18. Eighteen

18

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

T he shock that follows my declaration that I want to spend Christmas with Elliot in the States is so intense that even Elsie Poole is rendered momentarily speechless by it, which is something I can’t remember ever happening before.

Martin mumbles an awkward goodbye, and heads for the door, pausing to hold it open for Elsie, who goes hurrying after him, uncharacteristically keen to leave the scene of a crime. Elliot closes his book and replaces it on the shelf, his eyes still trained on me.

Only Dad continues arranging his mince pies on the plate, as if nothing has happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that no one — not even someone as slow and deliberate in his actions as Dad’s always been — can possibly take that long to set out half a dozen pies, I’d be starting to think nothing had happened, and that I’d just imagined my little moment of bravery. Or stupidity. Or whatever it turns out to have been, once Dad finally speaks; which he only does once he’s found the absolutely perfect positioning for the mince pies, at which point he straightens up and turns to face me, his cheeks slightly redder than usual.

“Of course, you must do whatever you want, Holly,” he says calmly. “For Christmas and for everything else. You’re a grown woman, after all. Time for you to start living your own life, I think. You mustn’t worry about me. I’m more than capable of looking after myself, you know.”

Then he picks up the plate of pies and empties them all abruptly into the rubbish bin next to the counter.

“Well, time we closed up for the day,” I think, he announces to no one in particular. “I’m sure there’s a tin of tomato soup upstairs that I was planning to have for supper. Yes.”

He turns the sign on the shop door to ‘closed’, then shuffles off towards the stairs that lead to our apartment above the shop, and there’s nothing left for me do but stand there and watch him, feeling like I’ve just done something unforgivable, that no amount of warmed-up tomato soup will help fix.

“You okay?”

Elliot touches me gently on the shoulder, having somehow crossed the room without me even noticing. I nod wordlessly.

“He took it pretty well,” he says uncertainly. “He said all the right things.”

“Yeah. He did. So why do I feel so bad about it?”

I hand him the box of decorations which I suddenly realize I’ve been holding this whole time, and sit down in my usual seat behind the counter — the one with the cushion that’s so well-worn it’s practically molded to my butt, but which I can’t bring myself to replace because Mum bought it, just a few months before she died.

Mum.

The thought of her brings a lump to my throat, and I have to duck behind the counter for a moment, pretending to be looking for something, so I have time to compose myself.

When I straighten up again, though, Elliot is still standing there watching me, one of those evil-looking Elf on the Shelf toys peeking its head over the box of decorations he’s holding, as if it’s watching me right along with him.

Mum bought that, too. Dad and I said it was creepy and would probably murder us in our sleep, but she said it would be fun. And then, once she was gone, we stuffed it into a box, and forgot all about it.

“Elliot, I don’t think I can do this,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I just can’t.”

“Holly, it’s okay,” he says softly, putting his arms around me. I wind my arms around his waist and tuck my head into his shoulder, breathing in the strong, clean scent of him.

“Um, just so we’re clear,” he mumbles into my hair. “What is it you can’t do exactly? Is it the tree decorations or the coming-to-America?”

“Both,” I reply in a small voice. “Neither. I can’t do any of it. But most of all, I can’t leave Dad. You saw him, Elliot. You saw the way he looked when I told him I wanted to go. I know he said he was fine with it, but … he isn’t fine. He obviously isn’t fine.”

I pull back so I can look at him, horrified to realize that I’m having to do it through the tears that are filling my eyes.

Elliot reaches up and carefully brushes them away.

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“That’s the thing, though,” I say slowly. “I do , don’t I? I mean, I don’t want to stay here, but I don’t want to leave Dad, either. And I don’t want to leave you. Or for you to leave me. I … just don’t like the … the leaving . I wish it wasn’t so hard.”

I also wish I didn’t sound quite so pathetic right now, but if Elliot notices, he’s kind enough not to mention it.

“Let’s forget about ‘the leaving’ for now, then,” he says, kissing me on the forehead. “Let’s just do something fun; take our minds off it.”

“Like what?” I ask doubtfully, struggling to imagine what could be ‘fun’ enough to stop me thinking about the look on Dad’s face when I told him I wanted to go to America.

