by Lia Louis
“I don’t have to go,” says Eliot quietly. “I can stay.”
I swallow, stare at him. Frozen. “Y-You have to work.”
“I don’t have to go,” he repeats, whispering. “To Luxembourg.”
“Eliot—”
“I won’t go if you want me to stay.”
I look up at him—the fan of dark lashes; his brown eyes, wide and almond-shaped; and his mouth, pink, the top lip a perfect bow. Like his brother’s. Like Lucas’s. Lucas. I step back.
“Go,” I say, clearing my throat. “Don’t be daft. It’s Christmas. You—you have places to be, people to see.”
Eliot pauses, says nothing, then throws an arm behind him, to scratch the back of his neck. “Right, then,” he says. “I guess… Happy Christmas, Emmie.”
“You too, Eliot,” I say, the gift in my hand, the cold night air stinging my face.
Eliot gets into the truck and starts the engine. He holds his hand in a wave and I watch him drive away.
* * *
Mix CD. Vol. 6.
Dear Balloon Girl,
Track 1. Because it’s almost Christmas
Track 2. Because you always write too many resolutions
Track 3. Because there are only forty-five days until I see you again
Track 4. Because one of my favorite things in the world is your insane bedhead
Track 5. Because one day, I swear, I will teach you the magic of mince pies
Balloon Boy
X
December 25, 2006
“Well, that was the worst,” I laugh down the line. “But thank you.”
“What? It was ‘Good King Wenceslas.’ We—didn’t you hear the harmonies?”
“I knew we should’ve sung Band Aid,” sighs Eliot. “You could’ve murdered the Bono bit, live in Switzerland.”
Luke laughs. “I don’t murder it, dude. I reinvent it.”
I smile, phone to ear, spiral wire stretched across my pajama top, a DVD paused on the TV. “And how is Switzerland?” I ask.
“Amazing,” Lucas says, at the exact same time Eliot says, “Awesome.”
“And seriously cold,” adds Eliot. “Which I know is groundbreaking travel journalism, but it fuckin’ is.” The pair of them laugh, and I imagine them against the orange of the wood of a cabin in the Alps, the pair of them freshly showered and in shirts, ready for Christmas dinner in the five-star resort Jean and Amanda take them to every year, a fire flickering behind them, crowding round the hotel phone. I look around my flat. Tiny, cluttered but empty all at once, and feel a sinking, shameful feeling that this is where I am on Christmas Day.
“How’s the head, Em?” says Lucas now.
“Hangover?” I hear Eliot inquire, and I shake my head pointlessly and say, “Migraine. I was up most of the night with it. But it’s gone.”
“Ah shit, that sucks. Take it easy today, yeah?”
“And hate to sound like my mum,” adds Eliot, “but drink lots of water.”
I smile, letting their concerns, their care, warm me through, like soup. “Probably because I ate a mince pie. Yesterday, when I went into Tesco, they had this charity table set up. Mince pies, chocolate logs—”
“You ate a whole one?” says Eliot.
“Yep.”
“Ah,” says Eliot, as if it’s obvious. “You went too hard into Christmas cheer.”
“You have to go easy,” laughs Lucas. “Next you’ll be saying you pulled a cracker.”
I giggle, cheeks stinging, and hear Eliot answer someone in the background. His voice fades. “Dad’s calling us,” says Lucas, and I can tell by the change of volume, the closeness of his voice, that I am no longer on speakerphone, and he’s holding the receiver to his ear. “You sure you’re going to be okay, Em?”
“ ’Course.”
“I hate that you’re on your own.”
Me too, I want to say. Me too, and I wish I was with you. With Eliot. With your mum and her warm, tight cuddles, and your dad with his sensible and safe words. With the “Make sure you wrap up”s and the “What does everyone fancy for breakfast?” Instead I say, “I’m fine, honestly, Lucas. I’m having a really nice day.”
