Chapter Text
Eddie Diaz was born cursed, forsaken by God and the universe, on December 28, 1992. This date, the only date in the 365 days (and 366 of a leap year), is the only one that does not have a saint.
Now that he's back in fucking El Paso, Texas, he's thinking about this fact more than ever, especially with Christmas right around the corner. Since moving to LA, his birthday has been mostly given the levity it deserves by the likes of Abuela and Pepa, and then later, Buck and Chris. But he's back in his home town, his parents making him feel small in all the ways they did when he was a child, he knows he will be handed one singular wrapped gift and told "Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday!"
He's especially regretting it now that Dolores de La Cruz caught the Diaz clan—well, minus Abuela, who managed to make it back to her car and drive to Helena and Ramon's before they could—after church in the parking lot. Helena is a convert so she can't seem to say no to anyone and wants to help with every single event. Good thing she's retired or she'd be way too busy for Chris.
And Chris, thankfully, brought his walker instead of crutches. The second he saw Dolores approach, he locked the wheels and popped a squat on it. It was almost like second nature, like he'd seen his grandmother do this a million times already in the months before Eddie got there. When Eddie glances to him, the kid looks as bored as Eddie feels.
"—y Gloria dice 'who are you talking to like that?'" Dolores is saying when Eddie tunes back in.
"Dios," Helena gasps with a hand to her chest like she's completely engaged in this drama from the nail salon last week.
Eddie isn't convinced that's true, but he can't call her on it. At least not right now. Just like he can't call her on her use of Spanish like that. She doesn't advertise being Swedish, being born in Sweden, but she sure does try to fly under the radar at Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción. No one else calls her on it.
"It's just not very Christ-like," Dolores nods at Helena, her eyes closing like the whole thing is causing her physical pain.
"And with Christmas right around the corner!" Helena cries, her hand finding Dolores's shoulder.
Eddie has to turn away from the two women just so he can roll his eyes. Chris catches Eddie's eyes when he turns back around. He thinks there might be a smirk on the kid's face, but he doesn't have enough time to say for sure.
He's really mostly tuned out of the conversation, catching snips and snaps here and there, but he finally narrows in when he hears Dolores say a dreaded word.
Maricón.
Eddie's been living in LA for almost a decade. It's not like he never hears the word, but it's a shock to his system, ice cold water poured all over him. His eyes snap to Chris, looking for recognition. He never taught Chris that word, but Chris had been in homophobic Texas for months before Eddie got there. He has no clue what nonsense Ramon and Helena or anyone else has stuffed into his kid's head like tissue paper in a glossy gift bag.
Chris is still staring off into the middle distance. Either he didn't hear the word, or he doesn't know it. Regardless, Eddie relaxes just that tiny bit more.
Then, he gets the wind knocked out of him again.
"How's your wife?" Dolores says, suddenly turning to Eddie.
"Uh, what?" His stomach drops.
"Your wife, querido. Shannon?"
Eddie blinks at her, then at his mother who's face is wan and stricken, and then at his son, whose eyes are cast onto his hands.
Is Eddie being Punk'd right now? Is Ashton Kutcher about to pop out from Senora Vazquez's tan Oldsmobile they're standing next to?
"What?" he says again, watching Dolores's face twist into confusion.
"Shannon?" She reiterates. "Is she…okay?"
"She…died," Eddie finally says, when his mom isn't coming to his rescue. Not like he'd ever really expect her to.
"Dios mio!" Dolores gasps, louder than she has at any point in this conversation so far. "Ay, no! Probecita. ¿en serio?"
"Uh, yeah," Eddie admits, staring down at the emerald and gold broach pinned to matching Kelly green chiffon top to her skirt. It is easier to trace the filigree of delicate gold than meet her eye. "A few years ago actually."
Eddie's relieved to see Dolores's eyes on Helena now. "¿por qué no me dijiste?"
"It wasn't for me to tell," Helena says, losing her diplomatic composure, slipping into the frigid angry woman Eddie knows best.
Helena's been caught out. She has no reason why she wouldn't have told her "community" that her son's wife died. Yet here Dolores is, shocked and surprised.
"I just never heard anything after she moved to California with her mom. Then Eddie moved out there too. Everyone just assumed things were going well," Dolores explains.
A quiet sob breaks the tension, and Eddie turns to see Chris wiping angrily underneath his glasses.
"Abuela," he says in a small voice. "I'm ready to go home now."
Helena turns a phony apologetic smile onto Dolores.
"Lo siento, Dol. Say hello to Manuel for me," Helena says, taking one of Dolore's bony hands in her own.
"Por supuesto," Dolores agrees, leaning in to kiss Helena's two cheeks. She does the same to Chris and then turns to Eddie.
"Edmundo," Dolores addresses him, grabbing his hand in a facsimile of what Helena had just done to her. "I'm sorry for your loss. We'll do something for you, okay?"
He isn't sure what he's agreeing to, but he's trying to get back into his son's good graces and that means getting back into Helena's good graces. "Yes, ma'am."
"And there's a grief group," she continues, still clutching his hand. "They meet in the annex on Wednesdays at 6. Maybe you could go. Could help."
Finally, they're released from Dolores's clutches. This is the third week of three that this same kind of thing has happened. They're trying to leave the damn church and some old bitty stops them to chat for at least forty-five minutes. It's no wonder Chris always brings his walker. Smart kid.
Helena gets them loaded into the car and starts the drive back to the Diaz household where Eddie left his truck. Ramon will probably still be out golfing with his buddies, a habit he picked up to shmooze with oil bigwigs and never put back down after retirement. He was born Catholic, baptized in Abuela's tiny pueblo church in Guadalajara, a remnant of the Spanish colonizers centuries before. Ramon Diaz doesn't have to show up to church, not the way Helena does. And sure, she might get some snide comments from overly invested church marms—ay, ¿dondé está tu marido?, tell Ramon we miss seeing his face around here—but generally Helena gets to keep her social clout even if he doesn't come.
And Eddie is selfishly glad his father doesn't come. He thinks it might be harder if he did. The silence in the Mazda on the way home is already awkward enough with Chris refusing to give up shotgun and Eddie relegated to the backseat where he can sneakily text Buck about how much he hates church. If Ramon were there, the silence would be oppressive.
Buck tries to commiserate, tries to be sympathetic. The man grew up Episcopalian, but mostly just C&E until Buck was old enough to decide he didn't want to go at all. The Buckley's hadn't fought him on it. Buck, bless him, does not get it. Not really. Buck doesn't get how the entire trajectory of Eddie's life was predetermined for him because of the church.
He just wants to lean forward, over the center console, and start talking to Chris. Chris hasn't really talked to him. Not in any substantial way. For some reason, he imagined he'd buy this house, show Chris he's serious, and then just be let in the door. Instead, he's trailing them to church every week for Sunday masses and now Wednesday morning masses because Chris is out of school for the Christmas break. He's trailing them back to the Diaz house in hopes of getting scraps from his son during a meal and then he's being summarily dismissed when Christoper "needs to do his homework" or "needs to practice chess."
