Page 12 of Home to Christmas Island
Al? Since when is she friendly enough with him to call him Al?
Ah, just the woman I was looking for, he says, nodding at me. I need someone reckless enough to climb onto the roof to set up Rudolph.
Alba laughs at this—traitor—and I’m already fuming.
Go on Flora, she coos. Give the lad a hand, would ya? She raises an eyebrow suggestively at me from behind his back and I promise myself that I will pummel her into a snowbank later. She doesn’t even wait for me, simply winks and goes into the post office.
I try not to notice how tall and broad-chested Alistair is when he steps in front of me. He half-smiles, and says in a low voice that someone who wasn’t me might find enticing, Good afternoon, Fast Florence. A smirk twists up his mouth in a way that lets me know he’s had that one locked and loaded—yet another jab at my speeding. At least it’s not about my hair.
He motions towards the setting sun, Well, almost evening now, I suppose. The sun’s setting faster than you cruising down the Grand Narrows Highway. His smirk deepens and I see red.
I feel like I’ve been hit with a stray ember from the fireplace—shocked, and a little burned. I’m so mad I can’t think of anything to say, so I storm past him and walk straight towards the ladder propped up on the side of the building, grabbing the stupid reindeer on the way.
I’m halfway up the rungs before he jogs over to me, laughing, Jesus, Florence hang on, I can pass it to you once you’re up there. He tries to take Rudolph from me but I snatch the reindeer closer. Then, muttering more to himself than to me, he says, Everything has to be Formula One speed with you, doesn't it?
I don’t need any help, I snap, feeling stubborn. I hurl Rudolph up onto the roof in a burst of energy that’s purely rage-fueled and continue to climb up the ladder after it.
I try desperately not to think about how the decorations at the post office used to bring me so much joy I felt like I might burst. My mother would come home from work and say, Today’s the day Flora, come on, get your coat on. We’d drive back to the post office to look at the lights, and even as a teenager, I would gasp every time I saw the building all lit up.
Hey, come on, don’t take it out on Rudolph now, he’s only an innocent bystander. Alistair’s teasing jolts me from my thoughts. His voice is full of mirth, and I realize he’s come to stand behind me, holding the ladder steady. For some reason this gesture makes my face get hot, but my mind goes blank. Something about this guy’s mere presence seems to zap all the thoughts from my head.
When I finally step onto the roof, my foot slips slightly on a patch of snow. I catch myself easily, but Alistair’s voice is hoarse when he says, Okay, I’m not being funny anymore, be careful up there please. I don’t want you getting hurt.
I look down from the roof to bite back at him, but he’s gone white as a ghost. I’m fine, I say, a little taken aback. Why would this guy get so worked up when he doesn’t even know me? I feel a strange need to calm him down despite myself.
At the new high school, there’s a little shed for storage, and I used to climb up on the roof of it, even in the winter. And I never fell, I tell him, and my mind takes me instantly back there. Some of the boys in my grade dared me to try and do it. I was terrified the first time, but refused to let them see it. Standing up above them, balancing on the slanted, snow-covered roof, I felt triumphant.
I’ve always had freakishly good balance and Uncle Albie, whenever he heard about my latest antics, used to tell me I should forget baking and join the circus.
I can see Alistair frown at this new information, but then he instructs me to put Rudolph further to the right. I feel a flash of annoyance at being bossed around, and already, the edge in my voice is back.
Don’t tell me what to do, I say, but I move the reindeer anyway, and hand the string of lights attached to it down to him. As soon as he plugs them in, Rudolph lights up. As much as I would never admit it to the brute setting all of this up, it looks magical.
I climb down the ladder and when I get close to the bottom, all traces of that haunted look on Alistair’s face have evaporated. He’s holding the ladder steady, and he chuckles to himself.
What? I demand, my feet landing back on solid ground.
Everyone still calls it the new high school, but it’s been open for, what, eighteen years, has it not? He’s right, but as far as everyone who lives here is concerned, it’s still the new high school.
I don’t answer him, I just fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. If he doesn’t like it, he can move—far, far away. A smile twitches on his mouth, obvious to see even under his beard. He’s looking at me now like a wolf in a hen house.
Such a shame you hate Christmas, he says, in that mocking Canadian accent again that makes me want to throttle him. What, so fast and furious you can’t even enjoy the sparkling lights of this lovely little town landmark? He gestures to the lights hanging off the post office. It occurs to me that teasing might be this asshole’s love language or something, he’s enjoying this way too much.
I didn’t say I hated it, I said I’m not really a fan of Christmas. I am certain this is the lamest reply of all time, but I try to sell it with my tone. I don’t want this guy to see that he’s getting under my skin, but a tiny voice at the back of my head says, oh sweetie, that ship has long sailed.
Liar, he says, the word rolling off his tongue, and something about it makes me want to shiver, but I force down the urge. He takes a step closer to me, never breaking his stare, and keeping his voice low. I think you love Christmas, and Christmas Island, and being home to see your family. What’s so bad about that?
He seems genuinely curious to hear my answer and waits patiently for a reply, folding his arms across his chest, too. I’m suddenly red hot, the flush spreading to my face. I try to convince myself it’s anger, but the reaction that my body is having to this man standing in my space, speaking with that low, near-growl of an accent, throws me off so much that I find myself without any retort—again.
So I stomp past him instead, his laugh trailing me like a ghost.
Nice to see you too, little scorcher, he calls out after me. And for the love of god, ‘Just Florence,’ slow down!
I try not to slam the door shut behind me when I barge into the post office. Alba is at the desk, talking to Jean, who has worked there for years. The two of them glance at each other, but I barely register the look.
Your buddy Al is a real pain in my ass, I say to her, as I pick up the red-inked Christmas Island stamp and slam it onto both of our letters that are sitting on the desk. This is normally something that the people who actually work at the post office are supposed to do, but I’ve done it all my life, so I don’t think twice about it.
I take the postage stamps that Jean is holding out towards me, almost in a daze, and shove those onto the letters before I hand Alba’s envelope back to her.
