by Lucy Knott
I try and settle the sudden weird, uncomfortable feeling of guilt and I don’t know what in my stomach with a piece of pita. I haven’t eaten since lunch and my stomach is suddenly scolding me for it with all its odd rumbles and squirming. I catch Hope looking at me from the corner of my eye and smile and raise my pita at her in thanks, while Devon mumbles through an answer.
It occurs to me to save him from being put on the spot like this, like when we were kids and he forgot to do his homework. I was used to his mum’s disappointed looks, but Devon was not. His mother had high and strict standards and Devon hated to upset her. It was usually my fault his homework had been forgotten. Forgive me for thinking that the safety of Springhollow ranked as a higher priority than maths. But I don’t say anything and there’s a small part of me that is intrigued by his answer. He’s grown rather tall. He’s got those dark features and looks handsome in a suit, which is what women apparently go for.
‘Erm ha, me? No, not really,’ Devon humbly replies.
‘So, there’s no special someone in your life?’ Hope pushes. Devon shuffles on the couch, his shoulders stiffen and his hand rubs at the back of his neck.
‘No, no special someone,’ he replies quietly, cheeks ablaze.
‘Do you prefer Christmas in New York or Christmas in Springhollow?’ I blurt out, sitting up straighter, unable to sit back and watch Devon sweat for much longer. He used to be a lot better with the mushy-gushy, best friends for life stuff, but talking about women has him looking hot under his collarless shirt.
His shoulders fall a few inches as he helps himself to some bread and when he turns to face me the red in his cheeks slowly starts to fade and he relaxes once more.
‘You’re going to hate me but, well, both,’ D answers, all excitement back on his features. I gasp, mock horrified.
‘No, it cannot be. There is nowhere on earth that does Christmas like Springhollow,’ I protest.
‘Ahh, but, Scar, New York has this magic and the Rockefeller tree is spectacular; like nothing you have ever seen before.’ Devon’s eyes light up in wonder.
‘We have a tree,’ I argue, playfully, nibbling on more pita.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Devon tilts his head from side to side, the dimple in his right cheek growing more prominent. ‘But it doesn’t quite compare to the Rockefeller tree. It’s gigantic and sparkles from every branch.’
I pop an olive in my mouth. ‘Our tree sparkles and it doesn’t have to be big or the biggest to be awesome. It’s not the size that matters.’
Hope chokes on her hummus and Devon’s cheeks return to a lovely rosy hue.
‘And with that, I think dinner is ready,’ Hope says, standing. It takes me a minute to register what I just said and how my wonderful friends could have turned it into something inappropriate. I nod awkwardly at Devon who lets out a laugh, shakes his head and stands.
‘After you,’ he says with a smirk. It’s my turn to blush as I clamber off the couch, only meeting his chest when I stand. I automatically punch him in the bicep and tut at his teasing smugness.
‘What was that for?’ He laughs, rubbing his arm. ‘You always did have a way with words,’ he adds shoving me towards the door before I can respond with another playful jab.
13
Hope hands me a glass of wine as I take my seat at the table. Devon sits next to me, Hope and Jess across from us. I take a few big gulps to cool the burning in my cheeks and see Hope smirk out of the corner of my eye.
‘To second chances and new beginnings,’ she announces, raising her glass. I clink mine against hers and the boys’ pint glasses, rolling my eyes at her toast, but my stomach rumbles again so instead of analysing her words I choose to dig in.
Hope has made a delicious feast of salmon, asparagus, roast potatoes and cauliflower cheese and every bite is scrumptious. There’s a big quiet as we all take a couple of moments to simply enjoy the food before us. Before long I’m on my second glass of red wine and have loaded my plate with a few extra trimmings of roast potatoes and cauliflower cheese and everyone is chatting merrily.
‘You two must have had some fun Christmases together when you were kids?’ Hope sits back having finished her one plate. I finish my bite of potato, its buttery flavour and the wine make me feel deliriously happy.
‘Remember that Christmas we tied Thor to the neighbourhood cat, and she didn’t like it too much and took off through my house, knocking all the baubles and pines off the entire bottom half of the tree?’ I reply, leaning back in my chair and looking at Devon. He too is relaxed, beer in hand, eyes glassy from yummy starchy potatoes and creamy veg.