Today is no different, except it feels worse. Eddie almost gets in his truck when they get back to the house, almost drives away back to his stupid shitty house that he stupidly bought, just to call Buck because no one else could sooth him the way he needs.
Helena stands in the lawn, looking at him, after she sends Chris up to the front door. Oh, good. He's about to get a talking to.
His eyes flick up to Chris at the front door where Ramon is helping him in, sees Chris glance over his shoulder.
"Eddie," Helena says, her voice plaintive, like what she's about to say hurts her. Eddie doubts it.
"Helena," he says, because he's hurt.
Her face pinches for a second at the use of her given name.
"It's been a long day," she says, making up her narrative right there on the spot. "Maybe we should give Chris a little time."
Eddie bites his tongue, wants to snap that he's been giving Chris nothing but time, wants to argue that he's been here for months with little to no movement on the mending of their relationship front. No thanks to Ramon and Helena, he might add. Eddie says nothing for a few beats.
"What's for lunch?" he asks instead, keeping his tone as light as he can.
"I think maybe you'd better head home and have lunch on your own today," she says in lieu of an answer.
"I want to have lunch with my kid," he grits out.
"It's been a long day," Helena tries again. It's half past noon. "Let's just try again later."
Eddie burns. His anger is hot, his embarrassment, his betrayal. Helena is cutting him off at the knees, not letting him even say goodbye to Chris. And trying again is going to mean trying again when they go to Wednesday mass.
But this is just one battle in a long war. A war of attrition. He just has to wait it out until they're both exhausted and depleted. Maybe another three and a half years from now, if other wars are anything to go by.
Abuela's car is in the driveway, probably starting on lunch already. And Eddie won't get to eat any of it because Helena is turning him away for her own mistake, her inability to talk about her daughter-in-law in any meaningful way.
Fine. He'll leave. He'll leave, but she is not going to win this. He looks up at the front window where he knows their Christmas tree is already up, littered with ornaments that were on the tree when Eddie was Chris's age, even though it's not lit up yet. He looks at the string lights that Eddie knows Helena nagged Ramon to get out there and put up, still dark because it's early, not even noon because Helena insists on going to the 8 AM mass on Sundays.
"I'll see you Wednesday," he grinds out as he goes to climb into his stupid truck.
He only gets a wave in return from his mother. And then there's Ramon's car pulling in the driveway just as Eddie's pulling off. He doesn't bother to wave at his father.
…
"Go for Buck," he gets Buck's voicemail when he flops down into his arm chair and tries to call his best friend, his light, his anchor.
His throat and chest are tight. He hates it. He hates not being able to just talk to Buck whenever he wants, being able to just turn to him and open his mouth. There's all this…scheduling involved now.
He thought this stupid pining would go away, not be relevant, now that he's away from Buck. Out of sight, out of mind, right? But it's worse, now. Because he's been cut off. He has no real access to Buck, not the way once did. The regularity of seeing him on shift every other day. Or the near certainty that Buck would drop into the Diaz house at some point over their 96 off, possibly even take up residence on the stupid blue couch Eddie is eyeballing right now to spend the night.
Almost two years, he's been shoving down his love, pretending he doesn't feel exactly what he feels. He thought he'd be so busy with Chris that this wouldn't matter. But it definitely still mattes. He has so much free time in between his kid ignoring him and him fielding passive aggression from his parents, that his mind often drifts to thoughts about how he wishes Buck were there, how he wishes he could lean on Buck, how he thinks coming home to lay in Buck's arms at night would make this just a little bit easier.
"Hey, Buck," he says, feeling stupid leaving a voicemail, something he never did before. "I know it's early. Sorry for calling, just…I needed to talk if you're free later. I'm sorry. Gimme a call."
He hangs up. He can't seem to stop apologizing either. Constantly apologizing for taking up space, for needing help, for wanting comfort from one of his most favorite people.
He must fall asleep in the chair because he's startled awake by his phone buzzing on his chest.
"Hello?" he answers before even really looking at who it is, panic lancing through his limbs.
"Hey, Eds." He instantly relaxes at the voice in his ear.
"Buck," he says, not even trying to hide how happy he is to hear Buck's voice.
"How are you, Eddie?" And Buck's voice is so soft, tender. He's not being his usual upbeat self because he's trying to be gentle with Eddie.
Eddie is fragile, but maybe he wants Buck to tease him and make fun of him so he can feel just a little specter of normalcy.
"Apparently no one at church knows Shannon died," Eddie jumps right in, because it's Buck.
"How…did you find that out?"
"Dolores de La Cruz," Eddie explains. "She stopped us in the parking lot after mass. And Mom can't say no to anyone. So, she gets us stuck in a conversation for over half an hour talking about her grandkids and everyone who's died. Then, she just turns to me and asks 'How's your wife?' And I'm thinking I'm being pranked, so I turn to Mom and realize that this woman doesn't know my wife died 6 years ago."
Buck sucks in a breath. "Eddie…"
"Buck," Eddie laughs, a pathetic thing that bubbles up from his chest. "I…need you to be normal with me, okay? I can't deal with pity. Just, I'm gonna tell you some stuff, but I need you to talk to me about your life too and I need you to make fun of me."
Buck snorts at that. "Whatever you need, Eds," he says, voice still soft. "Why don't you show me what you've gotten done on the house?"
"FaceTime?" Eddie asks, a sudden well of hope springing inside his chest.
"Yeah," Buck says, smile clear in his voice.
And then there he is, in Eddie's kitchen (Buck's kitchen?), clearly fixing himself a little something to eat before he goes to the gym. He's dressed in a big blue shirt, sleeves cut off, and Eddie's eyes track his exposed arms as they move around.
"Hey, Eddie," Buck says again, his voice just a little different, like he's excited all over again because now he's getting to see Eddie even if it's an awkward angle where Eddie's holding the phone in his hand on the arm of the arm chair.
"Hi, Buck," Eddie says, unable to help how fond he sounds.
"Alright, let's see what you've done to the place so I can roast your house flipping skills."
The joke lands. Eddie feels stupid laughter rupturing through his chest as he pushes himself up from the chair to show Buck where he's been stripping the gaudy 90s wallpaper in the living room and foyer. And Buck does roast him, just a little. For a little while, Eddie can almost pretend that Buck is just down the road, that he'll be here soon, that this is their house that he's fixing up for both of them and Chris. It's easy to pretend that this isn't a house in El Paso, that he's in LA and he'll have a shift at the 118 tomorrow.
It's a nice fantasy.
…
Abuela invites Eddie over for a late lunch on Wednesday after mass with Chris and Helena, who was stoic even when Eddie had slipped in the pew next to her in his slightly rumpled button down. Chris didn't give him more than a judgmental glance over the top of his glasses.
He's mostly only going to the Wednesday masses for Abuela, anyway, but it has the added bonus of maybe—possibly—ingratiating himself enough to his mother to be allowed to see Chris more, even if Chris doesn't seem all that interested in looking at Eddie, much less talking to him. Doesn't matter. That's his kid. He's going to win him back somehow. That's what he's here to do.