Elliot thinks for a second.

“Ice skating,” he says triumphantly. “Sandra at The Rose told me there’s a pond near here that’s frozen over. Apparently they’ve turned it into an ice rink.”

“Really?” I reply, wondering who ‘they’ are, and what on earth they were thinking. “That sounds kind of dangerous, don’t you think? Remember when Amy fell through the ice in Little Women ? That’s where ‘living dangerously’ gets you.”

“Yes. And Laurie pulled her back out again, didn’t he?” says Elliot. “Then they lived happily ever after.”

He grins at me in a ‘gotchya’ kind of way.

“That’s just a story, though,” I point out, feeling like the killjoy I undoubtedly am. “This isn’t one.”

“Everything’s a story,” Elliot replies. “And sometimes living ‘dangerously’, as you put it, is the only way to really tell it.”

“I don’t know how to skate, though,” I protest, my resolve wavering in the face of his enthusiasm.

“You think I do?” he laughs. “I’m from Florida, remember? But we’ll figure it out. And Sandra told me she has some skates we can borrow, before you use that as your next objection. I was going to suggest we go tomorrow, but hey; no time like the present, huh?”

He beams at me, and my final shred of resolve breaks.

“It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out already,” I comment, wishing every other puzzle in our lives could be this easy. “How can I say no?”

A few minutes later, we’re bundled up in our winter coats again, and crunching through the snow to the hotel, where Sandra, the normally dour-faced landlady, hands up some skates, her face lighting up at the sight of Elliot, who’s obviously added her to the list of people he’s charmed in this village.

My skates are slightly too big, and his are a little too small, but we take them anyway, and drive the short distance to the pond, which, as Elliot said, is completely frozen over, its surface glistening with frost. Although Dad closed the shop early today, it’s already starting to get dark by the time we arrive, but people have pulled their cars up as close to the pond as they can get them, and switched on the headlights so the ice is illuminated, the handful of skaters on its surface looking ghostly in the dim light.

“I’m really not sure about this,” I mutter as Elliot and I wobble our way out to what used to be the edge of the pond. “I’m still thinking about Amy March.”

“Think about Laurie instead,” Elliot replies, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Come on; I promise I won’t let you fall.”

I’m not totally sure about that either, given that he’s having difficulty remaining upright himself, but after the first few minutes, which we spend looking a lot like cartoon characters about to do the splits, we start to get the hang of it.

“See?” says Elliot triumphantly as we glide somewhat shakily around the ice, sticking carefully to the edges so that if it does break, we’ll only end up soaked to the knees, rather than one of us being forced to mount a daring rescue operation (Which is what I secretly expect is going to be the outcome of this). “I told you it would be fun.”

“You did,” I agree breathlessly, holding onto his arm with both hands as we gather speed. “And it is. You were right.”

“And just think,” he says, attempting to spin me around in a circle that ends up more like a very large square, “You would never have known if you hadn’t given it a chance.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something?” I reply, laughing.

“Who? Me?” says Elliot, feigning surprise. “Never!”

He spins me again, and this time it’s a little more successful. I hold tightly onto his hand, feeling like I’m flying as we speed across the ice together, the wind rushing past my face, and tying my hair in knots.

It really is a lot of fun.

I really should have tried this sooner.

I probably should’ve tried a lot of things sooner, actually.

We skate until it’s almost too dark to see properly, then take one final spin around the lake, congratulating ourselves on how much we’ve managed to improve in such a short space of time. Just before we leave, though, I pull out my phone to take a selfie of us both, only to realize my fingers are too frozen to hold it properly.

CRASH.

With a sickening crack, the phone slips through my numb fingers and lands face-down on the ice. I scramble instantly to pick it up, but I already have a horrible feeling I know exactly what I’m going to find, and sure enough…

“Oh, shit.”

I stare at the cracked screen of the phone, which is now suspiciously blank, then press the on button a few times, without much hope.

“This doesn’t look like a phone that wants to work,” observes Elliot, taking it and trying the same thing, with exactly the same result.

