I roll out my gingerbread dough, making a mental list of all these activities when my Christmas bauble bursts. The closer it gets to the Christmas fair, the closer it is to Devon leaving again. Sunday he will be on a flight back to New York, out of my life for another ten years or now that he’s a giant movie star, starring in his own bloody awesome movie, more likely forever. If you were wondering, since my inner nerd was found out, I have watched the trailer to Devon’s superhero movie, only like five times and yes, like Hope had said, it looks freaking amazing. This is going to catapult him to the top of whatever casting lists they have in Hollywood for sure.
I carefully cut out the sides of my house, using a ruler to ensure all four sides are equal, though I know they will need further shaping after they’ve baked. No matter it being the same dough mix, each piece will have a mind of its own under the heat of the oven. This takes my mind off Devon for a few moments as I work on getting everything as symmetrical as possible. I don’t pause to further investigate my feelings over Devon leaving town again. I know it’s just the feeling of fear creeping up again; that fear of re-enacting what happened all those years ago.
But it doesn’t have to be like that. For one, I’m a grown-up now. I can keep my emotions in check and understand reality and logic. And two, it’s no big surprise. I know Devon is leaving. I’ve known it since I first laid eyes on him again last Friday, so it’s no massive deal; life will go on just as before. Something wobbles and feels unsteady in my gut like I’ve just rolled over a stone on my skateboard. Devon is going to leave again and just like before there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
The timer on the oven beeps letting me know ten minutes is up and also that it’s six-fifty and my mum and dad are expecting me at seven. I pull out the biscuits from the oven, settle them down on the mat and hastily put away anything that needs to be refrigerated before racing up the stairs and throwing on the frilly pink polo my mum bought me. Then I rush into the hall, grabbing my coat and my beanie and leg it out of the house.
With my head down against the harsh wind I round the corner and am sent flying as someone steps up on to the kerb – their long leg outstretched. I reach my hands out to stop myself face-planting the snow.
‘Shoot, are you OK, Scar?’ Devon’s hand is around my waist like he’s scooping up a tiny chihuahua off the floor with ease within seconds. I feel his strong, warm hand on my stomach. My back is pressed to his solid frame, and I swallow hard, not sure if I can turn around and face him, for fear he might actually see my heart trying to leap out of my chest. Clearly nearly falling to my death on the corner of a dark street at the dead of night – I know it’s only seven, but it’s winter, it might as well be midnight – with dangerous ice all around me has caused my body to go into shock. I’m way cooler than this. Danger was my middle name growing up. Devon would laugh if he thought a little trip had frightened me.
‘What are you doing here?’ I round my shoulders out, push my beanie back up my head from where it had fallen over my eyes a touch and take a small step back as I turn around; to avoid being nose to nose with Devon. Never mind a thank you for catching me. There’s no time for pleasantries – I need to shake off my shock and remain strong.
Devon’s cheeks are rosy, and his lips are slightly parted when I finally look at him. His eyes are glued to the hand that rests over my hip and lower back now that I’ve turned towards him. I didn’t think it possible, but my heart rate seems to pick up speed as my whole body gets this ridiculous and overwhelming urge to kiss him; to kiss Devon. I force my eyes away from his perfectly plump and red lips and stagger backwards, putting my hand on his chest to push myself away and snap Devon out of whatever daydream is going on in his frozen and quiet state.
Our eyes connect and I feel a sizzle through my fingertips and heat where Devon’s fingers are touching my body, like lightning bolts are flowing through my veins. Suddenly Devon starts blinking furiously like he’s got something in his eyes and he quickly moves his hand away, like I did in fact give him an electric shock.
‘Erm, er, your dad popped into the inn earlier on his way back from work, said something about seeing me at dinner tonight,’ D stutters, no longer meeting my gaze. I pat down my coat where I suddenly feel a cool draught now Devon’s hand isn’t there and I breathe slowly in an attempt to pull myself together.
‘And you came? Why would you come?’ I ask, my brows furrowing, the question distracting me from wanting Devon’s hands on my body again.
‘Well, yeah,’ Devon answers, his eyes crinkling as if I just asked a really stupid question. I guess when dinner together with our parents was a regular occurrence growing up and never an odd happening, it kind of is. He tucks his hands safely into his coat pockets after we both check our watches in unison. It’s ten past seven.
‘Shoot,’ I say out loud and Devon starts to walk, reading my mind.
‘You can’t blame me for this evening. I gave you an out – I told my mum you couldn’t make it, so don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ I say to Devon matter-of-fact, walking quickly and pointing at him sternly.
‘How was I to know that? I know your parents, Scar, it will be fine,’ he says, his voice sounding like he’s trying to reassure me. ‘And what are you wearing?’ He flicks at my frilly collar as we close in on my parents’ house.
I look up at him and ignore the flutter in my belly when we reach my parents’ gate. I sigh. ‘My mum may have got a little crazier in the last ten years,’ I say.
Devon shrugs a casual shrug, like he’s telling me not to worry; he’s got this, just like he used to do when we were kids. It was usually me who did the talking when trying to win over his mum and him who did the talking when we needed to sweet-talk my mum, but oh how times have changed.
‘Oh, and she doesn’t like you very much,’ I add nonchalantly, as my dad opens the door with a beaming grin on his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Devon’s eyes mist over with fear and his lips twitch. I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my own. After ten years of facing my mum’s disapproving speeches, there’s a comfort in knowing that at least tonight it won’t just be me taking the fall for being late but my partner in crime too.
After my dad fussed over Devon with plenty of manly pats on the back as he showed him through the corridor and into the dining room and my mum greeted us with unsubtle tuts while gesturing to the clock and the table where the food was already plated up, we are now all seated around said table. My dad is currently working overtime; chatting to Devon all about his acting career and not letting my dear mother get a word in edgeways. I can tell by my mum’s piercing eye contact between the two of them and the robotic, slow pace at which she is cutting her steak, that she’s bursting to butt in and make a comment.
I’m internally grateful for my dad. The fear in Devon’s eyes has slowly dissipated and the sparkle is back; golden flecks swirling within the deep brown. He’s full of energy when he talks about things he’s passionate about and as I sit back chewing on a roasted carrot, I once again feel happy in the knowledge that my bubbly, hyper, forever a kid at heart best friend is still there; just in a bigger, broader and more muscly frame. All the worries I had that evening seeing him so cool and smooth with the boys at the pub have evaporated the more time we have spent together.