Abuela opens the door for him before he can even knock, the smell of corn and stewing meat immediately hitting him.
"Huele bien, Abue," he tells her, hugging her close, the comfort of it settling something in him against the tide of anxiety that had swelled inside him from going through all the rusty motions of a mass next to his mother who moves like a well-oiled machine.
"Gracias, Eddito," she says with a twinkling smile. "Lunch will probably be another hour," she continues, pulling him over to the couch.
"That's okay," he says, even as his stomach growls.
She sits down on the couch next to him, and he feels his chest loosen at the comfort of this old familiar couch with the old familiar smell and the old familiar granny square blanket and the old familiar coffee table with old familiar nicks and scratches and water stains and one notable cigar burn from Abuelo from before Eddie's dad was born.
"Tell me what's going on, mijo," she says, leaning just enough to bump into his shoulder.
She always knows how to read him.
"In general or specifically right now?" He snorts.
She laughs at that. "Either. Both."
"Abue, I hate it here. I don't want to be here. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in El Paso."
It's the most honest he's been with anyone since he's gotten here. He hasn't even told that to Buck, though god knows he probably already has a pretty good inkling that's how Eddie feels since Buck often seems to intuit Eddie's emotions.
"I wish Buck was here," he says too, even more honest. "I feel like he'd know what to do about Chris."
Abuela nods. "Evancito is a good boy," she agrees. "I trust our Pepa is taking good care of him in our absence?"
Eddie smiles at that, thinking of Buck going to Pepa's house without Eddie even being there. And he knows it's been happening, knows that he's had dinner with her a few times since Eddie left, knows that she's sent him home with more leftovers than he even knows what to do with.
He nods. "Yeah, she's been making him take leftovers from dinner."
"A hardship, I'm sure," Abuela snorts. "Cafecito?" she offers, already up on her feet.
If Eddie can't eat right now, yeah, a coffee would be great. It's nearly 1 PM and he's starting to feel the tiredness creep in.
"Please," Eddie nods, grateful.
"You stay here. I'll go make us some cups, okay?"
Eddie concedes, pulling his phone out in her absence. He doesn't feel weird about it, too comfortable with the woman to feel like a guest in her home. Delightfully, he finds several texts from Buck, one from Chim, one from Hen, and a few messages in the 118 group chat.
He responds to Chimney and then Hen, then the 118, saving Buck for last.
And Buck has sent Eddie a picture of a smoothie he got at the farmers market from a frutero, saying that he wishes Eddie was there with him to share it. Not…not that they usually share drinks, but just the thought is enough to make Eddie ache. He wants to share a drink with Buck, a day at the farmers market with him, a house, a life.
Buck, well, he could have just let Eddie languish alone with the distance between them, but he's made an extra effort to make sure Eddie feels included with every text and phone call and FaceTime. The attention is intoxicating.
Quickly, Eddie snaps a picture of Abuela's side profile that he can manage to capture from his vantage in the living room, making sure to get her over the top tinsel and lights and even a corner of her ceramic manager scene in the picture, and then fires it off to Buck.
Tell Isabel I said HI and also Merry Christmas! Buck sends back.
"Buck says hi!" Eddie calls at her. "And also Merry Christmas."
It's the 18th right now. Eddie is certain he will see Abuela again before Christmas and also definitely for midnight mass Christmas Eve.
"Tell him I say hello back and also ask if he's tried that recipe I sent him last week," she says, coming back into the living room with their two cups.
He happily accepts his, shooting off the text to relay her words to Buck. It's so god damn domestic; Buck is ingrained into his family like no partner of Eddie's before. The only portion missing is his parents, but he's pretty sure he'll never have that. Not to mention the whole gay thing. Not that, well, not that Buck is interested in him, not that this is ever going to be anything.
Honestly, he probably has no need to ever come out to his family anyway. Because it's Buck or it's no one, and it isn't going to be Buck so Eddie's going to die alone. Probably at the age of 50 from a heart attack because he'll never be a firefighter again.
"Where did you just go?" Abuela asks, a half smile on her face even as her brows crease with concern.
"Uh…" He locks his phone and puts it away. "I just, I miss my life."
She nods and sips her coffee. "You shouldn't be here, Edmundo. You should be home with your kid and your boy."
Eddie blinks at that, can't address it. Abuela always had a way of knowing more than Eddie sometimes wanted her to.
"Chris won't give me the time of day," Eddie says, watery.
"I think you need some time alone," Abuela admits.
"Yeah, well, my mother won't give it to us."
"So, maybe your parents could use some, hmm, distracting."
Eddie blinks at her. Is she saying what he thinks she's saying? He doesn't acknowledge it.
"You know Dolores de la Cruz didn't even know Shannon died?" He says instead of letting Abuela scheme.
She tilts her head at him like a bird. "I guess. I don't remember seeing her name in el misal," she says thoughtfully.
"Right, I mean, we did the service in LA and she's buried out there. It didn't even occur me that people here wouldn't know," Eddie admits, unable to look anywhere but the steaming cup of coffee in his hands. "But you have to have people for that."
Shannon doesn't have any people anymore. Her parents transplanted her to El Paso, away from the rest of her family in Ohio and Pennsylvania. He has to believe that her people there…cared, that they did an obituary for her, for her mom, something. He has to.
Abuela gets a shrewd look in her eye then. "Well, I think I know Dolores pretty well by now," she says before taking a careful sip of her coffee, "Did she say something about doing a memorial for Shannon?"
Eddie snorts. "Yeah, she mentioned something about that."
"Well," Abuela's eyes sparkle in mischief. "Let's just hope she forgets, huh?"
Eddie cheers his cup to hers.
…
Abuela meddles. Eddie's not sure how she manages it, but she does. Well, he does know. But he's fucking thankful for it.
She gets Helena and Ramon to go see The Nutcracker, a traveling ballet, and asks for Chris to come over to Abuela's beforehand, that she would drop him off at the theater, that Helena and Ramon should go ahead. Maybe everyone knew the angle, maybe not.
But Chris doesn't look surprised at all when Eddie walks into Abuela's living room. He looks so handsome in a navy blazer and some slacks.
"Hey, kiddo," Eddie says, rubbing his clammy palms on his jeans.
"Hey," Chris says, eyes trained on Abuela's Christmas tree instead of looking over at Eddie.
His wheelchair is right next to him by the couch.
"I've got a proposal for you," Eddie starts, eyes flicking to Abuela, who gives him a small nod of encouragement.
"Okay," Chris says skeptically.
"One," Eddie holds up his left index finger, "I drive you to the ballet, no questions asked, or," and he hold up his middle finger to make a 2, "we ditch the Nutcracker all together, get some ice cream, and hang out a bit."
Eddie holds his breath as he waits for Chris to think of his response, still trained on the twinkling lights of the tree.
Then, for one, brief, pendulous second Chris's eyes land on Eddie's face.
