Fifteen Years Earlier 

Backlit by a shaft of afternoon sunlight, Caleb Black waited in the same spot—right beside the water fountain in the student-packed hall—every afternoon. He leaned as if leaning was a new form of art and he was its undisputed master. Eased against that battered row of metal lockers, waiting for God knows what, he always made me feel too big and awkward for my own dumb feet. 

Caleb Black. Just the thought of his name brought a tide of shame to stain my face, and even so, wicked lust poured through my body and flooded my groin. 

Since the day he’d first arrived at Mills wearing those banged-up Doc Martens, I’d noticed him. Everyone noticed him. Hell, the sunlight noticed him. With a stud in his ear, a wide silver band on the second knuckle of his middle finger, and a thin Violent Femmes T-shirt under his worn corduroy jacket, Caleb leaned and I couldn’t keep my damn eyes off him. 

“I love LB Gregg’s books and this short story surpassed all my expectations.” —Mandi, Smexy Books

Every afternoon, right after lunch, I passed him on my way to Mr. Clarke’s Honors Calculus class. A single glance from Caleb Black was all it took to undo me. Head above the crowd, I’d move as unobtrusively as possible staring straight ahead and praying my dick wouldn’t get any harder. I’d hike my backpack high and resolve to pass that slouching leaner unaffected before the fifth-period bell rang. Which was futile, of course, because as Caleb slouched indolently against the lockers with his left knee raised and his bootlace untied—those shining eyes watching me—my blood absolutely boiled. Sometimes he’d stare and bite the side of his thumb, his white teeth worrying the tough skin there, and I’d just die at the flash of his berry-red tongue. 

He’d catch me looking, and from across that crowded hallway the entire world disappeared. The smell of warm sneakers and last night’s disinfectant faded, and everything—the voices in the hallway, the metallic squeak of locker doors opening and closing, the cheesy posters and the endless chatter, the dazzling sunlight reflecting off waxed tile—everything on the planet paled in comparison to his green eyes. My stomach would flutter until it flipped to the floor because inside that prolonged second, I couldn’t have felt more bumbling, or unsure, or tall—or turned on. 

Caleb rested with a fist shoved deep inside his winter coat, chewing his lip or his thumb or sighing and leaning like a champ—and whatever he did, I wanted him. By the time that stupid fifth-period bell freed me, my palms would be slick and my dick would be noticeably, painfully stiff. I’d hightail it to class almost at a run and waste half an hour swearing that I was never going to class again with a Caleb Black induced boner. 

I was failing calculus. 

The first time in my life I wasn’t passing a class, and I didn’t care. Because all I wanted in the world was to wrestle Caleb to the floor, like I did Ryan. Only not so brotherly. I’d pin his shoulders flat against the carpet. I’d throw him down. Tackle him in a hold that would align our hips and shoulders. His legs would clench strong and tight around my thighs. He’d smell like salt and chewing gum and he’d struggle. Sweating, wriggling and straining his slim body square underneath me. His skin would be soft on the inside of his wrists as I pinned them down. He’d be whisker- rough along his jaw, and bone-hard against my hips. 

His eyelashes would lie like black fringe on the tender skin below his eyes. 

Focus. There was a calculus test today. I was ready. I had a history test—facts and dates and names swirling in a fast flowing vortex that I need to memorize by last period. My dad was sick, I had work to do, and I was obsessed over Caleb Black. Leaning. 

My heart skipped because there he was, cutting a dark contrast against the battered row of lockers, same as every single day. 

Don’t look. 

I canned all my weak thoughts about another kid’s fucking eyelashes—I was creeping myself out—and stared at the far window. The sky was gunmetal-gray with the threat of the first real snow of the season and I refused to look left—because I wasn’t queer. I was Owen McKenzie and I wouldn’t cave. I wouldn’t glance, not one time, at the scruffy raven hair, or those intelligent eyes, or his ridiculously thick lashes. And certainly I wouldn’t notice the shocking wedge of unlikely sapphire-blue that draped Caleb’s smooth forehead as he rested with tired nonchalance against locker number 244. My locker. 

That meant something, right? But no. I wouldn’t stop because I’d do something stupid, say something I’d regret. 

Please look at me. 

As if Caleb read my mind, he did look. As he did every single day. He saw me coming, impossible not to, and caught me staring. My stomach did its predictable thing and flipped over like a trained dog. Lust stained me strawberry-red—and I knew he could see it. He knew and I knew and we knew and like a tractor beam, Caleb drew me forward. He could expose me—and at the same time—he was safety, because he was exactly like me. Caleb was a beacon in this terrifying new world where I no longer knew the landscape. 

The noise, the smell, the sights—all of it vanished. I wanted to make that connection. To lift a hand and wave hello or comment on the book tucked under his arm, the same book I’d seen him reading in the library the single time we’d actually spoken, but I just couldn’t. 

Caleb nodded. A slight smile hovered so fleetingly I didn’t know if it was real before he blinked and looked away. 

Lost again, I shoved through the crowd—and fear of being rejected by the one person who knew the truth made me sick to my stomach. 

Calculus. Cal-cu-lus. 

The bell clanged and kids dashed for the doorways. Mr. Clarke’s class was on the right, stuffy and as silent as the grave. I was pissed when I walked through the door. Pissed that I’d worn a short-sleeved shirt when the forecast called for snow, and pissed that my body betrayed me and I was still, despite my promises, hard as a plank. I took a seat against the far window where the radiator expanded with a steady tick. I organized my thoughts, my papers, found a mechanical pencil, and I got to work. 

“…a great Christmas novella with just the right amount of family embarrassment, a little angst, a lot of humor, sprinkled with romance, and a few well-placed hot encounters.”
—Shameless Book Club

“If you’re looking for a romantic story with a holiday theme which is strong on character and witty dialogue, but also has an underlying tender emotion, then I highly recommend Mistletoe at Midnight.”
—Jenre, Gay Book Reviews