Page 85 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“Apparently, SJ would love both his parents there,” I explain. “I’d get my own guest room. It was all packaged as very reasonable.”
Fi throws her hands in the air. “That is not reasonable. That’s emotional sleight of hand in a Fair Isle jumper.”
“Fi,” Amelia warns, though she’s smirking.
I rub my eyes. “He also said he’d enjoy hanging out with me. Not in a creepy way. Just… calm. Honest. Like he meant it.”
Everyone goes quiet. The little boxes on my screen are frozen, thoughtful.
Finally, Lizzie tilts her head. “Do you… want to go?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I shouldn’t even be this shaken. I’m happy. I really am.”
Amelia’s voice softens. “We know. But happy doesn’t erase history.”
“I told him I’m seeing someone,” I confess. “It just… slipped out.”
Fi jabs her finger at the screen. “Which is true, yeah?”
“Yes. Sort of. It’s early. Not official. But Jasper makes me feel like… maybe life doesn’t have to be something I brace for.” Saying it out loud knots my throat.
“That sounds like a good thing,” Bri says, now stroking Zucca who’s returned in triumph.
Lizzie nods. “It does. But it’s also fine if you’re still unravelling the rest. No one’s expecting you to have a five-year plan.”
“And whatever you decide—Cornwall or not, Jasper or not—we’re here,” Amelia adds. “Promise.”
I blink fast, smile watery. “I just don’t know what I feel. About anything.”
“That’s allowed,” Fi says. “You’ve got time.”
“And for what it’s worth,” Lizzie adds, “no one said you have to decide who you’re building a life with this week.”
I laugh weakly. “Tell that to my nervous system.”
Amelia leans toward the camera, deadpan. “I’d tell it to your ex if I could. But alas, we must all behave.”
“For now,” I mutter, and all four screens light up with laughter.
We leave it at that. I look down at my phone, then out the window where the early evening light is already folding in on itself. I’m happy.
I think I’m happy.
So why is everything so tangled?
Chapter twenty-three
Frosty the Standoff
Miranda
The village green looks like a snow globe someone forgot to shake—lights twinkling in every tree, fake snow sticking in suspicious clumps to the tinsel-strangled stalls, and a brass band doing its best to keep ‘Hark! The Herald’ from falling apart at the seams.
SJ is practically vibrating beside me in that way only children can manage without spontaneously combusting. He’s had that look ever since we finished decorating our tree this morning. Admittedly, it was more of a battle than a tradition, thanks to Twinklesocks and Thor, who remain firmly convinced that baubles exist purely for their personal amusement. By the end of it, SJ was laughing so hard he nearly toppled into the tree, while I was rescuing ornaments mid-air like some sort of festive goalkeeper.
“Can I have a sausage?” SJ asks, eyes wide, already halfway turned toward the food stalls. “With ketchup? And onions?”
I open my mouth to say yes but Jasper beats me to it.