"Nutcracker," he says, breaking Eddie's heart in an instant.
"Yeah," Eddie nods, definitely not fighting back tears. He can't look at Abuela. "Can I-can I at least drive you?"
Chris looks to Abuela then, but Eddie doesn't know what her face looks like because he can't look at her.
"Okay," Chris says, giving Eddie just a small glimmer of hope. It's not much, but it galvanizes him.
"Okay," Eddie confirms. "Well, I'm ready whenever you are. Show starts in 30 and I know your grandparents are already there."
It hurts, of course it does. But it still means ten minutes of uninterrupted Chris time, which is more than he's gotten in the nearly two months since he's been in El Paso. So, if it's scraps, Eddie will make it a meal.
Chris nods and reaches over to make sure his wheelchair is locked before transferring over to it.
Finally, Eddie lets his eyes drift over to Abuela. Her face is tight, something he hates to see because he barely knows what it means, but she gives him a small smile even as he holds the door open for Chris to roll down the ramp from the front porch to the driveway where Eddie's truck is waiting.
He helps Chris climb up into passenger seat and then folds the wheelchair into the back.
The first few minutes of the drive are silent. Deadly. Eddie didn't even dare tune to the relatively neutral station that is playing 24-7 Christmas tunes and has been since November 1st. Still, there is precious little time and Eddie can feel the noose tightening, the time bomb ticking down until he'll be pulling up to the convention center and unloading his kid in the handicap drop off section out front. Thank god there are still a few months left on the handicap placard Eddie got for Chris in California. But that's another unknown. Chris lives with Helena and Ramon. She got her own placard when he moved. So, when this one expires, will Eddie be able to get another one? Or will this just be one more way he's shut out of his own kid's life?
"Tunes?" He finally forces himself to say as they come to a stoplight.
Chris just shrugs, so Eddie turns on the radio and immediately gets "Little Drummer Boy" parumpapampam.
"I don't like Christmas music," Chris mutters, and it's never been the truth before.
Eddie can distinctly remember multiple Christmases of Chris and Buck crowing out carols at the top of their lungs and incredibly off-key. He wonders briefly, then, if this is because Buck isn't here. He doesn't ask.
Instead, he switches the station to some soft rock that is inoffensive enough not to warrant a comment from the teenager.
"You do know that's what The Nutcracker is, right?"
Chris shrugs again. "Yeah, but Abuela will be mad if she paid for a ticket for me and I don't go.
And it's true. Of course it's true. Helena was the kind of parent that wouldn't let you leave the table without finishing the whole plate but also harangue you if you put on too many pounds—ay, Mundo, you've been blowing up like a tick since you quit ballroom.
"But you don't want to go to the ballet?" Eddie asks a little more forcefully.
He sees Chris shake his head out of the corner of his eye as the light turns green.
He makes an executive decision, making a slightly unsafe maneuver across an extra lane to make a right turn.
"Where are we going?" Chris sits up a little straighter, head periscoping to get his bearings.
"We're getting ice cream. I'll take the heat with your grandmother, okay?" He casts his eyes to his son, hoping and praying that this gamble pays off.
Look, there's a sparkle. Just a tiny twinkling in Chris's eye that Eddie hasn't seen in months. It lights up something in his chest. Maybe this whole thing wasn't hopeless after all. But then, Chris's phone is out and he's texting. Who is he texting?
Eddie's stomach starts to twist in fear that he's texting Helena. He doesn't get an answer before they pull up to the ice cream shop—a squat, standalone round building in the shape of a milk jug that's certainly a novelty but was one of Eddie's favorites growing up.
He finds out when a phone call rings through the truck's stereo system declaring that Evan "Buck" Buckley is calling.
Eddie's eyes flick over to Christopher who is smirking a little at the phone, so Eddie takes it as a sign that he should go ahead and answer.
"Uh, hey?" He says, his voice lilting up in a question at the end. "Chris is here."
Buck's chuckle is crackly through the speakers. "Yeah, I know. He texted me you guys are getting ice cream."
"Oh," Eddie is shocked, stunned into a silence that makes his eyes sting a little.
Chris and Buck still text? Buck didn't tell him? Maybe Chris asked him not to.
"If you give me just a couple of minutes, I can get to that shop down the road from you guys's and we can eat together," Buck says, blowing right through Eddie's emotional turmoil and bringing him right back around to elation at the idea of the three of them all doing the same activity all at the same time even if they are nearly a thousand miles apart.
It aches but it soothes.
"You got it, bud," Eddie says on a chuckle.
And they fall into easy conversation, Eddie letting Buck take the lead, asking questions in the right places and keeping the jokes rolling. It feels right, even as he still stays on the phone while Eddie helps Chris into his chair and they pull up to the service window.
They pause momentarily to both order, but then they get settled at a table where Chris can pull up in his chair. Eddie decides to flip the call over to FaceTime, propping up his phone so Buck can see them both and they can see him.
Things seem almost normal, then. Eddie had let himself get something indulgent, just a little, with the double fudge brownie flavor because Father Brian told him to drink the proverbial juice. Sure, that wasn't just about food and drinks, but he had gotten into the habit of just a single scoop of unadorned vanilla so this is nice.
Chris gets a mudslide gummy worm monstrosity but Eddie's happy to let him have it. Buck is eating some insane blue thing that's staining his mouth, and it's incredibly endearing as they keep the conversation going into the night, darkness starting to blanket around them as streetlights blink to life down the road. It's still sunny in LA, and Eddie's stomach clenches looking at Buck haloed in golden light. He misses him so much; he's just glad he can have these small moments, especially with Chris there.
They're long past done, fingers still a little sticky with the best napkins can do for clean up, when the chill from the surrounding dessert starts seeping into their bones.
"You want to come over for a little bit, kiddo?" Eddie asks, feeling brave after over an hour of family time.
"I'll let you two get to it," Buck calls through the phone.
Really, Eddie doesn't want to let him go, would keep him on the phone forever if he had his way, but he reluctantly bids Buck farewell alongside Chris who scrunches his face up next to Eddie's to fit in the camera.
On the way to Eddie's house—still not quite as fixed up as he'd like it to be for present company but still passable—Eddie unceremoniously switches the radio station back to the Christmas station, now playing Darlene Love's "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," which Chris sings along to softly and Eddie's heart aches for a lot of reasons. It's not like Christmas at all. But it's starting to feel just the tiniest bit better.
…
Now, the financial situation is starting to get a little dire. Eddie's feeling the noose and El Paso Fire hasn't gotten back to him at all, essentially still in a freeze.
He's going to have to do something, but he can barely think with the priest going on and on about Paul in Rome or something he doesn't actually care about. Instead, he's playing Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al" over and over in his head as he doodles a shitty angel in the corner of a donation envelope with the little golf pencil.
His mom is glaring daggers at him because he wedged himself between her and Chris on the pew and now he's wasting the envelope to just scribble all over instead of actually giving money to the congregation. He doesn't really have a dollar to spare, happy that Helena always seems to have a few tucked in her pocketbook that she hands to Chris to plop in the basket.
