by K. A. Hobbs
I reach up and stroke the frown lines on his forehead. “Of course not. I love being with you. It’s just… I don’t know what tonight means for you.”
“What it means for me?”
“Is this friends having dinner together? Is this more? I don’t know. It’s just fear of the unknown, I guess. I like being in control, in case you haven’t realised already.”
“This,” he tells me, placing one warm hand on my cheek, “is whatever we want it to be. If you’d like this to be two friends sharing a meal, that is exactly what it can be. But, if you’d like it to be a man and a woman getting to know each other better, it can also be that.”
“I think I’d like this to be us getting to know each other as friends, but friends who feel something, I hope, for each other.”
I swallow deeply and close my eyes, needing a moment to myself. He’s silent, waiting for me to open my eyes again before he speaks.
“There are feelings I don’t know how to name running through my body for you, Imogen. I—”
I stop him, shaking my head and placing one finger over his lips. “That’s all I need to know.” I smile. “A drink first would be nice.”
I needn’t have worried about the evening. As George always does, he makes me relax, and I enjoy the evening immensely. We’re halfway through a bottle of red wine whose vintage I don’t even want to think about when talk turns to my life before I came here.
“I know you were a dancer. I know you have a sister and a family who adore you, but what I don’t know about are the things that made you tick. Like your favourite colour, your vices, your hobbies outside of dancing.”
“Oh, I have a lot of vices.” I chuckle holding my wine glass aloft. “My favourite colour is pale pink, which is such a girlie choice, but when you’ve been a ballerina since you were three, pink becomes much more than a colour. It’s a way of life.”
I glance at him and he’s smiling at me, a look of curiosity in his eyes. “I wish I could have seen you dance.”
“I can dance now, you know? I didn’t lose my limbs when I lost my life.”
“I mean on stage, surrounded by people who love and support you. I wish I could have witnessed what so many others did, who likely didn’t appreciate as fully as they should have.”
I blush.
I really blush.
I’m pretty sure my complexion and the red wine I’m now guzzling are the same shade.
“I was good, but I don’t think I was that good, George,” I mumble, embarrassed.
“Leo disagrees. He saw you perform.”
My eyes shoot to his and I almost drop the glass I’m holding. “He what?”
“Leo loves to attend the theatre. He goes often, even now, and when you came to us, he remembered you.” He keeps his face blank for a moment then smiles. “He told me you were the most breathtaking dancer, that his eyes followed you the whole time you were on stage. He said…” He raises his glass to his lips and swallows. “He said the human world has lost a very rare, true talent, and we’ve gained the most extraordinary young lady into ours.”
My mind races, trying to take in what George has just told me. Leo saw me before I came here? He watched me perform? Why hasn’t he ever told me?
“I can’t believe it,” I whisper, taking another mouthful of wine.
“Neither could he. When we got our alert, when we saw you, he recognised you instantly. He hasn’t found the right time to tell you yet, but I’m sure he would have told you himself in time. He was worried it would upset you. I’m sorry for just springing it on you. It wasn’t right of me.”
I meet his eyes and offer him a watery smile. “There’s no need to be. It’s…” I take a deep breath. “It’s wonderful someone saw me then and not just now. It makes me feel like I still have a connection to that world, to that part of my existence.”
He reaches over the table and entwines our fingers. “You still have a connection to that part of you, Imogen. There’s no reason for you to forget who you were. But it’s important you try to make this person, the new version of yourself, the one you live for. We can so easily get lost in memories and forget that life, even if it’s different to the one we thought we’d have, goes on. Everyone, everywhere is battling something they didn’t expect. Life changes for all people at some point. We just have to try to live it the best we can.”
“I’m trying,” I say softly. “I am trying, I promise.”
“I know.” He squeezes my fingers. “Perhaps talking to Leo about his memory of you will help? I know he’s helped me on so many occasions.”
“Maybe,” I concede, taking another mouthful of wine and avoiding his eyes.
