Page 58 of Just a Taste
‘Sounds…’ I click my tongue, searching around for the right word to use here. Something that won’t offend her and send her hackles right up. ‘Cosy?’
‘Cosy doesn’t even begin to cover it,’ she laughs, shaking her head. ‘It’s loud, messy, and there’s guaranteed to be atleastthree fights – and my mother will be involved in at least two. But it’s ours, you know?’
‘That’s the problem,’ I say. ‘Idon’tknow.’
My Christmases have never been like that. They’re not about family spending time together and catching up. Sharing laughter and jokes and joy.
‘But you said your mother is hosting Christmas this year?’ Noelle says, frowning. ‘So, your familydoget together, right?’
I think back to the last Christmas I spent with my family. I was… twenty-two maybe? Twenty-three? It was a façade of togetherness, a performance for the sake of performance.The air was thick with tension, our forced smiles barely hiding the fractures beneath the surface.
‘It’s not like that for me,’ I say finally, the words heavy on my tongue.
‘Then what is it like?’ Noelle sighs in obvious exasperation. ‘Paint me a picture.’
I’ve never been one to shy away from confrontation. I’ve built a career off being able to dive headfirst into uncomfortable or difficult situations without fear or nerves holding me back. So why the hell am I hesitating now?
It’s not like Noelle’s the first person to ever ask – and I doubt she’ll be the last – but she’s the first to ever ask likethis. Like she’s genuinely interested in the answer and isn’t just waiting for a lull in the conversation so she can start listing all the things she loves about Christmas and how I’m inherently wrong for not agreeing.
Noelle waits patiently for my answer, even as the silence between us stretches into something uncomfortably awkward.
‘It’s… complicated,’ I manage to get out, struggling to find the right words to describe the tangled mess of emotions that Christmas stirs up for me.
Noelle’s expression softens. ‘Complicated, how?’
I’m fighting the urge to run my hand down my face and groan. ‘Do you bother all your clients like this?’ I snap, my words coming out harsher than I’d like.
Noelle visibly stiffens. Her jaw sets and the soft expression in her eyes hardens into something I’m more than familiar with. Whatever goodwill I’ve managed to amass with my personal chef over the last two days is long gone. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that we’re back on familiar territory once again.
‘Sorry for being such abother,’ Noelle sniffs. ‘But it’s obvious you’re going through something.’
I bark out a dry laugh as I push myself up from my seat. ‘It’s obvious, is it?’
Noelle’s eyes narrow into thin, irritated slits. ‘And I thought you could use a friend.’
That familiar feeling of guilt hits me again, so hard I’m almost drowning in it. The smart, rational part of me knows that Noelle doesn’t deserve my Christmas ire, but what else am I supposed to say?
‘Christmas doesn’t have to be complicated,’ Noelle calls after me as I stride towards the door. ‘I don’t know what kind of Christmases you’ve had before, but it doesn’t have to be that way. You know that, right?’
I swallow hard, her words stirring something inside me that I didn’t know was there. An emotion I thought I’d suffocated, from disuse, years and years ago.
‘You can do your own thing,’ Noelle continues.
I grab the door handle and wrench it open, cold air slapping me in the face as I step out into the hall. I don’t turnaround, but I hear Noelle slump against the table before she mutters, ‘You can still make it whateveryouwant it to be.’
The problem is, I haven’t made it anything in so long, I’m not sure I’d even know how to.
CHAPTER FOURTEENAlex
This is ridiculous. Utterly and entirely ridiculous. And yet…
My lips dip into a scowl as I cut my finger against yet another piece of foil as I try to mould it into this damn shape. Try and fail.
I glance up at the YouTube video currently playing across my screen. EASY ALUMINIUM FOIL CHRISTMAS STARS… And yet there is nothing easy about this. I let out an exasperated sigh and flick the offending scrap of foil off my finger, watching it skitter across my desk like a tiny, shiny, mocking entity. The video on my screen shows someone’s hands moving deftly, folding and twisting the foil into a neat, perfect star. There’s even festive music playing in the background, but the only thing ringing in my ears right now is the sound of my own frustration.
‘Okay,’ I mutter under my breath, taking a deep breath. ‘Focus, Alex. Focus.’
I grab another square of foil, careful this time to keep my hands steady, my grip light. But it’s like the foil has a mind of its own. It’s irritatingly slippery and crinkles and folds in all the wrong places. Why does it look so easy in the video? The person on screen isn’t bleeding from most of their fingertips.
