Page 123 of Someone Like You

‘I’m okay,’ I reply. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

It’s a silent walk back to Mom and Dad’s and Raff holds my hand the entire time, somehow intuitively knowing that’s what I need.

And he’s right.

The strength I’m siphoning from him through two pairs of gloves is the only way I make it those five blocks without dropping into the snow and staring up at the grey sky and having a full-blown, rage-filled, teary tantrum.

Do I want Eric?

Fuck no.

But do I want what Eric has with Donna?

That’s a harder question to answer, because what hits me as we walk through this winter (fucking) wonderland is that while I may have mourned the loss of Eric – of what wehadtogether – I never properly mourned the loss of what I envisioned wewouldhave together – our future.

Why doesn’t anyone tell you that you also need to process the future that will never come?

Or maybe they do, and I wasn’t listening.

I’m listening now.

Tyler – he called his kid Tyler.

My throat closes and tears prick my eyes at the memory of that sweet, little, blue-eyed boy.

I blink back the tears and swallow the lump.

‘Nearly there, Gabs,’ says Raff softly, squeezing my hand.

I suddenlylovethat Raff calls me ‘Gabs’ and not ‘Gaby’. He’s the only person who does and that means it’s ‘ours’, the nickname.

But not ‘ours’ in the way I want it to be. I bet he’ll start calling Julia ‘Jules’ soon.

When we turn the corner, Mom and Dad’s house comes into view and Dad is out front, shovelling the front walk.

‘Hey, you two,’ he says cheerily. ‘Your mom’s making hot chocolate.’

I smile at him, feeling an overwhelming sense of ‘home’. If Ihad to be anywhere the day I ran into my ex, at least it’s here where I’m surrounded by loved ones.

Safe.

Busyness has been my salvation through the tumult of this trip and this afternoon is no exception. It’s nearly sunset – though, not even 4.30p.m. – and Raff has me and Issy on sous chef duties. Or is it, sous baker?

So far, there has been a lot of measuring – sorry,precisemeasuring – and stirring and mixing and following instructions to the letter. This isn’t a batch of Christmas cookies I can half-ass. This is a wedding cake, and we need to whole-ass every step. When I say that to Issy, she cracks up, earning us a stern look from Raff.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

But I would rather be here, being bossed about by my best friend than unpacking what happened at Trader Joe’s.

Even if I wanted to talk it through with Mom, she’s otherwise occupied, somehow persuading her friend’s college-aged daughter andherfriends into being waitstaff at the reception – now a buffet with a bar, rather than a sit-down dinner. They’re getting paid in wine.

And Dad is back on the phone, confirming pickups with the fleet of volunteer drivers, including locations and guest names. Even though they’ll refuse at first – happy to do the favour for my much-loved Dad – they’re getting paid in beer.

When a wedding guest list drops from one hundred and fifty to forty, there is a lot of extra booze.

In the kitchen, the three of us work methodically, finding our rhythm, and Issy insists on ‘entertaining us’ with mortifying storiesfrom my childhood. As in, entertaining Raff, who’s guffawing at my embarrassing anecdotes.

‘Did she ever tell you about the night she started her period?’

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