Page 119 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Theo steps forward, brows knitting. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
He studies me for a beat, then gives a reluctant nod. “Text when you get in.”
“Always.”
I head for the hallway, pausing to glance back once. Lucy’s still passed out on the floor under a fleecy throw, one of her slippers dangling from her toes. It's the kind of scene you wish you could bottle.I love my family. So, shouldn’t that be enough?
I pull the door closed behind me, stepping out into the stillness.
The air’s cold, fresh. My breath puffs in little clouds. I walk slowly to my car, hands in pockets, heading back to my own empty house where a bottle of whisky and a whole lot of me time is waiting.
When I get back at four, the house greets me like it always does. Quiet. A bit too tidy. The heating’s kicked in, just enough to stop the chill from biting.
I head straight to the kitchen, still half in my coat. I place the little Tupperware tub Ivy handed me on the way out on the counter, the sticky label readingEat me. Or regret it.
I pop the lid, and the smell hits me straight away—roasted, salty, deeply festive. I fish out a pig in a blanket, still cold but glorious, and eat it standing there like some sort of kitchen goblin. No regrets.
Then I reach for the whisky. No ice, no faffing. Just a good solid pour into the nearest clean glass.
I carry it through to the living room and drop onto the sofa with a sigh that belongs to someone older than me.
I raise my glass to no one in particular.
“Merry bloody Christmas.”
There’s a ring at the door just as I take my first sip.
Because of course there is.
I drag myself off the sofa, glass still warm in my hand, and head to the door. When I open it, Callum’s standing there in his parka, cheeks pink from the cold and holding—naturally—a bottle of whisky like a festive peace treaty. Perfect, that should keep me going until the new year.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, lifting it slightly.
“You’re either the Ghost of Poor Decisions or a very welcome hallucination.”
He grins. “Just me. Thought I’d swing by, make sure you haven’t curled up in a ball of heartbreak and Quality Street wrappers.”
I take the bottle from him and glance at the label. Good stuff. He always brings good stuff. “Tempting. Come in?”
He shakes his head, pulling his scarf tighter. “Can’t stay. Stella’s daughter’s coming round in a bit. We’re about to have a full-blown Christmas dinner.”
“Ah yes. Nothing says seasonal bonding like stuffed turkey.”
Callum smirks. “It’s only the third one in the last four days. I’m starting to feel like a stuffed turkey myself.”
I laugh, for real this time. It feels strange. Lighter than I expected.
He nods at the bottle. “I thought you might need that. You know, being brutally dumped just before Christmas and all.”
“I wasn’t dumped.”
Callum raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I concede. “Softly sidelined. Possibly benched.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And nothing says ‘I’m processing this like a grown-up’ quite like a nice helping of whisky.”
