Page 57 of Just a Taste
I shake my head and close out the five –five– tabs I currently have open dedicated to DIY Christmas decorations.
This is just because the kiss is still fresh in my mind. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Noelle doesn’t knock on my office door as the evening creeps up on me, but the mouth-watering scent of something simmering in the kitchen wafts up towards me.Curiosity – and the fact that I’m certain my toes are seconds away from falling off – gets the better of me, and before I can second-guess myself, I find my feet carrying me downstairs.
As soon as I step into the warm glow of the kitchen, I’m met with a familiar sight. Noelle is sat at my kitchen table, tension carving deep lines on her forehead as she stabs a bowl of what looks like spaghetti. She looks up as I enter, her eyes immediately going wide.
I give her a small smile in response to her surprised expression and she clears her throat, fidgeting with the fork in her hand.
‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted to come down and eat, so…’ She trails off and shoots me an apologetic wince. ‘But there’s plenty in the pot. I’m nearly done, so I can get out of your way if you give me a couple of minutes.’
Guilt shoots through me like an electrical current at her obvious uncertainty.
‘You don’t need to rush,’ I say as I make my way to the stove and help myself to a generous portion of spaghetti. She looks unconvinced, so I take a seat next to her at the table, much to her obvious surprise. The silence between us is palpable as I start eating and the clinking of cutlery against our plates is the only sound in the room.
I steal glances at Noelle as we eat. Her eyes are downcast, focused on her food, and there’s a tension in her posture that definitely wasn’t there before.
My fault, I think with a pang of a regret.This is my fault.
After a few moments of uneasy silence, I clear my throat to speak up, but she gets there before me.
She puts her fork down with a heavyclang, tilts her head, and looks at me, her gaze piercing. ‘What is yourdeal?’
Of all the things I was expecting her to come out with, ‘What is your deal?’ definitely wasn’t at the top of my list.
‘My deal?’
She nods, a frown twisting her lips. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘Believe it or not,’ I say, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the strange turn this conversation has taken. ‘That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.’
Noelle’s expression doesn’t shift. ‘It’s like, one minute you can’t stand me—’
‘One minute I can’twhat?’
‘And the next, you’re all over me,’ she continues, like there’s been no interruption. ‘Roland told me that the holidays aren’t a great time for you.’
I make a mental note for me and Roland to have a nice, long chat in the new year about what is and what isn’t acceptable to tell people.
‘And is this just the result of that?’ she asks, gesturing between us as if she can see the wall of tension that’s currently dividing us. ‘Because if it is, then I’ve got the same question: what is your deal with Christmas?’
I stab at my spaghetti and avoid all eye contact. ‘It’snothing but an overhyped, overcommercialised excuse for excessive spending and false cheer.’ The words tumble out of me with dismissive ease – it’s the same argument I’ve rehearsed every year when December rolls around.
Noelle raises an eyebrow, her full lips finally curving in a sardonic smile. It’s clear that she’s not buying it, and why should she? It’s an obvious cop-out.
‘There’s got to be more to it than that.’
‘There isn’t,’ I lie.
She exhales deeply and we fall into another silence. For a moment, I think I’ve got out easy. That she’s going to accept my lie and let us ride out the storm without any further interrogations.
‘You can do Christmas your own way, you know,’ she says suddenly, her voice breaking through the silence. ‘If you don’t like the commercial side of it – which, neither do I, by the way – you don’t have to lean into it. Christmas is more than tinsel and sales.’
I glance up. There’s no judgment in her eyes. ‘Like what?’
‘It’s about family. For me, anyway,’ Noelle says, her hands gesturing wildly as if she’s trying to paint a picture for me to see. ‘My parents, my sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, family friends who aren’t technically related but might as well be? They’re scattered all over the country. And you know what life is like. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s got their own shit to deal with on a daily basis. But Christmas?’ She grins, brightand wide. ‘That’s our magnet. Do a documentary about the Jones family and have David Attenborough narrate it, and he’d probably describe it as some kind of homing instinct, the way we all descend on my grandmother’s home in the run-up to Christmas.’
She leans forward and drops her chin into the palm of her hand, a wistful expression taking over her face. A soft smile plays at her lips. ‘It’s the one time we can count on being together, sharing stories, eating good food, catching up on lost time.’
