Page 114 of Emma
Emma swallowed down her emotions and stared up at the ceiling. Vanessa always noticed the little things, while Emma was blissfully unaware of her own courage and determination half the time.
“I’m proud of you, Emma.” Vanessa shifted into Emma’s lap. “I’m proud of the way you’ve kept showing up and the way you’ve let yourself be seen, even when you felt like a mess. And I’m proud of the way you love her without making it about proving something.”
Emma’s throat constricted. She leaned in and kissed Vanessa instead. Slow, sure, and grateful for the life they had together. When they parted, their foreheads rested together.
“I’ve got an idea,” Vanessa said, a hint of mischief present in her eyes. “We go to bed like sensible people because tomorrow’s enormous.”
“I’m listening.”
“And in honour of our first Christmas with your little sister,” Vanessa went on, “I’ll refrain from any excessive…festivities,shall we say?” The glint in her eyes told another story. Emma wasn’t fooled. “Unless, of course, my wife insists.”
Emma laughed. “I might insist a little.”
“Just a little?” Vanessa drew her thumb across Emma’s bottom lip and smirked. “I’ll take it.”
Vanessa stood and folded the blanket, while Emma switched off the fairy lights and followed her wife towards the hallway. The whole place smelled like Christmas, but Emma was too tired to tackle anything else tonight, so she found Vanessa’s hand at the bottom of the stairs, and they climbed them together.
As Emma stepped into their darkened bedroom—everything ready and waiting for the big day—she believed that whatever tomorrow brought, they would meet it the way they had met everything else.
Together.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Vanessa was alreadyon her third glass of Bucks Fizz when the smoke alarm started to scream at her. She waved a tea towel at the oven door as if that would somehow undo her disaster against the first tray of parsnips. She hated timings on Christmas day, and right now, she had to wonder how Nigella managed to always make everything seem so effortless.
The kitchen looked as though it had been ransacked—foil scrunched into mountains, half-peeled sprouts rolling across the counter like they were staging a breakout—but the turkey was sitting in its roasting tin, and it was the one thing she’d managed to get right so far.
“Christ alive,” Vanessa muttered as she tugged the oven mitt off with her teeth, “I can run a parents’ evening with hundreds of parents and moody staff members, but Christmas dinner?—”
“Isnotmeant to feel like such a tense situation.”
Vanessa spun round, her breath catching when she saw Emma leaning casually in the doorway, freshly showered. She hadn’t tackled her damp hair yet, but she was wearing one of the jumpers Vanessa secretly loved best on her.
Why is she so calm?
“Don’t just stand there,” Vanessa said, her hands flung wide. “The sprouts need steaming, the spuds need fluffing, I don’t even know where to begin with your Yorkshire puddings, and…” Vanessa frowned as she scanned the room and lifted her glass. “Where the fucking hell has the Bucks Fizz gone?”
Emma crossed the room, plucked the empty flute from Vanessa’s hand, and set it firmly on the counter. “Step away from the oven.”
“Ican’tstep away from the oven,” Vanessa snapped, though it came out as more like a squeak. “People will be here in two hours, Emma. Our first Christmas with Freya and I’ve alreadycrematedthe parsnips. And cremated is being generous. I think they’re even worse than that.”
“Babe, it’sfine.” Emma slid her hands onto Vanessa’s shoulders, anchoring her. “I’ll do the parsnips again. You sit down before you set fire to your hair.”
Vanessa bristled. “I am perfectly capable?—”
“Of making yourself crazy,” Emma finished for her, pressing down until Vanessa’s hips nudged the stool at the counter. “Sit.”
Vanessa sat down and lowered her head to her hands. “I’m tipsy already, aren’t I?”
Emma kissed the top of her head, her lips lingering. “Maybe a tiny bit.”
“This is ridiculous!” Vanessa groaned. “I’ve survived a divorce, a double mastectomy, raising a daughter who could out-strop her own three-year-old toddler, and yet…” She gestured vaguely at the chaos. “Parsnips. Fuckingparsnipsare my undoing.”
Emma crouched in front of her, those grey eyes catching Vanessa’s with that steady, unshakable love. “It’s because it matters. Becauseshematters. You want it to be perfect.”
Vanessa’s throat constricted. “Yes.”
“Listen to me,” Emma said as she reached out a hand and cupped Vanessa’s cheek. “Freya isn’t coming for parsnips. She’s coming so she can be with us. For this…” Emma waved a hand over the table, crackers already laid across folded napkins. “Forfamily. That’s what she wants.”
