by Lucy Knott
‘That’s not fair. I tried, Scar. I wrote to you – how many letters did I send? How many? I made a mistake; I should have come to see you that summer but that doesn’t take away from the fact that you ignored me, and I was scared. I didn’t know if you wanted to see me again. How could I have possibly known? I didn’t get one response, Scar, not one.’ Devon’s eyes are welling up now. He runs a hand through his dew-damp hair before rubbing his hands together. His shoulders are curved slightly to ward off the dropping temperature. I’m controlling my tears with the discipline I have practised over the years.
‘Yes, well you can keep throwing that in my face, D, but I was young and hurt and you lied to me. This is all your fault. You left.’ My voice escapes a little louder this time. I’m fed up of hearing that line; of him throwing my mistakes in my face. My hands begin to tremble. I know I am doing the same to him; trying to throw all the blame his way, but I can’t help it. It’s like my only protection. If it’s Devon’s fault he will know how to fix it. He got his life in order when he moved to New York. He did fine without me, scored his dream job and dream role. What have I done in his absence? If I acknowledge any part of it being my fault, then I will have to fix it and I don’t know how.
‘Scar, I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry but I was sixteen. Are you ever going to forgive me?’ Devon says, waving his arms at his sides. It’s only now I realise he has run out here without his coat. The tip of his nose is red, his brown eyes clear and twinkling from the cold air.
I look at the ground as I think back to the hospital bed when I was twelve and how Devon didn’t leave my side until I had eaten and we had made up, but at sixteen it had been a whole other story. He didn’t stay, he couldn’t stay, and my life was changed forever. Suddenly Ruby’s words ring out in my brain. I see her laughing with Devon, her hands on his body. My mind conjures the image of Devon stood with the popular boys.
‘I don’t think I can. We’re two different people now. You don’t know me and I sure as hell don’t know the guy who just sits there and allows Ruby to stir up trouble and patronise me and my friends. You’re not my best friend anymore,’ I say firmly, finally releasing what I’ve needed to say out loud for the past ten years; to make it clear to him and to myself that he can’t just turn up and muscle his way into that role again.
When I look up Devon’s eyes are glistening, and his bottom lip is trembling. He goes to take a step forward but someone steps in. Hope puts her arm gently on his forearm. ‘I don’t think this is the time nor place,’ she whispers to him and that’s when I notice a few people have stopped in their tracks to nosy in on tonight’s village entertainment courtesy of Devon and me. If it was ten years ago, Devon and I battling in the street would be just another day in the neighbourhood, but this isn’t some make-believe fight – Spider-Man vs. the Green Goblin – this is real life and it’s another harsh reminder that too much has changed.
Devon nods at Hope before Jess guides him back to the pub and Hope tucks her arm in to the crook of mine and starts walking. She doesn’t speak; she simply strolls calmly by my side all the way to my house, lets us in with her key and potters about turning on lamps and flicking on the kettle. My bones ache from the cold and my eyelids feel too heavy for my face. I slothfully shuffle into the living room and fall onto the couch, my eyes battling to stay open. I tap Ed’s bowl, but he’s not swimming. I can see his glowing orange tail peeking out from his bed cave. ‘Night night, Eddie,’ I whisper, not caring about the mascara tears that are falling on the cushion as I give in to sleep.
*
I don’t remember falling asleep or what time it was when we got back from the pub, but I twist and turn, my eyes slowly opening at three-thirty in the morning to find that I’m fully clothed on my couch with a blanket draped over me.
I lie awake staring at the shadows on my ceiling and my Christmas tree, cast by the moon’s glow. The curtains are still wide open, and the shadows suddenly start dancing with small specks. I turn my attention to the long rectangle portrait window and see the first signs of snow. It’s slow at first, just the odd dot flying past the glass, but after only a few minutes it grows heavy, the dots blurring with the speed at which they are falling. My heart skips a beat.
I sit up and notice a note on the table in addition to a glass of water, a cold cup of tea and toast and makeup wipes. A smile tugs at my lips and, though the toast is a little dry and stale now, I pick up a piece and take a crunchy bite, followed by a large gulp of water to reduce the thumping in my head. Then I reach for Hope’s note.
Take some time for you today. It’s been a busy two days. Jess and I are here if you need us. Hope x
P.S. Don’t freak out. Also, it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. Love you. xx
I pop open the pack of makeup wipes as more tears threaten my eyes. I chew on my tongue to steady my breathing and repeat Hope’s favourite mantra, “don’t freak out” from her favourite TV show and smile at how much I love her.
Once I’ve accumulated a stack of dirty makeup wipes and my clock ticks over to four a.m., I move to sit at the edge of the couch to get a better view of the snowfall, not feeling sleepy anymore. Looking out through my window I can see the snow sticking to the ground, creating a white layer of crisp and crunchy ice. In the magic of the falling snow, my busy mind becomes calm. I’m going to be OK without Devon, I tell myself. After all this time spent dreaming about seeing him again, it’s happened now, and we’ve said all we need to say to each other and though it was painful, it was a good thing. We got everything out in the open and now I can start living my life, properly.