A quick glance at his watch tells him the service has gone over time, so Eddie's just biding his time until it's time for communion and they can get the fuck out of there.
Finally, they start the communion blessing and call people up by rows. They're in the front for Chris's accessibility, meaning they're in the first batch to take it.
When Eddie kneels next to Chris, who's been granted a special area that does not require kneeling, he briefly considers crossing his arms over his chest to abstain from the process. Sure, he was baptized and sure he was confirmed, went through CCD and all, but he hates this process. He hates the gross chalice and the disgusting little wafer. But it's all part of the process. Because this is where Helena is taking Chris and if Eddie wants to be in Chris's life, then Eddie has to play fucking ball.
When Father Brian told him to drink the juice, he's pretty sure he didn't mean it like this. Something feels so…intimate about the elderly priest who's been here since Eddie was a kid tipping the chalice up to Eddie's lips, the same he's done for the others in the row, the same as he's done for Helena and Chris before him. It just reminds him of his time as an altar boy, how much he hated the job, hated the ritual, hated working with Father Hernandez because he knew it was all bullshit. Looking up at the face of the altar server holding out the plate of wafers now, he's struck but just how young the job is.
Finally, they get to return to their pews to wait for the rest of the congregation to go through the Eucharist, so Eddie goes back to his doodling and deciding how the fuck he's gonna make any money living in this shitty town. He tries to imagine himself bagging groceries or stocking shelves or making tacos. They all theoretically work, but he doesn't like it. He just…wants to be a firefighter. Maybe a third-party ambulance company? He's always kind of looked down on those people, but he needs to make his first mortgage payment coming up and the savings are down to nearly dust. Maybe he can walk into a hiring agency and just do temp work. Office stuff that he won't be at long enough to get as passively suicidal as he was at dispatch.
Nothing feels right.
After the service is over, Helena, unfortunately, takes them over toward Father Hernandez instead of the swift exit. Great, Eddie thinks, resigning to have to talk to this man.
Helena speaks to him first, talking about some events Helena is working on planning—a food drive for Christmas dinners, a thrift shop benefit event, a wedding banquet in a couple of weeks.
Father Hernandez turns to Chris and asks him briefly about school. Chris is noncommittal, saying he's happy to be on break. Father Hernandez chuckles his agreement.
Then, he's speaking to Eddie.
"Edmundo," his voice is older and more tired than Eddie had remembered as he gets up in age. "So glad you've been able to join us for services lately. I heard recently about your loss."
Fuck, here we go again, Eddie thinks. Helena seems to just be letting people think that the only reason Eddie's back in El Paso is because of the death of his wife and certainly not his own dalliance. And he feels his face get hot with embarrassment at the thought of Kim's face standing in his house with her hair done just like Shannon's. It's a shame he can't seem to let himself get past it. It's been months and he still sees the look on Chris's face when he saw—in his nightmares, in the brief moments when his mind wanders while he's tightening leaky faucets or peeling wallpaper or hammering in shelves.
"Uh, thanks," Eddie says, the shame burning in his stomach.
"You know we have a grief group that meets in the annex on Wednesdays at 6?" Father Hernandez says, echoing Dolores's words from last Sunday.
"I heard," Eddie says, clipped.
He doesn't want to be rude to a priest, but he sees the expectant, even insistent look on his mother's face. Oh, he realizes, she wants him to go to the grief group, thinks it'll be good for him, but was too unwilling to actually speak to him about it, so what? She thinks having the priest tell him to do it will convince him.
He thinks about Father Brian, thinks about Bobby and his AA. Would they want him to do it? Would Buck? It hits him, then, that some of the most important people in his life might actually want him to do this, to unpack his grief. He'd locked it all away with his fists years ago and not done much to help himself with it since. But being back here, after his own actions sent his kid away from him, just makes him think about Shannon so much. Maybe it isn't the worst idea to try to deal with some of this stuff. To talk about her, to talk to other people who've lost their spouses too.
"I, uh," he peers down at Christopher who's thumbs are tracing patterns into the handles of his walker and decidedly not looking at him or Helena, "I'll give it a shot, I think."
Father Hernandez beams. "Excellent!" He says. "I won't be there, of course, but I'm glad you'll be able to find some help."
Eddie's stomach rolls, but he plasters on his best fake smile as he nods. "Thanks," he says, and they're finally able to head for the exit. Having diverted over to the priest helps save them from being caught in the parking lot by anyone else on the ways to the cars.
Chris asks Helena to ride with Eddie on the way back to her house. Eddie tries not to seem to excited at the prospect when she agrees, however reluctantly.
It's quiet at first, Christmas tunes kept low, but then Chris pipes up.
"Are you really going to go to the grief group about Mom?"
Eddie shrugs, making the familiar drive to his parent's place. "What do you think? Could be good."
"I think it's really good," Chris admits.
"Oh," Eddie says, not sure how exactly to take that.
Shannon's smiling face flashes in his mind, her face as she was at 17, as a teenager, as his best friend. He can almost see it now on Chris's face.
"I miss her," Eddie admits, honest and raw, voice breaking just a little.
"Me too," Chris says, so quiet. "I don't remember what her voice sounds like."
And that hits Eddie like a ton of bricks. He remembers her voice so clearly, remembers her panting his name and asking desperately to see Chris. He remembers her shaking voice when she told him in her bedroom that she was pregnant.
"I'm sorry, Chris. I wish I had something to show you. Just a few videos. Your grandparents might have the wedding video somewhere in the house."
It's sad how few remnants there still are, how few people remember her. He'd sold her stuff in her apartment, him and Buck, given most of her clothes to Goodwill or women's shelters. The only things he really kept were the bloody clothes that came in a bag from the LA County Coroner's office gave him. They still reside in the closet high up on the shelf in the back. Eddie hadn't dragged it with him back to Texas, and hoped that Buck didn't get a surprise by cleaning too much there.
In so many ways, there were little to no traces of her. And now her own kid is telling Eddie that he doesn't remember her voice. In a couple of years, he might even forget her face.
And the worst part of all of it is that Eddie will continue to age, will continue to grow old. So will Christopher. Shannon will be 27 forever. And one day, Chris will be older than she ever was.
"Okay," Chris says, quiet.
"We can do it as soon as we get home."
"Sounds good," Chris agrees, getting a weird little hopeful lilt to his voice.
…
Eddie spends the dusty, sweaty afternoon in his parents' hot attic rifling through old plastic and cardboard boxes. Most of it isn't Eddie's—Ramon had made sure to pass off most of Eddie's childhood things to Eddie when Eddie moved out, even if Eddie kept vehemently insisting that the small house he was sharing with Shannon was not large enough for the things he wasn't ready to get rid of just yet but still didn't need in the day to day.
He is covered in sweat and the dust sticks to the sweat, so he's also gritty as he pokes into box after box. He feels bad for some of the objects up there—old photo albums that are deteriorating, stuffed animals that had once belonged to Sophia and then later to Adriana, woven blankets that had belonged to Ramon's grandparents that were honestly itchy even if they were traditional. Helena didn't like them.
