“I will.”
“Promise me you’ll do it in that order?” says Eliot, stepping forward.
“I’ll try it,” I laugh, and reach up on tiptoes and put my arms around his neck, my hand still grasping the gift in one hand. His arms envelop me, his warm hands brushing the bare back peeping from under my jumper. Goose bumps prickle my skin. I kiss him on the cheek as we draw back, and say thank you again, but Eliot doesn’t release his arms from around me, and I don’t either. Our faces are close. Our breath making clouds in the air between our mouths.
“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.