Page 83 of Holiday Romance
“It was red velvet.”
I shrug off my coat and scarf, already sweltering at the balmy conditions they like to keep the house in. A few of Zoe’s things are scattered about as well as a couple of noticeable presents for the baby, but otherwise the place looks exactly the same as it always does. A small front room and an extended kitchen at the back, with three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. It was small and basic, but loved and cared for, and I had nothing but good memories of it growing up.
“Where’s the tree?” Andrew asks, flicking the tassel at the end of one of Mam’s cushions. She’s had them since before I was born, along with the brown couch and the heavy wooden bureau that belonged to my grandmother. That sits where it always has, in the corner of the room, groaning under the weight of a million family photographs.
“We never get a tree.”
From the look on his face, I might as well have told him Santa isn’t real.
“Where would we put it?” I continue, gesturing around the small room.
“You really did nothing?”
“I guess we used to decorate the pine tree outside when we were younger. Dad pretended there were fairies inside.”
“Okay, well, that’s completely charming.”
“I was a charming child.” I point to a beaming photo of four-year-old me as proof. “Up until about twelve.”
“All went downhill, huh?”
“Puberty was not my friend.”
He scans the row of photographs, lingering over a few.
“This is the part where you tell me I grew into myself,” I remind him.
“Did you though?”
“Okay, Mr. Sarcasm. You’re a guest in this house, lest you forget.”
Andrew just points at another photo of one of us atop a donkey. “What’s going on here?”
“Zoe’s birthday.”
“Which is also your birthday,” he says, only to frown when I shake my head. “Were you one of those one minute before midnight, one minute after situations?”
“Nope. We just celebrated on different days. We got to pick them.”
He stares at me. “You got to pick your own birthday?”
“Uh-huh.” I grin as I realize I’m blowing his mind. “My parents were very keen that we each got to feel unique. So, we celebrated our real birthdayandwe got another day.”
“That’s just greedy.”
I laugh. “It felt very normal to us.”
“Which one do we celebrate?”
“My real one,” I assure him.
“And your other one?”
“March tenth. There’s no significance,” I add. “None. I picked it at random. I haven’t done anything on it since I moved away, but my parents still send me a card.”
“I can’t believe you get two birthdays.”
“I’m special.”
