Page 8 of Home to Christmas Island
Someone is staring at me.
I look up to find Alistair watching me as he finishes the last of his stupid craft beer, placing the empty bottle on the table beside him. Without ever breaking eye contact, he stands up and is beside me at the bar in four great, hulking strides of his stupidly long legs.
Why don’t you like this band? He asks suddenly, his gaze still on me like a brand.
No hello, no introduction, no, Hey, sorry for pulling you over and giving you a ticket earlier, or acknowledgement that he even knows who I am. What kind of person doesn’t at least say hello first?
What makes you think I don’t like them? I try to keep my tone cool. I don’t want him to know how much he’s rattling me. His question seems genuinely curious, which annoys me to no end. I have to actively try not to clench my jaw. It’s enough that he lives in our house. I really don’t want to give him anything else.
He frowns at my question. Always with the stupid frowning, this guy. Everyone else has been nodding or singing along all night, except for you. You’ve been standing here glaring at the lead singer. What did you do to him?
What did I do to him? I ask, mouth agape. I can’t keep the defensiveness, or the sarcasm, from my voice. That’s a really nice assumption. Maybe he did something to me.
He only shakes his head. No, I don’t think so. I’ve known Murray for a few years now, he says, nodding in the band’s direction where Murray, the lead singer, is belting out like his life depends on it. He doesn’t seem like the type to upset anyone.
And I do?
You’re reckless, he says simply, his stupid, green eyes roving over me in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant. And impulsive, based on the interaction we had earlier.
So he does remember pulling me over. Great. I wonder if he knows he lives in my house. My old house. Our old house, I silently correct myself. I realize I haven’t replied to him, and it’s probably been too long to go without speaking.
He seems to realize it too, that stupid smirk winding its way up his face, I’m Alistair, by the way.
I know who you are, I can’t help the bite in my words.
And you’re ‘Just Florence,’ he says, nodding. I remember.
I only glare at him, in his stupid olive shirt. Who the hell wears olive? What kind of colour is olive anyway? I’m feeling flustered and tipsy and—
So, come on, fess up: what’s your deal with the band then? He’s direct, but there’s an openness in his question that makes me think he really wants to know.
It’s not my style of music, I say, seeing red. Who the hell does this guy think he is, trying to worm his way into my thoughts? He already has my house, what else does he want from me?
It’s Christmas music, he tilts his head to the side, his tone playful now. Not exactly a genre people tend to rank.
He’s looking at me in a way that makes me feel stripped bare. I don’t know how to form the words, Well, my teenage self made this decision a million years ago and I’m really stubborn, so I don’t know how to come back from that and admit maybe I didn’t give them a fair shot. Besides, that would be way too vulnerable, and I’m so mad I’m worried I might fully unleash on this guy. But between my rage and how tipsy I am, I’m struggling to form words here, so I tell him, I’m not really a fan of Christmas.
He chuckles at this, sipping his fresh beer that I’m not sure I ever saw him order, like the bartender knew to hand him another. Something about this irritates me, as if people here in my hometown know him so well that they just bring him another stupid craft beer. I really, really hate that.
Now that’s the first lie I’m certain you’ve told me, he says, only making my agitation grow hotter.
You don’t know anything about me, I snap. So how could you possibly tell if I’m lying or not?
It occurs to me now that this man is extremely perceptive. Maybe that’s part of the job, but before I can wonder if he actually does know anything about me, he confirms it.
From what I hear, you were quite a wild child back in the day. You’re an extremely talented baker, you’ve been away working on a cruise ship. You like to live life in the fast lane, he gives me a pointed look before continuing. You’re best friends with your cousin Alba and also Albert’s beloved niece who—
I put up a hand, stopping him from saying what I don’t want to hear: Who left him when your mother died.
I repeat my words from earlier: You don’t know anything about me. Whatever gossip you think you know, you don’t. And I don’t know anything about you, either. I wonder if he knows he’s living in my childhood home, but I really don’t want to find out.
I’m Alistair, he says, shrugging. Thirty-six years old. From Edinburgh, originally. Thought I’d try my hand in New Scotland, I moved here nine years ago when—
I didn’t ask, I say, cutting him off. For some infuriating reason, this makes him laugh.
Easy there, little scorcher. He chuckles to himself. I only meant to—
I cut him off again, I can’t stop myself now. Is that some kind of joke about my red hair? My tone is not friendly. In elementary school, I was teased mercilessly for being the only redhead in my class—how that was possible in Cape Breton, I’ll never know. But despite the many compliments over the years, that old defensiveness always simmers right at the surface, ready to explode.