‘Then your mum banned the real trees after that, and you were only allowed fake ones.’ Devon lets out a laugh.
‘She wasn’t best pleased.’ I shake my head, laughing, and take a sip of wine.
‘What about that time on the construction site when we got stuck on the roof and your dad got mad at us for peering off the scaffold?’ Devon reminisces with a smile on his lips.
I cringe. ‘I don’t know who took the heat worse for that one: us or Dad. Our mums were fuming.’ I can’t help chuckle at the memory and the fact that my dad still calls us his favourite tag team and likes the idea of seeing the two of us together again, when I’m pretty sure Mum didn’t talk to him for two weeks after that particular incident.
‘You two sound like right troublemakers,’ Jess notes. Both him and Hope are sat grinning at our misdemeanours.
‘Arrgh, it was all in the name of fighting the good fight and keeping down the crime rate in Springhollow.’ Devon shrugs.
Hope bursts out laughing. ‘I’ve never known Springhollow to even have crime,’ she says.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say with a nod of my head, holding up my wine glass, which causes Devon to laugh his loud and hearty laugh that has grown deeper with age.
I see Hope studying both Devon and me. Her lips are pursed her eyes are narrowed and then a smile spreads across her face and she stands. ‘I’ll get dessert.’
Devon helps her clear the table while I refill both mine and Hope’s glasses before Jess places two cold beers on the table and takes his seat, looking all the more relaxed in Devon’s company now than he did two nights ago at the pub.
‘So, what’s it like having a superhero for tea?’ I ask, teasing him only a little.
‘By the sounds of it we have two. Why did you keep it from us all these years?’ Jess asks, a thoughtful, concerned look on his boyish face. I’ve briefly explained myself to Hope and even though I have no problems turning to Jess for advice on day-to-day problems or asking for his help when say there’s a giant spider in my house, it’s hard for me to admit that I kept Devon and my love of superheroes from them out of anger and fear. That and it was hard to explain it to them when I couldn’t even understand it all myself. Thinking about it now, it seems absurd that I punished myself with no drawing or comic books and abstained from all the movies I once loved, but it had become a coping mechanism, my way of trying to get Devon out of my head. Would Jess understand that?
I’m saved from having to explain myself when Hope places a lemon cheesecake on the table and Devon plonks down a tub of ice-cream from Salvatore’s, our local hole-in-the-wall ice-cream shop. You’ve never had ice-cream like it before. All the ingredients come from the local farmers and Salvatore only makes a limited number of batches each day so it’s rich, creamy, divine and guaranteed freshness.
‘I bet you don’t get ice-cream like Salvatore’s in New York,’ I say proudly as Devon takes his seat.
‘You would be right. Springhollow gets a point there,’ Devon replies with a soft smile. I think the wine has officially gone to my head as I get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach when he smiles like that; his eyes sparkle and his features are at ease. He’s looking at me with an expression you would give a spectacular sunset, a mixture of awe and gentle appreciation. Suddenly, I get a feeling of falling and jerk in my chair. I shake it off with a giant bite of lemon cheesecak
e, needing the food to soak up the alcohol in my system. No more wine for me tonight. Why is Hope allowing me to drink so much wine on a work night?
‘We’re on a point system, now, are we? Springhollow vs. New York?’ I ask casually, hoping that everyone is just as tipsy as me and didn’t notice my awkward jerk. Hope hasn’t taken her eyes off me, which I take to mean she didn’t miss it. Jess is devouring his ice-cream and Devon is still slightly twisted in his chair facing me. Reverting to sarcasm is my default. I need to get the conversation flowing again to show that I’m cool, but my heart is thumping a little too fast. I’m worried that everyone can hear it.
‘So, what does Springhollow get if it wins?’ I say teasing and laughing at my own words; the epitome of cool that I am.
Devon doesn’t play along; instead he gives me a thoughtful look and then turns to his dessert and licks his lips. ‘This looks amazing, Hope. So, are there any new traditions I shouldn’t miss while I’m here?’ he asks, his voice sounding a little strained at first and then more normal after his first bite of cheesecake.