It's nearly three hours in before Eddie finally finds something that belongs to him, having shuffled around all the miscellaneous organization in there. He's certain that neither of his parents have stepped foot up there in years. At most, Helena has made Ramon get on the wobbly wooden ladder that folds down from the flap in the ceiling to grab the artificial Christmas tree box and then shove it back in when the holiday is over. That and the clear plastic box with the ornaments and garland and outdoor lights. He had found both the empty Christmas tree box and empty clear box right at the front, making it hard for him to climb all the way in until he rearranged things while shakily standing on the ladder.
Occasionally, Chris would shuffle by to ask if he'd found it yet. When Eddie replied he hadn't, Chris would then ask if he needed anything.
"Water?" Eddie would call down, but then Chris would shuffle off and forget.
Each time, Eddie tries not to be too upset or offended, even if his mouth feels like sandpaper.
Now that he's found a box of his stuff, he's hopeful he'll find the wedding video.
He rummages in the box of mostly school notebooks and report cards, eventually finding his final senior year report card—back when they still sent paper copies of grades home instead of the newfangled online portal that some parents check so religiously that they bring it up in PTA meetings, when Eddie used to go to those sorts of things. Eddie himself trusts Chris pretty well, only occasionally having to shuffle through his backpack to find crumpled up and half-done worksheets at the bottom .
But looking at this report card, Eddie's able to immediately see when he found out Shannon was pregnant, where his grades started tanking in third quarter. He was able to graduate just fine, with a 2.9 GPA, since the rest of his high school career had been pretty decent, but he remembers being called in several times to the guidance counselor to warn him he needed to make sure he was keeping up his grades even if Shannon was pregnant. Because the whole school knew—all the staff and all the students. At least, the ones who knew Shannon and Eddie.
And he had hated the pitying looks they gave him, the sadness in their eyes when they looked at him and remembered that he was going to be a teen dad. No one seemed to think it was a good thing. In fact, some of his baseball buddies, before he quit the team, pulled him aside and whispered that he could get her an abortion. Eddie always had the same response—that's not my decision to make.
Does he maybe feel a little guilty that he sort of wanted Shannon to make that decision? Even with Chris as mad at him as he is, even with this stupid rift in their family that's dragged Eddie halfway across the country, away from his life, away from his job, away from his Buck…yeah, he feels bad. Because there is nothing in the whole world he would trade for Christopher, light of his fucking life.
But if Eddie was getting pitying looks, he can't imagine what Shannon was going through. She never told him, but he knew it couldn't have been good. Whatever it was, she locked it away inside her and took it to the grave. Because as soon as they graduated, June 3, 2010, the following weekend they were getting married.
Finally, he finds a plastic tape container labeled in his mother's neat cursive—Edmundo and Shannon June 5, 2010. Shannon had been excited to be married in June, telling him it was The Wedding Month, how romantic. Eddie really didn't care about the date, but every June 5th, Shannon made sure to do a little something. Usually, she'd just buy a slice of carrot cake from the grocery store to remind her of their wedding cake, something Pepa had gotten for them from her favorite local bakery even though they said they didn't do wedding cakes.
It's a Hi8 tape, a bit smaller than a cassette tape. And Eddie knows immediately that they don't have a way to watch it. Unless, by some miracle, the Diazes still have their old camcorder and some RCA cables that will magically plug into their brand new Smart TV. Still, with the little plastic case clutched in his left hand, Eddie descends the ladder to find all three of the other Diazes watching TV in the living room.
"Mami," Eddie calls and her head snaps over to him. "Do we still have a camcorder?" He holds up the tape.
She tilts her head, considering. "No, we gave it to Goodwill probably a decade ago."
Eddie purses his lips and nods. "Sorry, mijo. Guess we'll have to go to the library to watch this."
Chris finally turns to him. "That's okay, Dad."
And while he feels a little crushed that Chris seems so distant, he's still glad he got called "dad." He'll take it.
…
The blood money truck, that Eddie's honestly surprised he never got audited for, sells for more than he's expecting. Sure, it's a few years old, but he's kept it in tip-top shape, always getting the required maintenance, frequent car washes, all that jazz. So, the trade-in value covers almost the cost of the Prius he's purchasing. Because yeah, he's decided to do Uber. Fuck his stupid life, but his mortgage payment is coming due on January 1st.
He supposes, as he signs the paperwork for the little sedan, that it's a full-circle moment. He only got the truck with the first money because of his grief over Shannon. And his grief over Shannon is what drove his kid away and drove him to move to El Paso. Maybe it's only right that he lose the truck the same way. But his throat still feels tight as he drives off the lot.
"I'm sorry, Shan," he whispers to no one.
It's the first step in a line of many to maybe forgiving himself.
…
Eddie FaceTimes Buck right as Buck is getting ready to shower. It's not on purpose. He just knows Buck's coming home from a shift and Eddie wanted to catch him before he went down for a nap.
But now Eddie's staring at Buck's sweaty collarbones.
"Hey, Eds," Buck greets. "Everything good?"
"I bought a Prius," Eddie blurts, because any other thing he could say has more to do with how badly he wants to lick the sweat off of Buck's skin.
Buck blinks in confusion. "You what?" He asks on a chuckle.
"My mortgage payment is coming up, and I'm basically out of savings, so I'm gonna do Uber until El Paso Fire's out of this hiring freeze."
"Do you need some help with the mortgage, Eddie?" Buck asks more seriously, bringing the phone close to his face now. "I, uh, have some money from when my grandfather died a few years ago."
Eddie knows this. He remembers when it happened. Buck used most of it to buy a new truck, then put the meager amount left—a few hundred if Eddie remembers correctly—in a high yield savings account. Eddie's eyes had glazed over a bit when he'd talked about it, which is not typical for Eddie when Buck is talking, but money makes him feel itchy.
"Absolutely not, Buck. This is my mess to deal with," Eddie says, meaning it.
"Always with the self-sacrifice, Eddie," Buck says, soft, gentle. He isn't trying to be mean or pick a fight and Eddie knows it. "You've got people in your corner, okay? Let us help you."
Eddie hears the word "us" but what he thinks Buck means is "me." He wants Eddie to let him help. But he's already done too much by subletting Eddie's house in LA. He can't ask more.
"Thanks, Buck. I'll be okay, I'm sure."
Buck nods, face solemn. "Okay, man. I'm rooting for you, but I need to get in the shower. The sweat is starting to get uncomfortable."
They both laugh, but neither of them hangs up. It's just like that with them. They don't want to hang up, they don't want to stop being around each other.
Buck's in the bathroom and he's holding the phone up on his leg, sitting down on the toilet so Eddie can see the full expanse of his bare torso. Guilt and…something else lance through him.
"Okay, bud. I'll let you get to it. Talk soon." And he hangs up, tossing the phone onto the bed next to him, letting his hands come to rest on his stomach.