For once, he seems content to allow me not to declare how I’m feeling, and stands. “I’ll get the dessert if you’re ready for it?”
I grin in spite of myself. Am I ready for it?
I turn my eyes to him and make my grin a little wider. “You know what, George? I think I am.”
“You know, there’s a word for this,” I grumble loudly over the din around us as my feet wobble precariously in the death traps strapped to them.
It’s a perfect night, cold and crisp. The sky is clear, the stars blinking down on us brightly while the air shivers with that excitement that always seems to hover around this time of year. I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow, I found myself once again being dragged bodily from my home and out into the real world. Imogen has, apparently, grown tired of hanging out at my place. Once we exhausted all the take away menus I own, she insisted on us coming out. So here I am. Everywhere, people are laughing as they glide smoothly over the ice beneath us, or, like me, crash spectacularly to the ground over and over again with all the elegance of a slug.
“Why are you holding on to me so tight?” Imogen laughs, trying to wriggle free. “It’s easy, out and in, out and in.” She laughs, gliding forward with the grace of a ballerina.
“Sadist,” I spit out, glowering after her as she pulls from my grip and leaves me to once again cascade to the ground. “You can go off people, you know?”
“I think you love it,” she tells me, smirking as she moves to pull me to my feet again. “Want me to go over and get you one of the penguin skating aids? The ones the children use?”
“Yeah, laugh it up, woman. We’ll see who’s laughing when the skates are off.” I fumble on the ice in an attempt to get back to my protesting feet, yelping and lifting my hands in a surrender sign as somebody swooshes past at lightning speed, precariously close to my fingers. “Fun, you said. ‘Let’s go out and have some fun.’ Are we having fun yet?”
Imogen skates around me and comes to a skidding stop. “I am. Look, hold on. We’ll get you steady, I promise. And then we’ll go over there,” she jerks her thumb across the ice rink, “and get hot chocolate and cookies or whatever you want, okay?”
“Cookies? Now you’re speaking my language. How the hell do you get up on these things?”
“All in the hips.” She grins, waggling herself in my face. “Here, I’ll help you up one last time.”
“I asked how to get up not about your sex life,” I mumble with a wry smile. Taking her offered hand, I move to pull myself up before my inner demon takes over and I give it a yank, tugging her down to the ice beside me with a triumphant giggle.
“Oooooooof!” She glares at me. “What was that for?”
“Revenge. It’s a dish best served cold, and this ice is bloody freezing.” I chuckle and make another attempt to stand while she watches on amused.
Jumping to her feet way too easily, she brushes her hands over her butt and looks at me. “I’ve seen newborn foals with more grace than you.”
“Yeah, well we can’t all be graceful. How did you end up like Margot sodding Fonteyn? Are you an actual ballerina?” It occurs to me that I don’t even know what Imogen does for a living. She has become this integral part of my life so quickly, and I have no idea what she does with herself when she’s not with me. What kind of friend does that
make me?
“Well, actually…” She grins. “I’m not anymore, but I was for a long time. You never lose the balance and the elegance, though.”
My eyebrows lift as everything slots into place in my mind—her graceful posture, her confidence, and the fact that you could bounce a penny off her backside. I have never felt more frumpy and inelegant in my life. “Yeah, well leave some equilibrium for the rest of us, why don’t you?” I laugh, accepting her hand one last time and this time allowing her to pull me upright.
“Hey, no need to be sour at me. You can play the piano and who knows how many other instruments. I can only dance to them.”
“So we’re the perfect team then,” I say with a smile as I allow myself to be towed towards the barrier, not even moving my feet for fear of toppling over again. “And it’s five, by the way. Six if you include the recorder, but nobody actually does, because let’s face it—it’s the worst invention ever.”
“Five? What are the five?”
“Oh, you know… the usual.” I shrug, reaching for the barrier as it comes into my grip, sighing gratefully when I can finally step off the ice and onto solid ground once again.