We talk for five more minutes, until Eliot comes back and tells Lucas it’s time to go for Christmas lunch. Lucas says goodbye, leaves the room to get ready, and Eliot takes the phone.
“Remember to stay hydrated,” he says, smile in his voice.
“Yes, Mum,” I joke. “I will.”
“I mean it, though. Look after yourself, yeah?”
I swallow, feel small. “I will.”
“And… Em?”
“Yeah?”
There is silence, and the only reason I know he is still there is the sigh that comes, eventually, on the line.
“Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Eliot.”
Text Message from Marv:
Dear Emmie, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I hope you understand, but I don’t think now is the right time for me to tell my family. I will. Please trust I will. But just not right now. I’m sorry. X
* * *
The EastEnders special starts.
I want to take a photo—of the mince pie on Louise’s tiny coffee table, with the TV on in the background, and the string of fairy lights around the frame—and send it to Eliot. But then I think of him in Luxembourg, with Ana, and I can’t. Instead, I take the photo anyway, and go onto Instagram to upload it. I’ll add a caption, like Rosie does, something like: Cozy Christmas or Mince pie, TV, fairy lights, slippers on. Bliss! But I can’t do that either. Because the first thing I see is a photo of Lucas and Marie, arms punching the air, top-to-toe in skiing gear, eyes shielded by huge glasses, the sky behind them, a perfect Caribbean Sea–blue. And then I see Eliot’s latest photo: a wintry sunset. A single glass of wine. In Luxembourg, I bet. Pathetic. That’s how my Christmas feels. Truly pathetic.
I sit back on the sofa. My head is throbbing from a long, busy shift, and I have done nothing since I got home at nine, besides shower and sit on the edge of Louise’s bed, the pair of us eating turkey club sandwiches the chefs made us with leftovers at work. Yet I barely feel like I’ve rested at all. I feel like I’m wading through treacle, and my head throbs, as if it’s fit to burst with all that whirls through it tonight, like a tornado. Lucas. Eliot. Marv, and the message that feels like a boot to the stomach every time I read it.
I hold Eliot’s gift in my lap. And slowly, in front of the TV, watching characters I don’t recognize from the last time I watched, several years ago, scream at one another, kiss on the wet tarmac outside the famous Vic pub, I peel back the wrapping. I think of him. I think of Eliot’s kind, strong hands passing the gift to me on that black, starry night. And once again, moving pictures of that moment on Louise’s drive—the moment between us before he drove away—barges its way into my thoughts. Like clockwork, my insides flip over in my gut, like a fish.
A book. Blue. Hardback. Beautiful, and embossed with tiny boats. A padlock keeping it locked shut, and keys, dangling from string. A closed book. And handwritten in the inside cover, in neat handwriting:
Flower,
I support you and accept you, even though you’re a wreck. (And even if your nose is ever a blighted tomato.)
Eliot
X
Rosie straddles a bench in the small locker room of the Clarice, and Fox lies with long legs along it, his head in Rosie’s lap, his feet dangling over the edge and crossed at the ankle, his eyes closed. Rosie is doing osteopathy on him. Something she learned on YouTube, and part of her New Year’s resolution to Learn Something New.
“How does that feel?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
Fox opens one eye. “Am I supposed to be feeling otherwise?”
Rosie looks at me, then back at Fox and shrugs. “Fuck knows. Just keep still. I need to find your…” She looks over at her phone, bright and open on a tutorial. “Your… something.”
It has been six whole weeks since I said goodbye to Eliot on the drive of Louise’s, and I have spent every day of them revisiting, at least once, the moment we said goodbye. The way he said he didn’t have to leave. The way he didn’t let me go—the way I didn’t let him go. How close our faces were. Did he want to kiss me? Did I want to kiss him? Did I want to kiss Eliot? Lucas’s brother. God. Did I misjudge it?
