admit it. But I’d never been too good at hiding my emotions.
“Covid got them, huh?”
I nodded. The tears came easier nowadays, but it felt useless crying over something like this.
“Talk about terrible timing,” she tutted.
A little laugh choked its way out of me, manifesting as a single sad sob. Greta could see I was struggling to hold it in and leaned forward to wrap herself around me in a warm hug, her frazzled and bleached hair tickling my forehead. I sniffled against her neck. She smelled nice and clean, a little bit like sandalwood and cedar aftershave. It was a scent I loved, specifically when it was on her. She smoothed my hair.
“Dad suggested I go up and do Christmas with my sister,” I said, scoffing out the words.
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Greta said.
“It is. Her husband and his family are transphobic.”
“Oh shit. Ew.”
“They call me Kath’s Brother and not much else because last time they said my deadname I screamed at them. Kath didn’t even do anything to stop them.”
“I take it back,” Great said, “that sounds like hell.”
I smiled against her neck now, a bit of tension leaving my shoulders. She leaned her back against the cabinets with me, so I could hook my arms over her shoulders and really slump on her. In the month we’d been together, a good chunk of our time had been spent looped over each other just like that.
We stayed silent, Greta’s hands resting at the small of my back, swaying a little to comfort me.
“At least I can still eat potatoes tomorrow. There’s nothing stopping me from doing that on my own,” I said.
“Shut up,” Greta laughed.
“I’ll save some for you,” I said, now standing and wiping the few trails where tears had fallen. Some streaks of liner smudged onto my hand.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “What if you brought them to mine?”
“Your what?” I asked.
“Christmas lunch,” she said, shrugging.
I squinted at her, leaning back a bit. “I thought you weren’t on great terms with your family?”
She shrugged again. “The invitation is there, Luce.”
I swallowed hard, trying to hide my excitement.
“I guess someone has to be there to protect you from the oncoming transphobia,” I smirked, going to wrap my arms back around her waist.
“Oh shut up,” Greta swatted my shoulder blade, nuzzling her nose into my hair. “As if I’m not the one who’d be protecting you.”
❆
We spent our first Christmas Eve together, eating pasta and watching movies on my lounge room floor, wrapped up in blankets. We placed our gifts to each other on the window sill next to the mini tree, and fell asleep on each other until the movies died out. At two AM, Greta shook me awake, muttering about leaving milk and cookies for Santa. In a sleep haze we set up a teacup of almondmilk and gluten-free digestive cookies on the kitchen counter.
“We’re not naughty now,” Greta mumbled before we both shuffled to my room, crashing into my bed.
When the sun was touching our toes through my window, Greta bounced out of bed and dragged me to the tree, where we opened our gifts. She’d gotten me squishy gummy bear earrings, and a new pair of gloves that had shimmery threads throughout. In the same vein, I’d gotten her a candy colored beanie with some trans and LGBT pins on it. We beamed at each other, mostly just so happy to be spending the time alone together.
We cooked together, Greta convincing me to make the potatoes at her place since she had all the ingredients for her dishes at hers. She teased me when I made faces at the dried fruit she bought out for her loaf, giving me a little poke to my ribs when I groaned about how annoying preparing the potatoes was. Finally, it was time to go. The buzz of nerves began tickling inside my chest.
❆
Greta and I headed down snowy Brooklyn streets to find the apartment. My potatoes were getting cold fast, sitting in nothing but a ceramic dish. Greta had a loaf of fruitcake and was balancing a little teapot thing of custard on top of the tray. We willed ourselves not to slip on the black ice and half-melted sludge, dancing on the little pockets of green salt haphazardly thrown over the sidewalk. She eventually slowed to a stop outside a raw redbrick building, six floors tall.
Greta turned to me and flashed a smile. “Welcome!”
She almost bounced up the steps to the door and awkwardly bent at the knees so she could press the button for a doorbell on floor 4. When a crackle came through the speaker, she yelled, “I’m here!” and a little static squeal came through the other end. The door buzzed and Greta nodded at me to push it open.
The hallway was cramped and dark, two apartments on each side, with coats and shoes all the way up to the staircase at the back. I followed Greta up the steep stairs, to the fourth floor. It was all lit by dim lights, making the place seem run down but lived in.
The door to one of the apartments flung open before we’d both made it onto the landing, and a short, chubby man with aqua hair matching his green christmas sweater came running out to give Greta a tight hug. She leaned into him, beaming, resting her head on top of his.
“I was wondering when you were gonna get here,” he said, taking a step back and pinching both her cheeks, “You look so gorg, babe.”
She shushed him, blushing and kicking a foot up behind her. Then she waved in my direction. “This is Lucy.”
His eyes lit up, “The girlfriend?”
“The very same,” Greta said with pride.
The man stuck out his hand to me. It was a soft handshake, holding my own hand in both of his and shaking slowly, beaming at me the whole time.
“I’m Adrian, nice to meet you,” he said.
“Lucy, nice to meet you Adrian.”
He took a step back and smiled at the both of us, looking between the both of us. I tried hard not to stare, wondering how in the world this small, stocky man was related to Greta at all.
“Well, welcome. I hope it’s a nice Christmas today here,” Adrian held his hands together on his thighs and bowed a little. “Now come on in and get warm, silly kids.”
He took our coats while I followed Greta to the kitchen, scanning the rest of the people at the lunch. They were all colorful and bright, some in Christmas clothing, some dressed to the nines, a few very gothic looking folks. Most everyone seemed to be decently young too. It wasn’t how I’d ever expected Greta’s family to look, especially since she’d said they hadn’t been too good about her trans status. Everyone here smiled and waved as we dashed to the kitchen. It was an inviting and comfortable air, not one of pent up aggressions or disgust. Even Greta seemed relaxed.
Once in the kitchen, Greta started fixing where the custard and loaf needed to go. She gave me a look, reading my confusion instantly. “Do the potatoes need to go in the oven to reheat?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
She stuck out her hand for the potatoes, crouching down in her little Cuban heels and sliding the dish onto a semi empty rack.
“You can ask if you want to,” she said, adjusting the temperature.
“Ask what?” I said.
She stood back up, dropping her shoulders and tipping her chin down with a pout. Her eyebrows were raised. I didn’t budge, standing with my arms crossed against the counter opposite her.
“I’m not related to anyone here,” she relented, crossing her arms and leaning against a counter next to the oven. “My family is still up north. I wasn’t invited to Christmas, haven’t been invited since I came out. You were right, I’m not on great terms with my family. I think it’s barely any terms at all anymore. But I don’t really need that family. I have these guys. They’re my family now.”
She paused, leaning to the side as if she could look around me and through the wall to where her little non-blood family was convening. She opened her hand and gestured to them.
“Everyone in that room there - they took me in when I needed it. They fed me, clothed me, got me a place to sleep. They’ve been a better family than my blood relations ever were. They cared, they still do. They’re my family now.”
I slid the tips of my shoes to touch hers. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said softly. “I’m okay with it,” but her voice faltered a little.
“You don’t have to be.”
She smiled down at her feet. It wasn’t the time to be getting into it, I knew.
“Do I get to meet the family now, then?” I asked instead.
She brightened at me and held out her hand. “Let’s.”
Rian Grey is the assistant editor & social media manager at Papers Publishing.
Rian Grey is a published author and actor best known for his queer fiction. Writing since a young age, Rian’s short story, ‘The Funeral,’ received multiple awards and was published when he was only 16. He has since received a Bachelors of Art in Creative Writing from SUNY Purchase College, starred in multiple short films, and worked as an editor on a Queer Australian TV show.