I reach over to the arm of the couch and grab my pink and white woolly throw and wrap it around me. I tiptoe to the tree, not wanting to wake Eddie, and turn on its golden lights, which instantly make me feel better. I simply stand and stare at it.
*
‘I can’t believe you just did that.’ D’s not shouting, he says it softly with tears streaming down his face. D never gets angry with me; he cries instead. Sometimes I wish he would just yell.
‘I didn’t mean it,’ I say, my voice louder. I’m mad at him for being upset. I don’t like him being upset.
‘Well it wasn’t funny. You’re not supposed to play tig with sticks, you’re supposed to use your hands,’ he explains matter-of-fact, his Superman cape lying limp in his small seven-year-old hands.
‘Oh, come on, D, that stick was cool. I couldn’t just leave it on the ground. And how did I know it would rip your cape?’ I retort, folding my arms across my chest.
‘You didn’t even say sorry,’ Devon says before running inside and leaving me alone with said cool stick and my stubborn pout.
*
With the glow of the tree lights, I walk into the kitchen and feel around for the light switch. The tools for my gingerbread house remain scattered on the table after I deserted them yesterday. I realise I never brought my blueprint down from my office but am too scared to venture in there right now. I can’t have my unfinished comic book luring me back in, with a week to go until the Christmas fair I can have no distractions; this gingerbread house needs building. I remove the dough from the fridge and make quick work of cutting out Christmassy shapes and getting them in the oven before focusing my attention on decorating my building.
I look over my decorations and decide to work from memory, either that or just make it up as I go along. I’ll need to make another batch of biscuits but with this being the main feature I think I’m going to decorate each piece and let them set and dry before piecing it together to ensure it all fits snugly and that way if I break any parts of the house I can double up my dough and make new ones along with reindeers and gingerbread people.
The front door of The Village Gazette building seems like the perfect place to start. It’s a thick deep oak door with a brass door knocker and a round gold doorknob. The wood is grainy and worn, which I think gives it character. During the holidays, the addition of a large holly wreath only adds to its charm. I pick up my
fondant and begin to roll out the shapes of red and green that I need to make the wreath in edible form.
Concentrating on the tiny details, painting each wooden knot and dusty red brick keeps me distracted well into lunchtime, when I put my brush down and have a rummage through my fridge. My appetite is non-existent; between my lack of sleep, which has just started catching up with me, and my fight with Devon last night, my body doesn’t know what it wants. I content with making myself a peppermint coffee and powering through. The kitchen smells delicious and I’m pleased with how my shaped gingerbread have turned out, but I’ve only managed one side of the Gazette building. It’s going to take longer than I thought. But it’s a task I’m more than up for and helps keep my mind off replaying my argument with Devon.
Though the words “I’m sorry” keep repeating themselves in my brain. I shake my head and breathe in the aroma of peppermint and gingerbread and take a minute to sit down at the breakfast bar with a piece of paper and pen.
I scribble out a note to speak to Autumn this week and check in with Hope’s library idea, in addition to some ideas of how to present the baking competition working with The Village Gazette to Mrs Rolph. But I feel like we need something bigger to keep the magazine afloat. As I sip my coffee and twirl my pen around in my fingers, I wonder if there is a way of making our magazine monthly rather than weekly and still have it profit. It would cut down on production and save on costs and maybe give people something to look forward to each month, so much so that they would treat themselves and not think twice about buying it.
Stretching my arms above my head I let out a little “mmm” sound, feeling excited by my idea. I then rub at my eyes and release a yawn I had been trying to hold in. The sound of tapping draws my attention to my living room window, so I pick up my coffee to go and investigate.
‘Afternoon, sunshine,’ I say to Eddie as I spot his little fluorescent body swimming around his tank. I sprinkle in some food before moving towards the window. The snow is falling once more but this time it’s not feathery snowflakes but icy pellets thundering to the ground below. I smile. I love this time of year, being wrapped up indoors with the fire going, listening to the elements outside, the house in a sort of moody yet warm and peaceful darkness.
Devon and I used to make snow forts back in the day. When the weather turned anti-skateboarding on us, we’d build forts, take all our action figures inside with us and smuggle snacks from the kitchen, not coming out until it was time for dinner or home time for one of us.
“I’m sorry” mocks me in my mind again. I turn away from the memories the snow is eliciting and decide I should probably get out of last night’s clothes and wash. A lazy Sunday in pyjamas was one thing, a smelly, icky, lazy Sunday in yesterday’s clothes was another. I deposit my empty mug in the kitchen and twist my short hair into a topknot that becomes more a half up, half down topknot as I make my way up the stairs.
To divert my brain’s attention from Devon, I run through my “to do” list. The chimney for my replica building needs whipping up, so I’ll do that this afternoon with the next batch of cookies I make. I need to start on another wall of the building in order for construction to move forward this week on my Victorian-style house. I always prefer decorating each slab before piecing them together – that way more detail can be added without icing and fondant slipping out of place or drizzling down the roof and making a mess.
