‘Hope,’ I gasp. ‘That’s my good set – I don’t need them tonight.’
Hope tuts and taps at her watch. ‘Scarlett Davis, you put them on now. We’re late. Stop dawdling and complaining. Wearing pretty underwear should not be saved for special occasions; life is a special occasion. Every single day is an occasion to celebrate. Now chop, chop,’ she says, clapping her hands.
I throw her a sarcastic smile and shut the door in her face. I sigh at the underwear, thinking of my silly drawer of what I deemed “sexy underwear” appropriate for dates. Why did I feel the need to wear uncomfortable clothing to impress the people in my life and feel worth it? It’s not like the men stuck around after they saw me in lace. Another sigh comes out a little heavier this time, but I do as I’m told, before raking serum through my short hair.
‘I thought you said you were going to let me think about all this, go at my own pace an’ all,’ I shout through the doorway, hopping on each foot as I step into my knickers.
‘I am. That’s why I thought it would be good to have a group hang-out, take it slow, have me and Jess there for support. I’ll wait downstairs,’ Hope says through the door, gleefully, and strategically ending the conversation so I can’t argue with her reasoning.
Twenty minutes later, after a quick layer of foundation, a dab of lip-gloss, a sweep of rosy pink blush and a swipe of mascara, I’m ready to go. When I reach the bottom of the stairs it occurs to me again that in the whirlwind of Hope arriving, me trying to hide my art room and getting caught up in conversation and arguing over underwear, that the plan is to meet up with Devon tonight and I’m a grown woman. I don’t have to go, no matter what my best friend says. I really don’t know if I’m ready to see him again.
As I walk through the corridor, I spot my excuse on the dining room table; all my gingerbread house supplies I had left out earlier.
‘Oh shoot, why don’t you go ahead, and I’ll catch up. I completely forgot I’d left everything out after baking. Oh, dear and I left the butter out an’ all.’ I go to step into the kitchen when Hope grabs my wrist with one hand and holds my coat out with the other.
‘I already put the butter away. I think the rest will be fine,’ she says, her green eyes boring into mine suspiciously, telling me she can read me like a book.
I take my coat and grab my Doc Martens, when the smile vanishes from Hope’s face and she pauses, her hand hovering over the door handle.
‘Tell me, did Devon do something horrible to you?’ Hope asks. I can feel her pointed glare on the back of my neck as I bend down to lace up my boots.
‘What? Other than move to New York at the tender age of sixteen, leaving me best-friendless and then proceeding to enjoy his life without me and becoming a bloody superhero? No,’ I say, not hiding my sarcasm as I stand up straight, brushing my bob behind my ears.
‘Did you have a thing for him, or did he have a thing for you? Did one of you try it on with the other but get rejected, making all this awkward?’ she says, gasping all dramatically at the end.
‘What? God no. Hope, we were sixteen and we were utter nerds. I never liked him in that way,’ I say, screwing up my face in disgust.
Hope shrugs looking pleased with herself, like she’s Bruce Banner and she’s just figured out an equation. ‘Well then, that’s good. I see no reason why you can’t come out tonight, loosen up a bit and catch up with an old friend. Maybe tonight you can find closure – plus we never go out anymore. Tonight, I don’t want to think about work. Let’s just hang out with our men, I mean my man and your friend,’ she says clutching my forearm as she shoves me out of my front door.
It’s hard to say no to her when she sneaks in comments like that. She works so damn hard; she needs to let her hair down every once in a while. The “men” comment, I skim over, not taking her bait. ‘And remember, I’m here for you,’ she adds, beaming at me, but her eyes grow too wide and I don’t believe her innocent look; I’m pretty sure she’s the one who’s white-lying now.
I believe my current best friend is getting lost in her own fantasy of the man that is Devon Wood. I think she might need time to process my being former friends with him too and stop envisioning him suddenly slipping into our group. It’s called “The Three Musketeers” for a reason; there are only three of us, I think to myself, but I don’t want to burst her bubble this evening. She had asked me earlier to let her and Jess have this moment. I’m not about to be a spoilsport and ruin their own personal Comic Con.
8
The giant spruce tree lights up the square as we make our way towards the village pub. The twinkling multi-coloured bulbs that have been strung around it bounce off the shop windows, illuminating the library steps and the flowers on the lawn by the florist. It’s my favourite time of year here in Springhollow. Sparkly bunting is hung between shops, garlands drape from streetlamp to streetlamp. Every house proudly displays a homemade wreath on their front door, some of which I helped make at our stall last year.
I look up at the deepening navy sky and cross my fingers for snow as we cut across the village green, which surrounds the beautiful Christmas tree, crafted presents and reindeer.
At the door of the village pub Jess ambushes us, causing both Hope and I to jump. He rakes a hand through his curly black locks and begins pacing right in front of me. ‘Scarlett, what should I do? How should I act? I’m cool right? I’m hip, I’m fly, it’s all good, yeah it’s all good,’ Jess stammers, grabbing my biceps, his words reaching me on his cold breath that fills the space between us. He’s twitching nervously and does some awkward attempt at a confident shrug. His brow is damp with sweat; it’s freezing out here.
‘Dude, did you just say “I’m hip, I’m cool”?’ I ask, barely containing my chuckle.
Hope splutters, trying to swallow down her laughter, before prising Jess’s hands off me. Jess is giving me a pleading look, fear in his eyes, a look that says to go easy on him.
‘Scarlett, if you want a loaf of cinnamon bread for Christmas morning or someone to fix your radiators ever again, you’ll be nice to me – not to mention that I’m not mad at you for hiding your love of comics from us all these years,’ Jess mutters as Hope hooks her arm through his. Touché, Jess, touché, I muse to myself. I feel that little ball of guilt in my stomach. I do appreciate with all my heart that Hope and Jess have been more excited than angry about my lie, so I will myself to behave, plus Jess makes cinnamon loaf better than Mrs Rolph at the bakery and that is no easy feat; it has become my Christmas morning tradition over the years, and as far as those pesky old-fashioned radiators, they remain the only thing in my house I struggle to get my head around and fix.
‘OK, OK, just don’t be a dork – or be a dork. Devon loves dorks – or maybe he doesn’t. Ooh which one was it?’ I really can’t help but tease Jess, even with my cinnamon loaf at risk. I raise my eyebrows at Jess playfully but jokes tonight are going completely over his head. Hope shoves me hard towards the door but not before giving me a stern “stop making Jess hyperventilate” glare and warns, ‘You two, stop it now. Jess, hon, be yourself; he’ll love you the way you are.’