‘Can I help with anything?’ he asks, seemingly reading my mind and going with my plan and choosing to move past the silly bedroom ordeal – my nose is still throbbing. I’m sure I need ice but that will have to wait until I get home.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. No, no, you two go and rest, the dishes are no trouble,’ Hope assures us, waving in the direction of the living room.
‘OK, then, well it’s getting late. I’m going to head off. Thank you so much for the food – it was amazing.’ I jog to the counter kiss Hope on the cheek and give Jess a one-arm hug. ‘Love you both, see you tomorrow.’
I squeeze past Devon, and, in the corridor, I gather my coat and scarf, then look up to address him. ‘See you around, D. Be safe getting back to the inn.’ I throw on my beanie, make quick work of the lock and am out into the welcome, refreshing, crisp air in a flash.
The multi-coloured twinkles from our grand, maybe not as grand as the Rockefeller, tree light my path, as does the glowing moon. I only have to cross the square, turn right at the bakery and I’ll be on my street. As I round the bend, I nearly skid on a pool of ice when I hear my name. There’s no mistaking who the voice belongs to – even now with its older, deeper, baritone, I’d recognise it anywhere, and because only Devon and my dad call me “Scar”. My stomach does that horrible tornado of mixed emotions that seems to be a new thing since Devon arrived. It’s a swirling concoction of joy, confusion and fear. But I can’t exactly run; he knows where I live.
‘Scar,’ he shouts again.
I spin around as he catches up with me. ‘Are you trying to wake up the whole village?’ I ask. Surprisingly a laugh escapes my lips – I must still be a little tipsy, even with the icy air nipping at my cheeks, but really it’s the memories of us sneaking out of our houses after dark to ensure the safety of the village that makes me giggle.
‘If I remember correctly that used to be one of our powers: talk loudly and the baddies will know someone’s watching.’ Devon smirks, once again reading my mind. ‘Can I walk you home?’ he adds, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes and ankles.
‘Sure,’ I find myself saying, through another chuckle at Devon’s words – yes, he had remembered correctly, and he only came up with that power because he couldn’t ever stop talking, even when it was paramount to our mission to creep around and be silent.
‘I’ve missed this place,’ he notes, as we walk side by side. Coming up to Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery, I glance at Devon whose eyes are fixed on the window. For the second time this evening my stomach flips with guilt. I never once thought about him missing our village and all its comforts. Every time I thought about him I pictured him excited to leave me, thrilled about making new friends and getting away from me. I never did stop to think about how it had all made him feel; his first few letters had been happy ones, telling me all about his new house and new school.
‘When you wrote to me, you always seemed so happy?’ I say, as we pick up the pace again, having slowed for Devon to stare longingly at the cake counter, which at this time is empty.
He shrugs. ‘I was a kid. Mum and Dad had made it all sound so exciting and I guess I thought if I went along with it, if I was happy and enjoyed myself, pretended it was a holiday, did what they asked, that it would all be over quicker, which sounds so backwards now saying it out loud. And, I was happy, Scar. My parents were happy, so I couldn’t burst their bubble,’ he says, his hand finding its way to the back of his neck.
‘You’re good at making people happy, D. I’m glad you are happy too. You deserve all the happiness living your dream,’ I say, looking up so I can meet his gaze.
That’s what Devon did when we were kids: he made people happy. He was always being goofy and trying to make people laugh even if they weren’t always laughing with him but at him. He wanted to see them smile. Whereas he used this huge change to excel and look at the positives, go into theatre and make something of himself, I became an introvert, buried my feelings and stopped believing in myself and my dreams. But that didn’t mean that Devon hadn’t struggled. I truly meant what I said – he deserved to be happy and with or without me I was so glad that he had found his happiness.
Devon’s eyes grow warm, still a little glazed from too many beers. He rocks back on his toes, hands in his pockets.
‘You do that too, you know, Scar,’ he says, bending over slightly so I don’t have to crane my neck too much.
‘Do what?’ I ask, aware that we have stopped walking again.
‘Make people happy,’ he answers causing me to howl with laughter. In the distance I hear the faint hoot of an owl and quickly put a hand over my mouth. It’s late – we don’t need the neighbourhood snooping out their windows and speculating on Devon and I being out late together.
‘Why the laughter?’ Devon asks, confusion spreading across his face, his eyes narrowing as he bends down further, getting a little closer, like he’s examining my features.
‘Oh, D, I wish that were the case. My mum is never happy with any decision I make. I’m a complete failure to her. I can’t even pull off this blue blouse. My dad wishes I would draw again – it’s always disappointed him that I stopped. I guess I make Hope and Jess happy sometimes – we laugh, we have a good time together – but I’m boring and have missed out on movie dates, game nights and upset them both over the years making them think they were uncool in their nerdy ways,’ I say, spilling my insecurities out into the night. Thank you, wine, and thank you, Devon.
‘I don’t believe that for a second. Our mums will always be our mums, but I saw the way your dad looked at you – every day for sixteen years in fact – and not once did he not have a smile on his face. Hope and Jess love you and Hope never stops raving about how much you keep her life organised at work and how lost she would be without you. You put everyone around you first; you just need to remember to think of your own happiness too,’ Devon states, sounding like a wise old Yoda, which makes me giggle. This is all getting too deep.
‘I do think of my own happiness,’ I mumble, tripping up over my thoughts as we reach my front door. Did I really or did I think too much about what made everyone else happy?
I yawn as Devon gives me a cheeky, ‘Mmm, hmm.’
‘Night, Devon,’ I say with a roll of my eyes.
‘Goodnight, Scarlett,’ he replies and his whole face looks like it’s radiating happiness. Away from the cameras, away from the world, just standing on my doorstep, he looks like my Devon.
14
Tuesday at the office whizzed by in a blur of Christmas fair planning, gingerbread house competition prepping, emails and sitting down with Hope to discuss the magazine potentially switching to monthly. Today at work was pretty much the same except after an evening of baking, chimney making and decorating in a mad rush to get my project finished for Saturday, I had struggled to keep my eyes open. Now, it’s Wednesday evening and I’m stood behind a Great British Bake Off style workbench under a gorgeous tent behind Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery, which is littered with pastel bunting, strung tinsel and twinkling fairy lights with a Christmas tree in the centre decorated with all kinds of beautifully carved kitchen utensils and brightly coloured cake ornaments. Festive music is humming in the background and half the village – couples, kids, singletons, and families – are packed in like cranberries in cranberry jelly.