Page 10 of The Christmas Express
Now, he drains the last of his coffee, licking a stray bit of foam from the lid. Damn, I wish I was that lid.
Shhhut it, Cali.
I can’t look away and I watch Luke for a moment longer. His hair is a little longer than it used to be, which highlights the tousles, making them more defined. He slumps down into a seat, his teal eyes scanning the area, and I step back again, hidden further from view, until he pulls out a paperback and looks down, his eyelashes dark and blinking softly. He stifles a yawn, lifting an arm wrapped in a maroon jacket to cover his mouth.
That mouth. I used to look at his mouth all the time when he talked, back before we became ‘a thing’. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. And I knew I was probably giving off huge, desperate, I want to kiss you signals, but so what? I did. There was something about his lips, how they always seemed to be smiling, even when he was thinking, even when he would fall asleep on my sofa during some movie marathon I’d arranged for everyone in the building.
Then during that week, that one week when everything changed for the better and just before it all changed again, for the worse, I got to know that he also smiles when he kisses, and that the way his face lit up when we broke apart could have made me smile for the rest of my life.
I swallow now, forcing myself to stop gazing at him and look away. Because I also remember the words that came out of his mouth during that group holiday. That came out of all of our mouths during that final night. I struggle to recall exactly what I said, but I know they were just as bad.
I can’t think about him like I used to any more. Pull yourself together, Cali. I walk around the chairs, quietly, trying not to draw attention, looking for an empty seat. But these naughty eyes betray me three more times, and try as a might I just keep glancing back at him, and then one time, that magnetic pull drags his head up, and he looks back.
Shit. Shitting shitting shitballs. I avert my gaze with the speed of an Olympic medallist and feel the neck sweats rush back to collide with my insta-blush.
Why did he have to lift his head at that moment? Why did I have to look back one last time?
And why did I have to like it so much when our eyes met for a millisecond?
We’re all here now, all five of us, spread out on seats as far as possible from each other at the gate, like we’re part of a flash mob who have no intention of getting up and dancing. There’s a twinkling Christmas tree in the corner, and many of the passengers are sat beside bags with brightly wrapped gifts poking out of the top of them. And everyone is wearing their quirkiest Christmas jumper, of course.
Sara caught my attention first, confirming it was her when her violet hair pulled the gaze of everyone at our gate when she strolled in, statuesque, slick carry-on case, serene-resting face. Her eyes met mine and I gave her a stiff wave and she gave me a stiff smile, then ignored the empty seat beside me and wheeled her bag five rows away, sliding her sunglasses back over her eyes. Sara is the coolest person I’ve ever known. If she were in a movie, she’d be the cool eighties heartthrob guy who always wears shades and a simple white T-shirt and is unfazed by life and makes everyone want to smoke. Not that Sara smokes. But she has that vibe that says, ‘look at me, but I don’t care if you do or not because I’m not looking at you anyway’.
Brother and sister, Joe and Joss, arrived separately and seem to have been silently squabbling from across the rows of chairs ever since they sat down, raising their brows at each other, rolling their eyes, giving each other barely concealed middle fingers. We all acknowledged each other with similar amounts of warmth. As in, not much.
Finally, I let myself catch Luke’s eye again, and I tried to mouth ‘hello’ at him but my lips stuck together and I actually mouthed ‘pillow’. He replied with a curt nod, and looked back at his book. Now I can’t stop fiddling with the pieces of hair framing my face.
Is he watching me?
I do a totally casual neck stretch to see . . . No.
‘Passengers awaiting to depart for this morning’s flight to Toronto, thank you for your patience,’ an announcement comes over a speaker in the gate area and the rows of travellers hush their conversation to listen. ‘We will soon begin boarding, starting with our families with young children and those needing assistance, and then our first-class fliers. We will then be calling passengers up by rows. Please remain seated until we call your row. Please.’ The staff member puts a heavy stress on the word, which makes me smile, which makes me look back up at Luke to see if he’s smiling, and this time I catch him watching me.
My heart boings with surprise and my smile slides a little bigger. I turn away quickly. Damn it. I wish I had the confidence to hold eye contact.
Over the following fifteen minutes, fellow passengers are filtered through the gate into the tunnel which leads them to the plane, and I wait for our row to be called.
I’m rehearsing some things to say to the others. I quite like, Shall we clear the air before we get into the air? Or maybe I should just launch into an apology, get the ball rolling, and hope they follow suit? Or how about, Let’s get plane-drunk and all ignore the tension until we get back to the UK?
The next row is called and I spot Luke stand up. Huh? I check my ticket, moving to stand, but this definitely isn’t my row – not even close. I sit back down, catching his eye again and he shrugs.
My old friends filter into the line like cards being shuffled together over the next five minutes. We aren’t sitting together. I’d just assumed, but I guess I don’t need to rehearse the small talk any more. I can just relax, enjoy the flight, watch a movie or two, get a little drunk on my own, enjoy not enduring the forced proximity.
A little sinking feeling, a flutter of disappointment, makes its way through my chest.
When my row is announced I join the queue, along with my soon-to-be-neighbours and those who will be sitting in the rows near me.
Is that . . . ? No. I thought I glimpsed someone else from our past for a second there, a few people ahead of me. I’m on such red alert that now I’m just seeing people I used to know everywhere.
I have a clear view of the back of Luke’s head. Which makes me sound like a stalker, or a sniper, but I’m totally neither; it’s just a fact, okay?
We’re in the air at cruising altitude, the UK behind us and the Atlantic Ocean far, far below. Canada is somewhere in the distance, waiting for us, snow-covered and Christmassy.
Mmm. I pull up the pictures Bryn sent across of our vast log cabin again. It looks huge, such a contrast to that cramped villa the six of us had on that disastrous holiday. Each room in this cabin has its own kitchenette and bathroom, an armchair beside a huge window, some of them even have their own entrances. Really, Canada is the perfect setting for Bryn to have her dream wedding, for us to all be there, but with the ability to keep a lovely chunky distance from each other.
That’s not very in the Christmas spirit though, is it?
The clouds edge by beneath my window. What do I actually want to happen by the end of this trip? Do I want to keep my distance?
