Christmas In The City

by Shen, L. J.

  Her downtrodden tone made me frown. “Yes Fiji.” My firm statement drew her eyes. “You want to go to Fiji? Go to Fiji.”

  Her smile a flash—there, and then hidden—she faced forward again. “Fine. Then maybe I will.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.” The smile crept its way back to her lips and eyes, and pretty Ophelia was suddenly gorgeous Ophelia, which had me biting back an offer to take her bikini shopping for Fiji.

  The woman didn’t need any of that, and I didn’t need any complications. Truth was, I shouldn’t be with her now. I should still be in that little pub on South Anne Street, alone. I always spent Christmas alone out of choice. I never wanted to be with anyone but myself, and my thoughts, and my memories.

  But there was just something about her that had drawn me in, that had made my usual choice tonight seem lonely instead of merely solitary.

  “How about you?”

  “Uh . . .” I frowned. “How about me, what?”

  “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

  The past.

  I breathed a laugh, stopping a bitter smile. “Oh, I don’t know.” My eyes moved from the twinkling Christmas lights lining the park to the man playing the guitar now just a hundred yards or so away, surrounded by a decent sized group of spectators despite the lateness of the hour. “I’ve always wanted to ride the Orient Express.”

  “Ha! Wouldn’t that be something?” Her arm squeezed mine and she skipped once, twisting to face me, our arms still linked. “What a glorious idea. I wonder if they run during Christmas.”

  “They do.” I’d never taken it, never had the occasion, but I’d looked it up.

  Trains were my favorite mode of transportation. First class dining cars set the best tables. Picturesque. Dark wood, Turkish rugs, white linen tablecloths, crystal, silver, and napkins folded like swans. Problem was, solo train travel was like watching a baseball game alone. Half the fun is the talking about it.

  Ophelia’s quiet laughter had me looking at her. “What? What is it?” I’d finally made her laugh and I had no idea why.

  “Oh, nothing.” She shook her head, laughing again. “I was just thinking, if we were in a movie, this would be the part of the tale where you’d suggest—if we’re both alone next Christmas—we meet on the Orient Express.”

  “Or you could suggest it.” What was that? Why did I sound like that? My voice was all deep. Like, Barry White deep.

  “Ha-ha.” She rolled her eyes, using our linked arms to tug me forward while whispering, “Hey, let’s stop for a moment, just until he’s finished. He’s so good.”

  I agreed, so I said nothing, letting Ophelia bring us to a stop toward the back of the crowd. Didn’t matter much. I was almost a half-foot taller than everyone else so I could see just fine. The thing about the Irish is that—other than their Rugby players—they’re a small people.

  Take Ed Sheeran for example: big talent. Also, might be a leprechaun. And Bono, he’s fun-sized. Betcha didn’t know he’s only 5’6”. This guy, the one who was playing now, also looked like he was about 5’6”. . .

  I stiffened, finally recognizing just who was busking in the middle of the night in the middle of Dublin and exhaled a disbelieving breath along with a, “Holy shit.”

  Ophelia stepped closer and I glanced at her.

  She was fighting another smile, leaning in to whisper, “Right? And I think these other blokes are too drunk to realize who’s playing for them. Feckin’ eejits.”

  There was laughter in her voice, and I also chuckled, but then stiffened again, ducking my head on instinct. If he saw me, our famous performer would definitely recognize me. I didn’t want that to happen in front of Ophelia. I was still just some dude. Maybe I’d never see Ophelia again after tonight, but we had tonight. I wasn’t ready to be Broderick Addams to her yet.

  Just for tonight.

  “Is this where you were going to take me?” I used her snack stature as an excuse to dip lower.

  “No.” She turned wide eyes on me. “But do you want to stay and listen?”

  “Nah. I can hear this guy on Spotify anytime I want.” I gestured with my head toward the sidewalk even as I turned. “Let’s get going.”

  She followed and then quickly took the lead, sliding her hand down my arm to capture my fingers as we crossed the street.