On Christmas Day, after opening his gift, I sent him a text. Thank you for my closed book. He replied: You’re welcome, Emmie xx. That was it. And I haven’t had a single text from him—apart from the ones in the STEN party group, which are all purely STEN-related, and mostly in response to “legend” Tom—but then, I haven’t texted him either, so maybe it’s an emotional standoff? Maybe he feels too awkward to text me, the way I do. We were so close, mouths inches apart, him mere seconds away from driving miles; to fly to fucking Luxembourg to celebrate Christmas with his girlfriend. Girlfriend. Of course he hasn’t messaged me. Why would he?
“Out you come.”
I look up. Rosie, hands still pummeling poor Fox’s neck, is staring at me, the sort of look on her face that usually follows a tut.
“Step out of the vortex, Emmie. You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
“Not that I need to repeat this again for the seven hundredth time in almost five weeks—”
“Six.”
“But (a) you did nothing wrong,” says Rosie, running over my words, “and (b) he’s backed off because of course he has. He asked you to tell him not to go. He put himself out there, basically told you he liked you. And he wanted to hear it from you. And you didn’t say it. You literally told him to go.”
Fox makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Yes,” he says. “As discussed at length, Eliot fancies you, Emmie. Likes you. Clearly. Very much so. And he has made it patently obvious in a number of ways—”
“Patently.” Rosie smirks, still pummeling.
“And hasn’t had much at all back from you. Why would he keep persisting? He’s a gent. Am I wrong?”
I shrug. “But we’re… friends.”
Fox sighs, steepling his fingers together in front of his face. “But if you’re friends, that must mean you can look at Eliot and feel absolutely nothing in that way of things. Not even an ounce of physical attraction—” Fox pauses, looks up at Rosie. “What?”
Rosie shakes her head, looks down at him. “Nothing,” she says.
Fox raises an eyebrow and looks back to me, his head still in Rosie’s lap. “And can you say that?”
I stare at him, groan, hide my face with my hands.
“She doesn’t know,” cuts in Rosie. “Because of—”
“Lucas,” they both say together, and I laugh from behind my hands and say, “Oh, piss off, with your good points and questions.”
“Seriously though, Em. Can you say that you don’t like him? At all?”
I drop my hands from my face. Rosie and Fox look at me, and I shake my head.
“No, I can’t say that,” I say. “I’ve missed him. Like, really missed him. And that surprises me because… well, I didn’t expect to. Not really. I even called him on New Year’s.”
Rosie’s eyes, the lids shimmering with glitter, widen. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“He didn’t answer. Then he texted the next morning, asking if I was okay, and I told him it was a mistake.”
Rosie groans. “Emmie.”
“I know,” I say. “But I dunno, I had this vision of him in Luxembourg with Ana… and I felt so embarrassed. But… I do miss him. I like having Eliot around. And he’s really been there.”
Rosie makes a sound like a horse, lips blowing out, and says, “Yes, he has.”
“And it’s been nice having that. Someone there, when Lucas usually would be.”
“Would he though?” Fox asks, hands one on top of the other on his stomach.
I look at Fox. “Yes. He’s just busy at work and God, he is getting married, and there’s so much to organize.” I look up at them. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”
Rosie looks at me, smiles gently. “We’re all a mess, Em.”
“Speak for yourself, Kalwar,” mumbles Fox, and Rosie looks down at him and raises her eyebrows. He smiles at her, and she giggles.
“Oh God, guys, I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t know what you’re hanging about for, personally. He’s fuckin’ hot,” adds Rosie, and when Fox croakily adds, his eyes closed as if he’s sunbathing, “The only personality trait that matters,” she does something that makes him flinch away from her amateur-osteopathic hands.
I poke at the pasta in the Tupperware box on my lap, leftovers from a pasta bake I cooked for Louise and myself last night, and Rosie continues kneading Fox’s neck, while he grimaces. And I don’t know. That is the truth. I don’t know how I feel about Eliot. All I do know is that everything feels like it’s a tower about to collapse on me. Marv. I’ve heard nothing from him. The wedding, now only two months away. The STEN party, merely two weeks. And there’s Louise, who is really suffering lately. I can’t help but worry about her when I close the door to her bedroom every night and come into work. She had a visitor last week—Steve, the ex-lodger, she said. The one who invited her for Christmas. She only told me because I inquired about the two mugs I found in the sink. And I miss Lucas. He texts, he calls, he FaceTimes, like he always has, but it’s not the same. I can feel it slowly changing, like a breeze turning, only noticeable with hindsight. And I miss him. I really, really miss how it used to be.
