“Don’t worry, this’ll be quick. I’m going to go over here for a just a second,” he says. “Don’t take the scarf off until I say so.” He lets go of my hand and I hear rustling, the sound of something being moved across the bed of a truck. I try to picture what he’s doing. I try to imagine what on earth this surprise could be.

Finally, he says, “Okay, you can open your eyes.”

I reach up and untie the scarf. Vaughn is there, standing in front of his beat up truck, a Christmas tree propped up haphazardly beside him; the tree’s massive, at least a clear foot taller than he is, lush and full, the kind of tree you see in department stores. Except this tree is real, and it’s ours.

“Surprise,” he says. “I picked up some Christmas lights, too. They’re in the bag on the passenger seat.”

“Oh my god!” Tears spring into my eyes. I can’t remember the last time we had a Christmas tree. Some time with Dad, probably, but Dad was never that interested in the holidays, never that interested in celebrating anything. “What’s the point?” he’d always say. “You’re just going to end up losing everything anyway.”

“I know it’s not the most beautiful Christmas tree out there—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Are you fucking kidding me? This is the most amazing Christmas tree ever. I love it.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do! It’s going to look so good in the apartment. It’s perfect.” And it is perfect, and so is this moment. I don’t think I could picture a more perfect moment if I tried—my handsome brother leaning against the truck, grin on his face, our very own Christmas tree leaning against him, the soft, pristine, silent snow falling around us. This is everything that I’ve always wanted, but have been too afraid to hope for.

Vaughn grins like a Cheshire cat; he knows he’s done good. “Well, I’m very happy to hear that you feel that way. Now help me get this monstrosity inside. It weighs a ton.”

I hold the door open so Vaughn can get the tree inside and we ride up the elevator, the tree filling the small space that usually stinks of urine instead with the smell of evergreen. I can’t keep the smile from my face, or the warmth of my happiness from spreading through my chest.

“I’ll make us some hot chocolate,” I say. “Maybe some popcorn. We can string it for the tree. I’ll try to MacGyver some ornaments from somewhere.” My face hurts from grinning so hard as we ride up to our floor. We have our own place. We have a tree. We have each other. A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be this content. Shit always went wrong for us the very second it looked like things were improving. Not this time, though. I know deep in my bones that we’ve hit a turning point in the road. And why the hell shouldn’t I be happy? No sense in living in a constant state of fear. It’s not the kind of existence I want for myself, and it’s especially not the kind of existence I want for my brother. I’m going to make sure this is the best Christmas ever. I throw an arm up over Vaughn’s shoulder and give him a small squeeze. “Thanks, asshole,” I tell him, winking. “You’re the best.”

TWO

AIDAN

I fucking hate my brother.

This is not a hyperbolic statement.

This is not a statement made out of unbridled anger, something that I’m going to later retract, apologize for. This is a statement of fact, and it is taking everything in my power not to fling my iPhone across this beautiful expanse of sand and straight into the crystalline waters of the Pacific Ocean.

I toss the phone on the passenger side of my Jeep Wrangler instead, ignoring the vibrating sound it makes as I haul my surfboard off the Jeep’s rack and head toward the beach. I know why that fucker’s calling. Christmas is fast approaching, only three days away—when it’s eighty degrees out and perfectly sunny, who gives a shit about Christmas?—and Alex is going to try to convince me to come home for the holiday.

Yeah, no thanks. 

Why would any rational, reasonable person with half, no, make that quarter of a brain do something like that? Reasons for staying here are SO much more compelling.

Exhibit A: white sand, blue seas, hot sun.

Exhibit B: women with tits as big as their bikinis are small.

Exhibit C: there is no Exhibit C. I’m a hot blooded twenty-five-year old guy and exhibits A and B are more than enough for me, fuck you very much.

This time of year, you can barely tell the women of Chicago are actually women. People look like androgynous blimps, swaddled up in parkas, cowls, scarves and fur-lined mittens. You’d have to be out of your fucking mind to want to be anywhere near Chicago at Christmas.

Seeing as I’m not out of my fucking mind, I plan on spending the better part of the morning surfing. If you’ve never surfed before, it’s hard to find the words to describe what it feels like. Most of my friends here, all avid surfers, also skateboard or go snowboarding in Vail or Europe. To them, so long as there’s a board to stand on and momentum to be harnessed and tamed, that’s all they need. I’m a little different. I’m not knocking skating or snowboarding, but there’s only one thing that can get my heart racing and that’s surfing. Perhaps it’s because the ocean is a living, breathing entity. Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is a liar, or just plain dumb. It has a life force to it. It sustains us. Back in the day, we crawled out of the ocean as a weird-looking fish with legs and since then we’ve evolved dramatically—Bipedal. Opposable thumbs. Epic hipster moustaches—but we’re still dependent on the sea. When I’m out there on the water, no matter how wild the waves are, everything just feels…quiet. It’s not pavement or hard packed snow. It is not smooth, and it can be unpredictable. The ocean is ruled by the pull of the moon, by a force mankind couldn’t even contemplate conquering. When you catch a wave and nail it, it’s so much better than attempting to harness or own something. It’s like you’re working in harmony with the planet, existing alongside it, like Mother Nature’s giving you the biggest fucking high five. Seriously, it’s the most intense high. I should know. I’ve experienced a lot of those, synthetic and otherwise.

Some people attain this kind of blissed out happiness in god, singing their hearts out with their asses parked in a pew every Sunday, but not me. The four-mile stretch of beach in front of my apartment is my church, the early morning weather forecast my gospel. When I’m on my board, underneath a swell, cruising, the crest of the wave arcing around me, I’m truly in my own personal heaven.

This morning, I paddle out for a good ten minutes before trying to catch a wave. Once I’m past the break and the other early morning surfers, I lay on my back on my board, staring up at the washed out of the blue sky, my arms and legs hanging over into the water, trying to find some inner calm. Alex has this effect on me. He turns everything upside down, flips my shit around, makes me feel less somehow. He’s always had such a skill for fucking with my head. It takes a solid thirty minutes, staring up at the nothingness overhead before I manage to calm down.

I’m at peace when I finally go hunting for waves. The ocean’s a fiery bitch this morning. I get dumped and rolled over and over again, but I also ride out some of the most incredible tubes of the summer. My body is humming with pain when I’ve had enough.

I shouldn’t be surprised when I make it back to the Jeep, puffing and blowing, my lungs burning in my chest, to find that my phone is still goddamn ringing. The thing’s probably been going off the entire time I was out there. I’ve got such a good buzz going on from being out surfing, though, that I actually think, fuck it. I pick up.