  “It’s just up this way, not too far.”

  Studying our hands, I asked, “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “And it’s open?”

  “Yep.”

  “On Christmas Eve? At midnight?”

  She chuckled again, like something about my words was especially funny, sending me a look. “Oh yeah, it’s open.”

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  “Um.” She pressed her finger to her chin again, obviously debating how to respond. “How about, there will be singing.”

  “A club?”

  “Noooo.” She shivered, wrapping her arm around her middle and stepping closer to me as her teeth chattered. “Not a club.”

  Without pausing to think, instinct had me wrapping an arm around her shoulders and drawing her near.

  . . . What? She was cold, right? What was I supposed to do? Let her freeze to death? No. The arm around her shoulders and the bringing her body to mine was all about sharing warmth. That’s it. Anyway, she didn’t seem to mind. Ophelia snuggled against my side, her arm coming around my waist like we’d done this a hundred times.

  We were strangers. It should’ve been weird. It wasn’t.

  “We’re almost there.” She peered up at me, her eyes twinkling and excited as they lowered to my lips. “I think you’re going to like this.”

  “You think so?” I muttered, almost adding, Well, you would know. But I didn’t, because that would be crazy (even though I thought it and my subconscious apparently believed it).

  In the next moment, she was guiding me up steps and I realized as soon as the music hit my ears where we were. Well, maybe not specifically where we were. Rather, what kind of place we were in.

  Sending her a look as she stepped away from my hold, she held my eyes for a long moment, dipping her fingers in water to the right of the inside door. She then crossed herself. Ophelia led me to the pew at the very back of the church, a smile teasing at her lips as she lifted her own voice to join the choir at the front in their hauntingly beautiful rendition of ‘Silent Night.’

  She was right. I did like it. A lot.

  Taking a moment, I glanced at our surroundings as the music filled the spaces around and within us. I was surprised by all the color, especially along the upper walls. Vibrant, giant frescoes in high contrast had been painted beneath arching windows. The ceiling was white or beige, impossible to tell without daylight, and green vines had been painted between the rafters, reaching from the back of the church to the alter.

  Visually, it was louder, the art less muted but no less ostentatious than the Catholic churches I’d visited throughout Europe. But I decided I liked it better than St. Peter’s gold gilt, pastels, and white marble.

  After ‘Silent Night’ came ‘Noel,’ then a hymn I’d never heard before.

  Sliding my arm around Ophelia’s waist, I bent to her ear and whispered, “What song is this?”

  “‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’” she whispered back, and I didn’t miss the way she leaned into me, staying put instead of shifting away after answering my question.

  I also didn’t say what was on my mind, which was something like, Of course the Irish have a Christmas carol with the word ‘bleak’ in it. Nor did I sing. Singing was not one of my gifts to give. Instead, I listened to the choir, to the church goers surrounding us at midnight mass, to the gentle organ accompaniment. But mostly, I listened to the powerful voice—in every way a voice could be powerful—next to me and tried to anchor myself.

  I couldn’t. She swept me away. The edges of reality blurred, and she was not a stranger. I knew her. We’d met befo
re, so many times, and we were where we belonged—which was together, anywhere, but always now.

  At some point the singing stopped and we sat, my arm along the back of the pew, Ophelia tucked against my side. Readings were read and still we remained close. But when the congregation stood once more, she tilted her head toward the back and mouthed, Let’s go.

  Allowing her to lead me back into the night, the door closed behind us on the third Alajuela, shutting out the warmth and the song, but leaving us together, now.

  Sending me a grin over her shoulder, she kept hold of my hand while climbing down the steps. “So, did you like it?”

  Her voice was husky with use and I liked this new quality to it. In fact, I more than liked it. It sent my blood humming to the four—or five—corners on my body, warm and thick.

  I wanted her close again, so I stopped her at the bottom stairs, intending to simply tuck her under my arm again. But that’s not what I did.