“It’s fine,” I say, taking it back and stuffing it into my pocket, not wanting something as stupid as a broken phone to spoil the mood. “I’m sure it can be fixed. Or I’ll buy a new one. I might take it to Martin, next door, actually. He’s really good with stuff like this. Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if it turned out he’d actually been working for MI5 this whole time, and the bakery was just a front.”

Elliot pouts.

“Don’t take it to Martin,” he says. “I know I don’t know the guy, but I do know he’s into you, so, look, I’ll take you to get it fixed tomorrow, okay? We’ll make a day of it; go into town and have lunch or something. My treat. Anything but meeting up with Weird Martin.”

“Okay, okay,” I laugh, taking his hand as we make our way back to the car. “I’m not turning down an offer of lunch. I will need to get the phone sorted, though. Otherwise I won’t be able to stay in touch with you if … well, you know.”

Elliot just nods, and holds open the car door for me, saying nothing. Once we’re inside, though, he produces a flask of hot chocolate he’s somehow managed to procure from the surprisingly amendable Sandra, and we sit together sipping it as our bodies gradually start to thaw.

“That was amazing,” I say, watching as the last couple of skaters glide across the lake in front of us. “I’m glad you suggested it now.”

“I’m glad you let me talk you into it,” Elliot replies. “I know you weren’t keen on the idea to start with.”

“No. But, like you said, it’s good to give things a chance.”

We fall silent, both of us thinking the same thing.

“It was brave of you,” Elliot says suddenly. “Telling your dad about Florida, earlier. That can’t have been easy for you.”

“No,” I admit, swirling the hot chocolate around in the flask before handing it back to him. “No, it wasn’t. I still feel terrible about it.”

For a moment, the only sound in the car comes from the heater, which is turned up to full-blast, in an attempt to warm us up again.

“You know, I meant what I said,” Elliot says quietly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But you are going to have to make a decision soon, Holly. I only have a few days left here. If you’re going to come back with me, we have to start organizing that. Book you a ticket, let my parents know you’re going to be coming with me…”

“I know, I know,” I reply, interrupting him. “I’ve … I’ve been trying not to think about how long we have left. But I guess it’s becoming inescapable, isn’t it? There’s just five days until Christmas Eve. That’s nothing, really.”

I think of Dad, sitting alone upstairs in the flat, eating his solitary bowl of tomato soup, probably with the label still sticking out of the back of his sweater and only the creepy elf doll for company, and my eyes fill with tears again.

“It’s not his fault, you know,” I tell Elliot, blinking them back. “For being so overprotective of me. He’s doing his best to let me go. I know he is. It’s just … well, he loves me. That’s all.”

“But I love you, too.”

The words come out of the darkness like a confession. Which I guess is exactly what it is.

“Shit,” Elliot mumbles, staring down at his hands on the flask. “That just slipped out. I didn’t mean to say it. Well, I mean, I did mean what I said, obviously, I just … I didn’t mean it to sound like I was giving you some kind of ultimatum. I—”

“I love you too, Elliot,” I say, interrupting him before he can tie himself in any more of a knot. “And I did mean to say it. And I meant what I said.”

“Really?” His smile feels like a warm blanket on a crisp, cold night. And the kiss that comes after it feels like coming home after a long time away. Which isn’t something I’d know anything about, ironically enough. But I’m starting to think I might just be brave enough to find out. Honestly, if he keeps on kissing me like this — like his actual life might depend on it — I might just be brave enough for anything.

“I’m not asking you to choose between me and your Dad, Holly,” Elliot says seriously, when we pull apart at last. “I’d never do that. I’m just asking you to choose yourself for once. Do what makes you happy. I think that’s what he’d want you to do, too, if you were to really talk to him about it. And I think you need to do that; don’t you?”

I shiver, even though the car heater is still blasting away.

“I know I do,” I reply, also knowing that I really don’t want to. “And I will. I promise. I’ll do it soon.”

I don’t bother adding that I’ll have to do it soon, because Elliot already knows that.

He knows there’s only five days left until Christmas Eve; just five days until both of our lives change.

And now I just need to decide what, exactly, that change is going to be…