The image of Buck completely without clothes, water sluicing over his muscles and pleasant layer of fat, it's doing something to Eddie as he lies back on his bed alone. He wants to dig his fingers into Buck's love handles as Buck rides him on his back just like this.
Fuck.
So maybe things have gotten a little out of hand. But he needs to get it under wraps. Buck is in LA, Eddie is in El Paso. Who's to say things will ever be back to normal, if he'll ever be back home? And on top of that, even if he was back in LA, he already has irrefutable proof that Buck doesn't want him like that. Buck came out as bisexual and was immediately in the arms of another man and not Eddie. How much more proof could Eddie need?
He wants to drop it, wants to let it ride, let it go so he can just be normal and have his best friend not hate him, but one of his hands is already reaching across the hair on his stomach, swirling through it and down into the waistband of his jeans where he can feel his dick straining against his zipper.
In no way should he be touching himself thinking about his best friend naked. If he was a better person, he'd take his hand out of his pants right now like his dick burned him and never ever let himself be in this position again. But Buck's water-slick skin and hair pushed back over his scalp is like a siren song. Eddie's ready to dash himself along the shore if it means having this just one time. So, his right hand unzips his pants and his left frees his cock from its textile prison so that he can strip it vigorously.
And it's not like it takes much imagining on his part to fill in the breaths and the grunts from Buck. They've worked out and strained and sweated together so many times, he knows what Buck's exertion sounds like. It takes next to no imagination to copy and paste it all into the fantasy he's imagining where Buck just fingered himself open in the shower and he comes out to just take all of Eddie's cock in one smooth motion like it's nothing, bouncing on it with his thigh muscles bunching under his all-too familiar tattoos.
It's not much of a stretch to imagine Buck's body locking up with Eddie's hand on his bobbing cock as the orgasm hits him, and then him shaking apart with come dribbling all over Eddie's fingers. And from there, it's not a stretch for Eddie to come in real life.
But he doesn't get his usual rosy glow from an orgasm. Instead, a prickling takes over his body, crawling up his spine and over his scalp. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't be jerking off to a guy in the first place, but he really shouldn't be jerking off non-consensually to his best friend who is very much not interested in him.
Unfortunately, a picture of disapproving white Jesus flashes in his head. He's been spending too much time at church. And now, he's gonna have to go to confession for this one, huh?
…
It's been a long time since Eddie went to confession—barring, of course, the one that sent him here in the first place. Funny enough, the time before was also about masturbation.
Except then he was thirteen, fresh off confirmation and stinging with shame from the lust burning within him that he'd been told he should not feel. After that, after feeling sick for weeks and weeks, after twisting himself in knots over how wrong he felt, Abuela sat him down and had an honest talk with him.
"I love my faith because it brings me comfort, it gives me a sense of peace and belonging. If it doesn't do that for you, maybe you could try something else," she had said with her usual gentle voice and her kind eyes and her soft hands.
It probably wasn't exactly what she'd meant, but her words were like cutting the tether around his ankle, and he refused to go to confession again. Got into screaming fights with Helena and was grounded over it, but he felt freer than he ever had in his whole life after that.
So, he's a little angry at himself for being here again, but it had worked for Bobby and it worked for him a little bit with Father Brian, so he gives Father Hernandez another try. Even if his palms are sweating from now certain he is that the priest will smell the homosexuality on him, sniff him out, and shout him down to hell in front of all the people quietly worshiping on a Monday.
"Forgive me, Father," he starts, hating that Ramon's stern face flashes in his mind when he says father, "because I have sinned. It has been seven weeks since my last confession."
He grips the cedar wood beads of the new rosary Helena had ecstatically bought him at the Catholic store last month in his tight, sweaty palm.
"What sin have you committed, my child?" Father Hernandez rasps through the perforated wood of the confessional booth.
Eddie gulps. He doesn't want to say this. He doesn't know why he's here. He shouldn't be. He wouldn't be if he thought this was something he could just hash out with his best friend.
There is the usual crowd of mostly elderly people praying in the pews, kneeling and murmuring supplications, clutching their own rosaries, or going up to light candles. He'd felt safe enough as he'd slid into the quiet church, sat in the pew closest to the confessional as he waited his turn, finally took his seat opposite the priest inside. But now that he actually has to verbalize the reason he's here, something he's not ready to talk to anyone about, he's frozen.
"My child?" Father Hernandez urges, voice gentle but insistent.
How does he say this without saying he's gay? How does he say this without admitting the horrible, sick thing he'd done while still receiving absolution for it?
"I, um." Eddie sniffs, tries again. "I had impure thoughts," he finally manages to blurt out.
Father Hernandez says nothing, waiting.
"Ah-about a friend. And this friend doesn't know that I feel this."
"And did you do any acts related to these thoughts?" The priest coaxes gently.
"Yes," Eddie admits, throat tight and fingers slipping over the rosary beads before he has a chance to even say any of the requisite prayers.
"Would you consider speaking with your friend about this matter?" Father Hernandez asks, shocking Eddie.
"What?" He asks, taken aback.
"Perhaps a union could come from these thoughts," he muses.
"No," Eddie shuts it down. "No, not possible. Please, I need…I need forgiveness for this."
The priest hums. "Well, you may do 20 Our Fathers and 20 Hail Marys."
"Thank you, Father," Eddie says, sagging with relief.
"Give thanks to the Lord for He is good," the priest said.
"For His mercy endures forever," Eddie responds, rote, before darting out of the booth to find reprieve in his stupid Prius.
…
They make it to the library on the Saturday before Christmas. It's exactly like Eddie remembers, just with more CDs and Christmas garlands strung up.
Chris is sort of bouncy with excitement, even though he's trying to play it cool, but his eyes are bouncing everywhere. Eddie wants to ask if Helena and Ramon haven't taken him here, despite how much Eddie knows Chris loves the library.
"Do you think Buck would like it here?" Chris says as they make their way to the third floor where the AV equipment is.
"I think so," Eddie says, smiling fondly at the thought.
They're 800 miles away, and Chris is still mad at Eddie, yet Chris is thinking about Buck. His heart is warmed.
"You should take some pictures and send them to him," Eddie encourages as they pick a computer station to sit at.
A librarian approaches—a diminutive young girl, probably early twenties at most, in a pink cardigan that reminds Eddie a little painfully of Buck—and asks what she can help them with.
Chris holds up the Hi8 tape triumphantly, and Eddie asks if they have a camcorder.
"Absolutely!" she says brightly, eyes lighting up as she bounces off to grab the aforementioned equipment.
"This is like deciphering an ancient code," Chris says, turning the plastic tape over and over in his hands, "like we're archaeologists."
Chris must be thinking a lot about Buck in this moment, because the comment clearly feels more like a Buck comment than an Eddie one, but Eddie's just grateful to be included, so he goes along.
"I haven't watched this since it was recorded."
"'June 5, 2010,'" Chris reads off the label. "I was born in August."
Eddie snorts. "Yeah, buddy. You were."