  Ophelia turned to face me, a questioning smile on her lips and the light of intoxicating happiness behind her green eyes. She gazed up at me, and I think she read my mind, because her grin quickly fell away.

  But not the happiness. No. The happiness remained, mixing with anticipation.

  Her breathing changed and she licked her lips, taking a shuffling step forward, her lashes fluttering until her stare lowered to my mouth.

  My palms slid against her jaw, the soft, warm skin of her cheeks, and I tilted her head back. And I kissed her.

  That feeling, that same feeling from earlier when I’d heard her sing for the first time—like my heart had been overwhelmed by a reality too big to be contained—arrested me. She was hot—her lips, her tongue—and yielding, but not uncertain.

  I smoothed a hand down her side to her lower back, encouraging her to step more completely into my space. She did.

  I threaded my fingers into her hat, pushing it from her head, sifting through her tangled curls while she wrapped her arms around my neck, sucking on my tongue, making me even more crazy for the taste and feel of her.

  Keeping friendly company on a lonely Christmas Eve was one thing, but this was no longer anything so simple or harmless. I wanted her and I wasn’t thinking. I wanted her and, if she wanted me, the greediness within said there existed no reason we couldn’t have each other.

  “Where—” I pulled away to say the word, but not for long, wanting—needing—another taste before finishing the question. “Where do you live?” I lowered my lips to her chin, jaw, neck, biting and flicking the skin with my tongue. “Are you close?”

  “Yes. Very close.” Stretching to give me better access and practically climbing my body, her nails dug into my shoulders through the thick layer of my jacket. Her breath hitched, her hands grabbing frustrated fistfuls of my coat. “Please. Please come over.”

  “Absolutely,” I growled against her skin, my hands sliding to her backside, pressing her more firmly against me. I wanted her to know and feel exactly what was on my mind.

  Ophelia gasped again, but she didn’t pull away, instead seeking my mouth for another hot kiss, sending any of my remaining good sense packing.

  It was Christmas, after all. And I’d been so, so, so good this year.

  Until now.

  3

  Ophelia

  “So, this is where you live?” Broderick asked, looking up and down the dark street.

  “Yeah, sorry, I know the area is a bit dodgy.” I dipped my head.

  “Hey,” he whispered, tipping his fingers to my chin. I brought my eyes to his and his look was intense, like he was reading my mind. “Not what I meant.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but words failed me. The way he spoke made the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Being alone with him, the energy around us had built and now it felt electric. All my senses were heightened.

  “O…okay,” I finally whispered back.

  It was quiet as we approached my house. It would be an understatement to say I was nervous about him seeing the place. Now that the rush of his kisses had subsided, I was starting to second guess my decision to invite him back. Fortunately, it was late and Christmas Eve, so most of my housemates would probably be in bed or off with their families. Maybe I could pretend I only shared with three or four people instead of twelve.

  Broderick was silent as I scrambled in my bag for my key. I slotted it in the door and stepped inside. The aroma of too many dinners being cooked in the same kitchen immediately hit my nose. Then, the faint underlying scent of mildew. I chanced a peek at Broderick as he took it all in.

  What was my plan again? Bring him back here and . . .?

  Even if he didn’t notice the smell, he definitely saw the cramped hallway where an array of my housemate’s possessions were haphazardly strewn. Several bicycles leaned against the wall alongside shoes, boots, coats and all manner of personal items. The walls were painted a pale yellow, with damp spots marking the ceiling. Good thing the entryway light is broken.

  Over the last few weeks my eyes had adapted to the mess, but now I was seeing it afresh through Broderick’s eyes and it gave me a weird pang of shame and embarrassment. I bet he lived in some swanky open plan apartment in Soho. Or a funky, hipster neighborhood in Brooklyn. Somewhere far removed from my own dank situation.

