Page 28 of Must Love Christmas

“I love my pupils, but they get pure rambunctious this time of year.” As she looked over her shoulder toward the window, her silver eyebrow ring glinted in the light from the lamp beside her sofa. “The first snowfall is like a shot of pure adrenaline for them.”

“That’s universal.”And not only for children.

“Talking of kids, did you read that last paper I sent you?” Her voice stayed chirpy as ever, though she’d just turned the conversation to more serious matters.

“Which paper?” Garen asked—not that it mattered, because the answer was No.

“The one about the Romanian orphans and attachment disorders.”

“Mmm. It was fascinating.” He hoped it really was fascinating and she hadn’t sent him a boring paper just to test him.

“What did you think?”

For once, Garen’s notorious forgetfulness came in handy. “That was, like, two weeks ago. I cannae remember the details.”

“They studied Romanian orphans adopted into the UK.” She slid her crescent-moon pendant back and forth on its necklace chain as she spoke. “These kids exhibited symptoms of disinhibited attachment, even the ones adopted as young as six months old.”

“Uh-huh.” He minimized the video chat and opened Facebook, knowing that once Karen started banging on about orphans, she’d never notice he’d stopped paying attention. “Remind me, what’s disin—”

“Disinhibited attachment. Apparently it’s when kids are unusually friendly with strangers. They’ll talk to any adult they meet, even hug them or climb into their laps.”

Garen checked his notifications, placing the list just below the computer’s camera so it would appear as though he was looking at his sister. “So being friendly is bad now?”

“The point is, these adopted kids don’t attach themselves firmly enough to their new parents because they got so little attention from any one person when they were babies. Orphanages have very high turnover of employees, you know.”

“Mmm. Yeah.”

“The kids think they can’t depend on their parents to stick around, so they latch onto every adult they see.”

At the top of Garen’s Facebook feed was a new video his friend/ex-boyfriend Steven had posted of his cat jumping in and out of a box. It called to mind something conveniently relevant. “I’ve got a mate with a cat like that. He was left in a crate by the side of the road when he was four weeks old—the cat, not my mate.”

“I assumed.”

“This cat was ten times friendlier than all the other cats at the shelter. So my friend adopted him. And when visitors would come to his place, the cat—Torpedo is his name—would be all over us, begging for attention like a dog. It was so cool.” On Garen’s screen, Torpedo’s video looped in such a way it appeared he was jumping backward. “After a few months, though, Torpedo started acting cautious with strangers, even running away, which is normal for a cat. The vet said it was because he’d figured out his new owner wasn’t going anywhere, so he didn’t need a hundred best friends.”

“Aye.” Karen’s image tilted as she slouched against the back of the couch, balancing her laptop on her knees. “He’d formed a stable, secure bond.”

“Which I guess is good, but I miss the old Torpedo. He was really fun to petsit.”

“I remember the babysitters loved you, too,” Karen said. “You were so friendly and trusting, and you never cried when Mum and Dad left the house.”

Garen squirmed in his seat, wishing so many video chats with Karen didn’t turn into an exercise in self-examination. He’d always considered his outgoing nature to be a strength, and here she was trying to turn it into a pathology. He knew his sister had her own issues to deal with—like finding it hard to get close to people—but he didn’t feel a need to fix her the way Karen seemed to want to fix him.

Before he could reply, Garen heard keys rattling in the front door. “My flatmate’s home! You can meet him.” Relieved to change the topic, Garen turned from the laptop and waved to Simon as he entered the foyer. “Come say hiya to my sister.”

“Okay. Just a moment.” Simon removed his coat, then his shoes, leaving the latter beneath the coat rack.

Oh.Garen had noticed the shoes’ presence there but had never considered the reason. He looked below the table at his own feet, dismayed to see them still bearing the black trainers he wore for work. “Oops.”

“What’s wrong?” Karen asked.

“Nothing. Here he is.” He angled the laptop screen so Simon didn’t have to stoop to be visible. “This is my sister, Karen. No jokes about her name. She’s the humorless one.”

“I am not!”

“Hi, Karen.”

“Hiya, Simon. Thanks for looking after my brother when he was ill. I hope he wasn’t too annoying.”

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