Hope looks at me. I offer her a bright smile, like Devon ignoring my question wasn’t anything unusual. She looks back at Devon then excitement floods her face.
‘Oh, Mr and Mrs Rolph only recently started a cookie competition. Every Wednesday you can enter a cookie and then the town comes together to try them, and you pop your winning number in a ballot box. The cookie with the most votes throughout the year will be the cookie that we leave out for Santa on Christmas Eve. It’s really cute. The kids love it and it gets families baking together, which is gorgeous. We’re thinking of asking for small donations for the magazine and then running an article every two weeks on the winning recipes and talking to the families involved next year. It’s really fun. Hmm, what else?’ Hope ponders, her fast-talking clearly showing her passion for what she does and for our village’s festivities.
Jess sits back after finishing his dessert and reaches his arm over the back of her chair absent-mindedly playing with her hair. He looks at her with clear admiration. I’m used to witnessing these looks and I still haven’t tired of it. I love the two of them together.
When I turn to take in Devon’s reaction to this beautiful new tradition, I see he’s already looking at me. I hope he didn’t catch me and my silly wine-induced longing look at Jess’s movements. That soft smile spreads across his face again. He moves his arm in my direction and for a moment I think he’s going to put his arm around me, mirroring Jess’s position, and a rush of heat floods through my body. What the? But his hand brushes past my shoulder and rests on the back of my chair.
I must look the picture of deer caught in the headlights right now because Devon squints his eyes at me, assessing me – my cheeks feel like they are on fire. What is wrong with me? I sure as hell do not want Devon to know of my mushy-gushy desires. It’s getting late now and Jess and Hope are getting to that cosy stage; doing that thing that couples do where you can tell they are ready to curl up for the day in each other’s arms after a long day of work and other appointments that have kept them apart.
Normally when it’s just me it’s fine. I like seeing them so loved up and happy together, after all these years, but in Devon’s presence it feels weird. It feels too personal. We never talked crushes, boyfriends, girlfriends or relationship stuff so I feel like a kid again, like I want to stick my tongue out and say “gross”, just to avoid the romance in the air.
‘These two put on a different stall each year at the Christmas fair too. The Christmas fair isn’t new but the stuff these two come up with always goes down a treat,’ Jess says proudly, moving up closer to Hope. She rests a hand on his leg and nestles into his side casually.
‘I can’t really take the credit; it’s all this one,’ Hope responds, pointing in my direction, sleepily. ‘Last year Scarlett had everyone making wreaths, the year before that it was snow globes and this year it’s… wait for it… gingerbread houses. It’s going to be amazing,’ she finishes with a clap.
‘It sounds it,’ Devon concurs. ‘Creativity has always been this one’s forte.’
‘Oh yeah, tell us more about her drawings,’ Hope says eagerly.
Devon hesitates and looks over to me. I try and telepathically communicate that he better remember our conversation from before or I will kill him, by giving him my most subtly evil stare. ‘I, erm, where to begin?’ he starts but I can’t take any chances with what he’s about to say. I move to uncross my legs and accidently manage to tip my wine glass onto his lap as I go to stand up to clear the table.
‘Oh shoot, sorry. I was just going to clear up. It’s getting late and it’s a work night. My boss hates it if I’m late.’ I laugh as Devon starts patting his trousers with a napkin. Hope and Jess are both on their feet, gasps having escaped their mouths. Hope races around the table with a tea towel, offering it to Devon. She gives me an evil glare mixed with a confused look at my jittery behaviour. We’ve had enough talk of the past tonight; I knew what she was doing. If I won’t open up, she now has Devon to interrogate and supply her with the information she desires, but not on my watch. There are just some things she doesn’t need to know.
‘No worries, Scar. They’re just trousers. I’m good, guys,’ Devon informs the table. I’m busying myself carrying plates back and forth to the kitchen while the others fuss over him.
‘See he’s fine, you two. It was an accident, just a little wine spill. I think he’ll live,’ I say, loading my arms with more plates for the sink.
Hope catches my eye and straightens herself up. ‘Of course, yes. Sorry, Devon. Scarlett can show you to the spare room. Jess has a drawer of old clothes. Please help yourself to some fresh trousers and I can get these in the wash for you.’
