Page 89 of Someone Like You

‘Ha-ha-ha!’ laughs Mom, her head thrown back. Dad laughs along and so do I, even though I’m ostensibly laughing at my six-year-old self.

Or maybe it’s simply the hysterical laughter of a jetlagged woman who has fallen for her best friend.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Raff’s standing in the doorway, a wistful smile on his face. He holds up his phone charger. ‘I’ve stupidly arrived without an adaptor.’

‘I’ve got one.’ Dad leaps up to retrieve one from his stockpile – can’t have daughter number two unable to plug inall the thingswhen she comes home to visit.

‘Raff, while I’ve got you, I was going to ask… If it’s not too much trouble, I mean…’

I suspect I know where she’s going with this. ‘Mom, just ask him.’

‘Does it have anything to do with baking, by chance?’ he asks, his eyes creased at the corners in amusement.

Mom grins at him. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to do my Christmas baking.’

‘Which is not such a bad thing,’ I say under my breath.

‘Gabriela – that’s not nice.’

‘But true,’ I add, also under my breath.

She tuts at me.

‘I will happily bake some Christmas goodies while I’m here,’ Raff offers magnanimously.

‘Oh, excellent!’ Mom’s acting like there was a chance he’d say no. ‘And I can run to the store and get everything you need – or Gaby can,’ she adds, volunteering me.

Raff starts naming recipes and with each suggestion, her eyes widen even more. I haven’t seen Mom this excited since Dad gave her a vacation to Mexico for Christmas five years ago.

Then again, RaffisBritain’s Best Baker!

We’re both in bed – me in the double canopy bed my parents bought me for my sweet sixteen and Raff on the shitty air mattress they’ve had since the nineties – and I’m staring up at the ceiling, exhausted but wired and annoyingly wide awake.

‘Gabs?’ whispers Raff.

‘Yeah?’

There’s a plasticky fart-like sound as he rolls over, and I scooch closer to the edge of the bed and look down. In the dim light, I can see that he’s on his side, his head propped up with his hand.

‘What’s up?’

‘I adore your family.’

I smile. ‘They adore you too.’

He’s quiet for a beat, then says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but when I came down for the adaptor, I… I saw how you are with your mum and dad – teasing each other, making jokes…’

I hadn’t known Raff had witnessed all that, but it explains the wistful expression when he interrupted us.

‘I wish I had that sort of relationship with my parents,’ he says, an undercurrent of sadness in his voice.

‘Raff, your parents are—’ I cut myself off. He knows his parents are assholes. He doesn’t need me reminding him. ‘Look, my parents love you and you love them, so my parents are your parents, okay?’

He chuckles softly. ‘Is that the family equivalent ofmi casa es su casa?’ he asks.

‘Something like that. Just know that this is a place where you’re loved, so it’s your home too, okay?’

He blinks a few times and I wonder if he’s holding back tears.

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