“Isn’t that right?” says Rosie. “I was just telling Fox this bloke I’m seeing, that who knows, he could be the one?”
“With a name like King-o?” Fox asks. “I doubt it.”
“That’s his nickname, you idiot. And yes. Why couldn’t King-o be my one?”
I nod. “Exactly. He could well be.”
Fox scoffs. “And I suppose, what, Lucas is your… one?”
I pause, face flushing. Because it feels like a huge thing to say out loud. I mean, I do think he’s my one, don’t I? Lucas Moreau. Balloon Boy. The one who found me, against all odds, when I needed a friend the most. When he needed home the most.
But I say nothing. Because there is no clarity right now. It all feels like a mad, confused jumble in my mind.
“Do you love him?” asks Rosie, and the words ring out, bold and brash, in the quiet.
“Yes,” I say. “Of course I love Lucas.”
“Yes, but… do you actually love Lucas. Do you wish it was you, picking out the white dress, watching him fall asleep, waking up to him every morning…”
“I…”
“Having a family with him,” says Rosie, eyes fixed on me, hands beneath Fox’s head unmoving now. “Washing his pants, post-stomach-bug,” she carries on. “Sucking his dick.”
“Terrific,” says Fox, getting up in one swift sit-up. “That certainly turned dark at breakneck speed.”
“What I’m saying, Emmie,” says Rosie, “is do you love Lucas? Really? Or do you just love the idea of him?”
* * *
Raindrops trail down Louise’s window as I draw her curtains tonight. I turn back to see her smiling at me, her face lit amber by the pink bedside lamp.
“Miserable out there,” I say, and she closes her papery eyelids for a moment.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “I like the rain.”
I raise an eyebrow and smile. “Really? I’m not sure I’ve met many people who like the rain.”
Louise nods gently, pulling her duvet up to her chest so it fits snugly under her arms. “Makes you feel alive, I think. A reminder that the world is bigger than you. That’s why I like storms especially.”
I give a shudder and pull my f
ace into a grimace. “We’ll have to disagree on that one too, I think, Louise,” I say, and she gives a sleepy chuckle.
Louise has been spending more and more time in bed lately, but she always tries, a couple of hours before nine, her bedtime these days, to be out of bed and out of her bedroom.
“I like to go to bed at night,” she says, and I admit, helping her up and into bed has weirdly become one of my creature comforts. The both of us wish it wasn’t this way—Louise being in pain, needing help to get into bed, to get comfortable, that sometimes, an hour out of this bedroom, in the conservatory downstairs, among her books and trinkets and plants, is as good as it gets—but if it has to be this way, then this is as nice as it can be. Me, drawing her curtains, shutting out the cold and the world, Louise, pulling her favorite bedsheets high, the room always smelling of the purple fabric conditioner she uses and her beloved patchouli oil. We drink herbal teas, in china cups bought from a shop in Brussels in the seventies, when Louise was young and supple and free. We read books and short stories together, the sound of rain our backdrop, and our soft and sleepy talks by lamplight, the last thing we do before she falls asleep.
I settle down, like I have done so often recently, in the wicker chair beside her bed. Eliot carried it up the stairs a few weeks before Christmas, from the conservatory, so I had somewhere to sit while I read to her. “Which book?” I ask now.
Louise shakes her head slowly, eyelids closing and opening, eyes cloudy, yellowy. “No book tonight, if that’s quite all right,” she says.
“Of course.”
“Tell me something,” she says softly.
I smile. “What about?”
“You,” she says. “Tell me about Emmie Blue.”