I freeze on my way to the kitchen counter. ‘I can get them for him, honey,’ Jess says.
‘Oh no no, it’s OK, dear. You can help me clear the rest of the table before Scarlett makes any more mess. She knows where to look. Off you go,’ Hope says, suddenly sounding like a desperate housewife as she relieves me of the glass in my hand and ushers Devon and I towards the kitchen door.
‘Thanks, Hope,’ I say confidently and casually, to show her that being alone with Devon in a bedroom does not faze me in the slightest and she has got it all wrong. ‘I can do that, no problem.’
In the small box room, I make a beeline for the chest of drawers, pull out any old pair of Jess’s trousers and throw them at Devon. ‘There you go, D,’ I say in a sprightly manner, trying to ignore the fuzz in my brain and the tingle down my spine when Devon hesitantly brushes past me in the confined space. Is it just me or is it warm in here?
Before I can leave to give Devon some privacy, he stops in front of me. I’m not used to his towering over me. At sixteen he was maybe a couple inches taller than me; now he’s like three heads taller.
‘What was that all about?’ I say, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me. I really want my bed right now.
‘What was what all about, Scar?’ he asks clutching the trousers in his hands, tilting his head to try and engage me eye to eye. ‘I wasn’t even going to mention you wanting to be an illustrator – you can trust me you know.’ He sits down on the bed, his knees touching my thighs when he does so – the tiny room not quite accommodating his size. I stand in front of him feeling a little trapped in between his legs.
‘I’m sorry, I just couldn’t risk it. You say that to Hope and it will upset her. She’ll blame herself like she’s the one holding me back and she’ll worry that I’m not happy.’ I plead my case for my dramatic actions, able to look into Devon’s eyes better now that he is sitting. They match mine a little in the glazed department and I know he’s had one too many beers too. It’s time to call it a night. I hope he will be able to remember his way back to The Sunflower Inn, because I really don’t want to have to be his escort. I want my bed; this night is making my head spin in more ways than one.
‘Just try to understand that when you’re long gone, I�
�m still going to be here and I’d like to keep my friends and know they are happy, if that’s OK with you?’ I add. Jeez what do I sound like? I sound like Devon, that’s what. Since he got here, my emotions and feelings are running amok. I need to get them in check. I ignore Devon’s therapist-style gaze and silence that has me wanting to fill the gaps with more of my own words and tell him everything; even after ten years I’m struggling to hide things from him.
‘You’re angry with me again,’ he notes. It takes me a minute to register his words, having spaced out staring at him. He takes one hand from the tight grip he has on his borrowed trousers and it hovers by my wrists, like he wants to comfort me but doesn’t know how. When we were kids and I was poorly, like the time I fractured both my wrists, he would simply rest his hands on mine or lie next to me, so I didn’t have to be scared on my own. Now though, he’s not touching me, and instead of comfort I feel a static in the air, like I’m about to get an electric shock. It’s enough to cause me to step backwards, catch my heel on the dresser and snap me out of my thoughts.
‘I’m not angry, just thinking. We need to get to bed,’ I say, hastily changing the subject, whilst bending down and rubbing my ankle. There’s no more opening up and letting him in. He will be gone in a week. I need to stay strong.
I hear his mock dramatic gasp and laugh through gritted teeth with the pain in my ankle – it’s not going away no matter how gently I rub it. I don’t get to put Devon at ease and explain that I did not mean that we need to get to bed together but our own separate beds, because he jumps up off the aforementioned bed and knees me in the face as he does so. I automatically straighten up to grab my nose as Devon bends down frantically to check on me and I nut him in the chin.
A range of curse words fly out of my mouth while Devon groans in pain. My vision is blurred with the water that streaks down my face from the sting in my nose. Devon has one hand on his chin, yet his other hand has somehow made its way on to my cheek like he’s still trying to protect me or look after me in some way, even though the damage has already been done. Strangely enough, this time his touch works; his hand on my cheek begins to settle my heart rate and ease the throbbing in my face. We lock eyes and I swallow down hard. Devon’s lips are parted and there remains a faint look of shock on his face. I can see that his eyes are streaming too.