It's not the first time they've discussed this. Christopher is turning 15 this year, so it's not like he doesn't know. But Eddie and Shannon were always pretty upfront about their wedding and Shannon getting pregnant with Chris.
"Logically, I knew that," Chris continues, fingers opening and closing the case a few times, "but it's still a little weird to see."
Eddie nods just in time for the librarian to return with the camcorder and RCA cables to hook up at one of the computer stations.
She instructs them how to use it all.
"You just need to sign in with your library card," she says.
Eddie freezes. How had they gotten this far without realizing neither of them had one?
"Uh, can we get him a card?" He asks, sheepish.
The librarian chuckles. "You guys are El Paso County residents, right?"
Eddie nods, just the slightest bit of hesitation. "I'll grab some paperwork and get it processed for you guys."
Eddie is gratified when Chris asks him for the address of the Petunia Drive house, even if he resents the permanence of Chris listing it as his home. He doesn't want this, for either of them, but Chris hasn't indicated he wants to leave. So, here they are.
Once Chris has an official El Paso County Public Library card, he logs in with his ID and PIN—his birthday—so they can start watching.
The trip has a twofold purpose—one, to watch the video, and two to digitize it. That's really what this part of the library is for. The librarian shows them the software they use, tells them how to save the file, and then meanders back over to the circulation desk.
They get it all set up, the tape rewound all the way to the beginning, and then press play. Eddie's a little shocked at the video that starts. It isn't his wedding. Instead, it's a Disneyland trip; he can tell from the fact that he is hugging a Winnie the Pooh character on Main Street USA. The timestamp says July 14, 1998. Eddie is so young in the footage that Sophia is just a baby clutched in Helena's arms when the camera swings over to her standing next to Abuela and Ramon. Oh. Abuelo is the one recording. His eyes well up just a little.
Christopher glances up at him. "This isn't a wedding," he says rather obviously.
"No, mijo. This was…this was a long time ago. Last century even. Before your Tía Adriana was even born."
"Wow," Chris deadpans. "We really are archaeologists."
Eddie rolls his eyes, but before he can see much else of the Disney trip, the video cuts into static. He realizes with a sudden clarity that the wedding video was recorded over that Disney trip from when Eddie was 6, barely old enough to remember it. And he really doesn't remember it. But a hurt lances through his gut, knowing that whatever evidence there was that this—probably—joyful trip even happened has been mostly erased, lost to the sands of time.
"You okay, Dad?"
Eddie sniffs, recovering quickly as the video changes to a static view from the back of the church. It was set up on a tripod off to one side, Eddie remembers, this time manned by Helena who was also running around doing fifty thousand other things, including organizing catering and flowers and hair and make up and her two other children and her parents who—miraculously—had made the trip from Sweden to be there; that had been one of the only times Eddie had ever met his maternal grandparents. It was awkward knowing that the only reason they were in Texas was because their mostly-estranged grandson had broken a condom while having sex with his high school girlfriend.
"Is that Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción?" Christopher asks, and Eddie gets the faintest swell of pride hearing Chris's crisp Spanish pronunciation.
"It is," Eddie confirms.
The static view of the church really makes it clear how little has changed in nearly 15 years. The velvet of the pews is the same burgundy red, the linoleum tiles are the same, if a tiny bit cleaner. It is a time capsule, Eddie must admit.
"Wow," Chris says, and he does sound a bit in awe.
Guests are shuffling in—members of the church, friends from school and the baseball team even though he'd quit, the tiny bit of Shannon's family that made it down from Ohio and out from LA, Eddie's cousins and tíos. Ramon escorts Abuela into the front row, followed by Pepa and her husband and several children.
Finally, Eddie and his best man—Alejandro, despite Ramon's vehement disapproval—shuffle up onto the altar.
"Is that you?" Chris asks in disbelief.
"Yeah, me and my friend, Alejandro," Eddie confirms.
And he looks at himself in his oversized tux that he borrowed from Ramon, looks at Alejandro nervously fiddling with Eddie's tie and then boutonnière respectively like maybe, if he could get the placement perfect, Eddie would look less like a scared child. Shannon's maid of honor, Laurie, nearly trips on her own peach colored dress as she takes her place opposite Eddie and Alejandro.
"You look like a baby," Chris remarks, his eyes owlish behind his glasses.
"Not much older than you are now," Eddie agrees, feeling his throat close up at the first glimpse of Shannon's back as the wedding march rings out on the organ and she starts to make her way down the aisle.
"Mom?" Chris's head picks up.
"Yeah, mijo." Eddie's voice only barely doesn't crack.
"She's…" Chris's hand makes an abortive movement toward the screen, realizing last second he can't reach out and stroke the computer screen. "She's so…"
Eddie has no clue what Chris is trying to say. Not really. But Eddie just feels guilt, looking at this child bride in a thrifted wedding dress she bought for $10 at Goodwill, oversized so it would be big enough to accommodate her not-insignificant belly. Abuela had done her best to cinch it up in the back and to tighten up the sleeves, but the thing still looked like a lumpy, misshapen mess.
"She's a baby," Chris whispers, finally finding the words.
"We both were," Eddie whispers back.
The ceremony proceeds, boring and almost a half an hour long, before Eddie and Shannon finally get to read vows they wrote themselves. Their voices are shaky, reading off pieces of paper that Laurie hands them.
Eddie remembers crying at that point, looking down at Shannon, so pretty even with Sophia's inexpertly applied eyeshadow and lipstick. Because he was standing there looking at his best friend and promising himself to her "until death do us part." And death sure parted them. But they parted themselves even before that.
By the time the scene shifts to the reception, Eddie and Shannon seated front and center in the church annex and surrounded by circular tables with plastic white table cloths over them, Eddie's eyes are wet.
"It's okay, Dad," Chris says, always trying to console the people in his life.
Eddie isn't sure it'll be received well, but he allows himself to tip just a bit against Chris, seeking comfort from his kid. Chris allows it as they watch the speeches and toasts.
He remembers, as he watches himself lead Shannon in their first dance, an easy two-step shuffle to "God Gave Me You"—which neither one of them actually wanted—Shannon bemoaning that she was heavily pregnant and couldn't even drink about it. Eddie had remained stone-cold sober for the entire sordid affair, but he definitely slinked off to the church bathrooms to splash water on his clammy skin and escape the thumping reception music.
Alejandro had met him in there, pulled him into a tight hug after giving Eddie a twin pinch expression.
"Were you happy that day?" Chris asks, eyes on Helena and Ramon dancing together now that the dance floor had opened up.
"Honestly? I don't know. I think I was scared more than anything."
Chris nods. "Did you want to marry mom?"
"I don't…I don't know."
They're silent, listening to "The Electric Slide." It's incongruent to the cold fear sliding through him. This is maybe the most honest he's been with Chris about his feelings toward Shannon.
"She was my best friend, Chris," he says, the truest and thing he can.
"Just like Buck," Chris says, cutting entirely too close to Eddie's quick.
"Yeah, Chris. Just like Buck."