“Believe me, there is no usual. Most people don’t play anything, let alone five. What are they?”
“Play your cards right and maybe I’ll show you.” I wink as I flop onto a bench and yank the god-awful boots off my feet.
“Just tell me, dammit. I want to know what you play.”
“Has anybody ever told you that you’re kinda bossy, Miss Thomas?”
She frowns at me then grins. “Actually, yes. I think you quite like it, though, don’t you, Moll?”
“I’m not answering that,” I reply with a secretive grin before holding out the shoes of death to her by the laces, hoping she’ll make them disappear never to be seen again. “So, I think you mentioned cookies?”
“I also mentioned hot chocolate,” she tells me, linking her arm with mine. “Want one of those, too?”
“Only if it’s laced with something a lot stronger.” I grin. “I’ll need it to dull the ache of the bruises on my backside.”
“They won’t have anything stronger, you raving alcoholic. Can’t you do anything without drink?” She rolls her eyes.
“Alright, Judgey McJudgeface. Just a plain hot chocolate it is then.” My eyes roll as I bark out a laugh and stand up, wobbling slightly, unused to being flat on my feet again.
Imogen turns to leave but not before slapping my arse harder than I thought she’d be able to and growling, “That’s for the eye roll. I’m allowed to do it. You, however…”
Yelping, I reach back to rub my already sore behind and give her my best side eyes. “Well, I didn’t realise we were gonna have that kind of friendship. Now I want extra cookies. It’s only fair.”
“Like you need a reward. The spank was reward enough. I’ll get extra cookies anyway.” She beams, turning on her heel and heading to the counter to return the skates.
“You’re a sick, sick woman,” I tease, following after her and tugging her hair playfully. “I think I like you.”
As always, she charms the man behind the counter, telling him several seriously awful jokes that make him belly laugh as a queue forms behind her. Nobody seems to care, though. In fact, most of them laugh along to the jokes good humoredly, her charisma winning everybody over instantly. How does she do that?
“I didn’t even have to pay for the extra cookies,” she tells me excitedly when she sits down. “My jokes clearly aren’t that bad. They loved that one.”
Shaking my head as I laugh, I sit beside her and swipe a still warm cookie from the bag. “How do you do that?”
“What? Tell jokes? It’s easy, look. What do you call a guy with a rubber toe?”
Inhaling on a laugh, I roll my head to the heavens and groan. “I don’t know.”
“Roberto.”
I blink. Stare. Blink again. Then throw my head back and howl with laughter. “That’s not even remotely funny. You are the worst joke teller in the world.”
“Says the girl who’s laughing?” She smirks at me.
“I’m laughing at you, not the joke. You’re just so…” I throw my hands in the air, searching the skies for the right word but nothing comes to me. “You’re just so you.”
“Bad at telling jokes.” She smiles, taking a cookie. “Bossy, but incredibly beautiful?” She bats her eyelashes at me.
“I was thinking more along the lines of goofy and adorable, but sure. Whatever works.” I giggle and nibble my cookie, sending crumbs sprinkling all over the place. “Why do you even want to hang out with me? I mean, I’m not exactly…” I wave my hands around in her face, “like you, am I?”
She frowns. “Like me? I really hope that’s not you trying to say you’re ugly. I don’t see anything but beauty when I look at you, Molly. Maybe sadness, but that, in a strange way, seems to make you more beautiful, not less.”
My hand flies to my chest as I gape at her in mock awe. “Why, Miss Thomas, are you flirting with me?”
“Sorry, gorge, I’m not a fan of the V. Much more a lover of the D. But you know, you’re still beautiful.” She winks at me.
“You’re disgusting. It’s a good job I love you.”
“I know. So… what are the plans for the last week of school? Is it going to be insane? Will you have time to have dinner with me at some point or are you snowed under?”
I hum in thought for a moment, tapping my teeth with my finger nail. “Well, that really depends how you feel about nativity plays.”
“The traditional kind? Or the crappy ‘let’s put a modern twist on it’ kind?”
