Page 93 of Someone Like You

‘It’s a long story – and he’s not herewithme,’ I insist. ‘Like I said, we’refriends.’

‘So, what happens when he figures it out?’

‘That I have feelings for him? I have no frigging idea. Hopefully, I can keep everything under wraps – at least till we get back to London. Much easier to deal with when we’re not sharing a bed.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I mean, what happens when Raff figures outhehas feelings foryou?’

‘What?’ I shriek, waving away her nonsense with a wry laugh. ‘That’s nuts. There’s no way.’

She looks at me as ifshe’sthe older wiser cousin and says, ‘We’ll see,’ right as Dad announces that he and Raff are back with the tree.

‘It doesn’tcompletelysuck,’ I say, regarding our lopsided, misshapen Christmas tree, now adorned with every ornament my parents own – even the ugly ones people have gifted them over the years.

Typically, Mom only puts those at the very back of the tree, facing the wall. Or she makes up some feeble excuse about there not being enough room and they stay in the box.

Though, she drew the line at my macaroni masterpieces. I’m either going to have toss them or pack them up and take them back to London.

Issy, who has only just stopped crying, sniggers at my evaluation of our tree. At least I’ve made her laugh on one of the worst days of her life.

Mom tuts at me. ‘Bite your tongue, young lady,’ she chides playfully. ‘It’s a beautiful tree.’

‘Is that like when people say all newborns are beautiful when some of them look like those dried-apple dolls?’ quips Dad.

Issy, Raff, Monica, and I erupt into laughter and Mom roundson Dad, wagging a finger at him. ‘Roland Gabriel Rivera, all babiesarebeautiful. They are little miracles, each and every one.’

‘Come on, Mom,’ says Issy, ‘you’ve said more than once that you’ve delivered an ugly baby.’

Mom stifles laughter. ‘That does not leave this house,’ she says, narrowing her eyes and pointing at us in turn.

‘Understood,’ says Dad, setting his phone on the mantle place. ‘Okay, time for the family photo in front of the butt-ugly tree.’

‘Roland!’

Dad howls with laughter while he shepherds us into place. He puts Raff at the back in the centre and me directly in front of him. Like he’s done a hundred times before, Raff drapes one long arm around my shoulders in a half hug. Following Dad’s directions, Issy stands next to me on one side and Monica on the other. Monica catches my eye, and a flicker of ‘I told you so’ crosses her face. I frown at her.

‘Gaby, smile!’ calls Dad. He presses the button on his phone, then slots into the photo next to Mom. ‘Say cheese!’ he calls out.

‘Cheese!’

‘How long do we need to stand here?’ asks Mom through her teeth.

Dad rushes over and checks his phone. ‘Perfecto,’ he declares.

Raff squeezes my shoulders, momentarily dropping his chin onto the top of my head, then steps away. It’s jarring how intensely I feel his absence. Monica surreptitiously flicks me on the leg, and I want to shout at her, ‘We’re just friends!’

But who would I be trying to convince?

With Issy showing up unexpectedly, we are now anextrafull house. She’s sharing with Monica, but her old bedroom only has a kingsingle, so she been relegated to the air mattress. Monica offered to take it, but Issy insisted that the bride should have a proper bed for the week.

I’m ignoring that everyone now knows Raff and I are sleeping together.

After dinner – a giant pot of Dad’s chili that we’ll all be regretting by midnight (me especially, considering my sleeping arrangements) – we move to the living room to play the Christmas edition of Win, Lose or Draw.

My parentslovegames nights, so they have the whole set up – easel, flipchart, and a set of coloured markers. We’re playing in pairs and, Raff and I are winning. Monica has accused us of cheating three times.

‘We’re not cheating!’ I insist after a round in which I drew six clues and Raff guessed each one correctly.

‘Even these two can’t compete with you,’ she says, pointing to my parents, ‘and they’ve have been married nearly forty years.’

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