  The kitchen light shone down the hallway and it sounded like one of my housemates had some friends over. Wonderful. Boisterous male laughter sounded and I glanced at Broderick again. His eyebrows were drawn, his lips a thin, straight line. I couldn’t decipher what he was thinking. Was he judging me? Pitying me? Trying to concoct some excuse to leave? To be honest I wouldn’t blame him.

  “How many people live here?” he asked after a stretch of silence.

  “A few,” I answered evasively and grabbed his hand to pull him into the living room. I gestured for him to sit but he didn’t look too keen. The sofa was old and moth-eaten, cigarette holes burned into the armrest. Empty beer cans were scattered across the coffee table, as well as some dirty cups and plates.

  He probably thinks this is a crack den.

  Why on earth had I invited him back here? Something came over me when he kissed me outside the church. I wanted more. I wanted one night where I could just forget about my life and lose myself in someone else, someone who lived far, far away and who I’d likely never see again. Just one night where reality and fantasy were the same.

  “What constitutes a few?” Broderick went on, not letting up on his questioning. He finally sat and I stood by the coffee table, nervous. This was not going how I imagined it would. He stared at me, his gaze determined, not leaving me any room to change the subject.

  “Twelve?” I replied, heart thumping, cheeks heating. Why was I so embarrassed? This bloke was a stranger. I didn’t have to care about his opinion of me, but for some reason I did. I cared immensely.

  He blinked, and I saw the surprise flitter across his eyes before he schooled his expression. “How many bedrooms are there?”

  “Three,” I answered honestly. It wasn’t like telling him the truth could do me any harm. I was a creature of interest, someone to distract him before he got on a plane and went back to whatever fancy life he led.

  “That’s a lot of people for only three bedrooms,” he went on, his attention going to the chatter streaming in from the kitchen. “Are they all friends of yours from college or something?”

  “No. I didn’t go to college. And we aren’t exactly friends. We all just live here. I stay out of their way and they stay out of mine.”

  Broderick’s expression showed a hint of consternation. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he rubbed his temples. “But you know them, right? Please tell me they’re at least decent people for the sake of my sanity.”

  I chewed on my lip, wanting to lie to make him feel better, but I’d told the truth so far so why stop now? “I know their names, but that’s about it.” I stared at him a moment. My answer didn’t appear to reassure him. In fact, it seemed t
o do the opposite.

  Aaaaand now I felt defensive. Grrr. What business was it of his where I lived? We were strangers who’d decided on a whim to spend Christmas Eve together. He didn’t need to worry about me. I could be murdered in my bed tomorrow and it wouldn’t affect him one iota. “It’s all I can afford and it’s safer than sleeping on the streets, which is my only other option so…”

  “Ophelia.” He said my name like I made him feel both outraged and powerless. Something about it caused an unexpected wave of emotion to rush through me.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I sniffed. “I’ll be fine. This is only temporary. As soon as I have enough money saved, I’ll get a place of my own. I’ve been considering moving an hour or two away and commuting to work. The rents are much cheaper outside the capital.”

  He listened to me speak and a flicker of something appeared behind his brown eyes. He opened his mouth, about to say something, when the living room door was pushed open. One of my housemates entered, bleary eyed and wobbly on his feet. He looked from me to Broderick, a can of beer in hand. I guessed he and his friends were the ones responsible for the empty cans scattered all over the living room.

  “Amelia!” he said, loud and obnoxious. “Merry Christmas!”

  Broderick looked to me, eyebrow raised as he mouthed, Amelia?

  I shook my head, glancing at my roommate, whose name was Mikael. “It’s Ophelia, remember? And Merry Christmas to you, too. Do you know what time your friends will be leaving?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Whenever they run out of booze probably.” He flopped down on the couch next to Broderick and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up. Mikael was far too drunk to realize how rude he was being.

  “So, don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asked, turning his attention to Broderick, who appeared to be deciding whether to entertain the question. Before he had the chance to say anything, Mikael’s friends burst into the room, a bundle of noisy, drunken male energy.

  Broderick met my gaze and we had something of a silent conversation.