The hot shower melts away the tension in my shoulder blades. I can do this. I will finish this project in time, and it will be the best Christmas fair stall Springhollow has ever seen from The Village Gazette. The villagers are already getting excited. After the flyer went out on Thursday informing every one of the Gingerbread competition, I’d seen to a few emails Friday morning with people wanting to triple check the rules, eager to get started on their entry.
I wash and rinse with both shampoo and conditioner and when I step out of the shower, my warm fluffy towel is like a welcome hug. But when I catch myself in the mirror, I don’t recognise the person before me. Something doesn’t sit right. You didn’t even say you’re sorry. The words buzz around more forcefully in my head. When I go to retreat from my own evil glare, I pause on the landing. I hug my towel tighter to my body and slowly push open the door to my office/fake storage space and immediately start rummaging through old boxes I haven’t looked through in years. This will make it up to him. This will be my apology, then I can truly put the past behind me and both Devon and I can stay out of each other’s way and get on with our lives once and for all.
When I find what I am looking for, I go to leave, but before I know it, my fairy lights are aglow and I’m scribbling and sketching at my desk like my pencil never left the paper.
11
After rolling into bed at close to midnight I barely sleep a wink. My comic book had stolen all my attention for the evening; I felt like my hands couldn’t keep up with the pace the ideas were coming to my brain, which had continued to fire on all cylinders while I tried to sleep. That and my plan for today kept spinning around my mind. I shower in the darkness and dress under the light of the moon. I dress in my sleek black trousers with long-sleeved light blue button-up blouse, eyeing up my denim dungarees as I do so, and sigh. It’s just work clothes. Everyone has a uniform for work; it’s no big deal and it makes my mum happy, I tell myself and quickly grab my mustard yellow beanie, to claim a little piece of myself.
Bundling up with my scarf and navy fleece I creep out of my house and into the freshly fallen snow. It crunches under the pressure of my boots, making me smile into my woolly scarf. I wave at Mr and Mrs Rolph as I pass the bakery on the corner of my street. Already the smell of baking loaves fills the square. I nod at Mrs Bride fiddling with her chunky keys to open the library doors. It’s early in Springhollow – the whole the village isn’t awake yet. It’s not often I witness the first signs of life but as I need to walk to the edge of the village before work, I had to make an early start.
This morning I’m choosing to follow my instinct, which is something I haven’t dared to do in a while, but with my package in my backpack I’m feeling brave. My plan is to nip to The Sunflower Inn, about five blocks from me, and see if I’m correct and that Devon and his entourage are staying there, what with it being the only inn in our quaint village. I don’t think the smaller B and B’s could accommodate the press crew. There I will leave my parcel at the front desk with Willow. That’s it, simple as that and then I can be on my way.
I make it three blocks before the clouds decide to sprinkle generous heaps of snowflakes on me. I can’t complain though. It’s a beautiful sight watching the sun come up through snow showers. The moonlight and slowly rising sun make the snowflakes glisten and give the sky a stunning halo effect that projects rainbows of colour to guide my way. I skip a little faster hoping to keep the chill they bring at bay.
Whereas the village square was blanketed with quiet this morning, The Sunflower Inn is abuzz with life. There are people on mobile phones pacing the decking and I can see a camera being set up through the reception area in the dining room. It’s a little odd seeing these sharp-suited and booted folks in the inn, not to judge, but the lack of Wi-Fi and the mobile service being spotty at best, we don’t get many businesspeople bar the few regulars who come to switch off. The people I am currently observing look far from switched off.
‘I take it you’re here to see Devon.’ Willow’s soft and airy voice snaps me out of my nosy people-watching and reminds me that I can’t hover for long because no, no I’m not here to see Devon and I don’t wish to bump into him either.
I turn my attention hastily away from watching the camera crew fiddle with lighting, to Willow. She’s beautiful with sandy shoulder-length hair that naturally waves around her heart-shaped face. Her deep hazel eyes greet me with a smile. Willow and I went to primary school together, but she always kept herself to herself, picking flowers in the school playground or sitting with her eyes to the sky, lost in a daydream. We got on well e
nough, though I sometimes think mine and Devon’s action-packed games terrified her. She didn’t attend our high school, her parents choosing to home-school her instead.
‘Hey, Willow, no erm no, I’m just here to drop this off for Devon and see if you could give it to him for me,’ I say, rummaging through my backpack to retrieve the soft brown bag.
Willow stops fluttering around her desk plants and eyes me curiously. ‘Do you not want to give it to him yourself?’ she asks before her cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink and she hastily adds, ‘I mean of course I can pass it on to him, Scarlett, but it sounds important. I just thought he’d prefer it coming from you.’ There’s a nervous flicker behind Willow’s eyes that suggests she’s worried that she just offended me by being rude, but Willow couldn’t sound rude if she tried. And I’m not offended by her question, just a tad inconvenienced by it; meaning I really don’t want to answer it.
I chuckle and wave my hands to make light of the conversation, to show that it isn’t that important and to put Willow at ease over her anxiety at possibly speaking out of turn. She is a sweetheart and really hadn’t offended me. ‘Erm, no, no. It’s fine. I’ve got to get off to work, so I’d be truly grateful if you could just give it to him, please,’ I say handing her the bag.