“Crepe paper wings for the angels and tea towels for the shepherds. We’re old school.”
“Then I love them. Can I be an angel, too?”
I laugh, wrapping an arm around her neck and squishing as I ruffle her hair with my free hand. “I’m starting to think you already are one.”
“No, seriously, you’re definitely a freak,” Imogen says, a slice of pizza hanging in her hand as her mouth gawps open at me. “Nobody eats pizza with a knife and fork. Literally nobody.”
Just to spite her, I cut up another miniscule chunk of ham and pineapple and slowly lift the fork to my mouth, smirking at her disgusted face.
“Well, clearly somebody does,” I reply after swallowing. “Suck it up, Thomas.”
“I usually do.” She barks out a laugh.
“You’re foul,” I throw back, flicking a piece of pineapple at her across the table, earning myself yet another glare from the man at the next table who appears to have something long and uncomfortable stuck up his backside, making him constantly scowl in our direction. I shoot him my most innocent smile before peeling a chunk of ham off the pizza and eating it.
“I’m the foul one? You’re eating pineapple on a pizza. That’s like, the most disgusting thing in the world.” She shudders in horror.
“So are you, now.” I grin, pointing to the middle of her pizza where the slice of pineapple landed. “And don’t hate on my pineapple. It’s gourmet shit this.”
“Well…” She smirks at me. “You’re right about the shit part at least.”
“You’re missing out.” I munch on another bite before pointing my fork at her as I speak. “I’m having one of these bad boys for Christmas dinner.”
“What?” she splutters. “No you’re not. We’re having turkey.”
“We?” One eyebrow lifts in her direction.
“Yeah, you know… you and me. We’re having turkey.”
I stare at her, blinking slowly. “Oh, we are, are we?”
Picking up another piece of pizza, Imogen nods enthusiastically at me. “Yes. Look, I’m not spending my first year at… here alone, okay? And I would bet a large sum of money you’re planning to spend it alone. So why not? We can make it fun. Look how much fun pizza is. Imagine how much fun turkey and potatoes could be.”
Picking at the toppings on my pizza with my fork, I gl
ance over at her cautiously through my eyelashes. “You… want to spend Christmas with me? Why?”
“Why? Why not? I think we’re friends, right? Why would I want to spend it alone if I can spend it making you laugh?”
“I dunno.” I shrug, my lips tipping into a smile at the thought of not being alone on Christmas day. “What about that ‘friend’ of yours? George, isn’t it?”
As I expected she would, she rolls her eyes. “What about George?”
“Wouldn’t you want to spend it with him?” I ask, kicking her ankle under the table for the eye roll.
“Ouch, cow.” She glares at me. “I don’t even know what he’s doing. And what makes you think he’d want to spend it with me anyway?”
“Umm, have you hung out with you recently? You’re a hoot. Why wouldn’t he want to?”
“So it’s a yes from you then? I’ll come over to yours on Christmas Eve?”
“You say that like I have a choice.” I chuckle, stuffing more pizza into my mouth and chewing slowly, wondering what a Christmas with Imogen would look like. I was expecting to spend it alone, avoiding everything to do with the holiday. I was going to shut my doors on the merriment and wallow in some good old fashioned self pity. My fear of dragging everybody around me down with my grief has kept me from accepting any of the invitations I’ve received, including my mum’s. Each time I spend time with her, I see the heartbreak in her eyes when she sees me quietly falling apart, and I can’t bear to do that to her any more. Perhaps once the holiday season is over, I’ll be better able to cope, or at least to pretend to, and it won’t be so hard for her to see. But Imogen… She doesn’t seem to mind or even really notice when I’m having a moment. Or perhaps, rather, she lets them flow from her like water off a duck’s back. Because that’s Imogen. She floats through the world, liking everything and everyone in it until they give her a reason not to. And maybe spending the day with her, I’ll come out the other side somehow, maybe even with a smile on my face.