Page 21 of Home to Christmas Island
I feel so put on the spot that I blow right past defensiveness and straight into vulnerability. I cross my arms over my chest, subconsciously trying to protect myself.
You can’t just ask somebody that. I’m trying to buy myself time and we both know it.
Sure I can, he nods. Just did. Again, that easy, interested tone. I feel like I could tell him I hated his guts and he wouldn’t care—but he would challenge me on why, exactly, that was the case.
I don’t have an answer for him, so instead I ask, Why don’t you like me?
I never said I didn’t.
You’ve called me reckless—a number of times, I might add, I say, trying not to let my hurt feelings show, but believing I’ve finally turned the tables on him for once. That’s not really a word I would use for someone I liked.
You don’t like being called reckless? He pauses, tilting his head slightly again before stepping a bit closer to me. I have to force myself to stand my ground. His voice is lower now, almost gentle, as he ducks his head down to try and get me to meet his gaze. But you are a bit of a reckless, wild thing. Are you not?
My head is spinning. I try to find a way to spit out why that word bothers me so much. There’s a difference between reckless and thrill-seeking, I say. Reckless implies a disregard for other people’s safety. Like, you don’t care if what you’re doing also negatively impacts other people. I might not care about my own safety so much, but I do care if my actions hurt someone else in the process.
He stares down at me for a few seconds—god he’s tall—and I hate feeling like he’s filing away all this information for his Official Police Report on Florence MacLeod.
You really don’t like that word, he says, scanning my face again, before nodding slowly, Noted.
A tiny voice in the back of my head says he’s probably noting it so he doesn’t use the word again, even if he thinks it’s true. I try not to have a reaction to that thought. Why would he spare my feelings when he doesn’t even know me?
He pauses for another second before asking, Is it because I bought your house?
Your house. My heart nearly bursts through my chest. I can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since he connected the dots. Did he know when he first pulled me over that day? And is it because he bought the lake house that I find him so irritating?
No, I say, not wanting to talk about the lake house at all, especially not with him. I feel the stubbornness, the agitation, radiating from me. He laughs as if he feels it too.
Ah, he says, smiling at me now and snapping his fingers. I get it. This is just like The MacNeils & The McNeils.
What? I have visions of tackling him in the snow, the same way I did Alba.
He nods sagely at me, Yep, that’s it. You decided that band was shite at some point, and god forbid you open your mind to it now. You made up your mind years ago about them, and you won’t waver from it. And now, you’ve done the same thing with me.
He holds up his right index finger. I gave you one speeding ticket, the lesser ticket, I might add, which you more than deserved for how fast you were driving. That, coupled with the fact I was the one who bought your house, has made me some kind of villain to you. And with very little information, you’ve made up your mind, and you’re sticking to your guns.
I don’t say anything, I can only glare up at him, my mind stupidly blank again. That tiny voice in the back of my head pipes up and says, He’s right, before I shut it down.
As if he can see the thoughts warring in my head, Alistair shakes his head and says in that low voice, So stubborn. He watches me for another second. He has no idea how stubborn I can be.
Life’s no fun if you’re stuck in your ways, fire sprite, he says as he flicks a strand of hair off my shoulder. I screech at him, smacking his hand away. He sort of chuckles, but it’s not a real laugh. Maybe someday I’ll change your mind. But you’d have to let me in, even a little bit, ‘Just Florence.’
With that, he walks back to his cop car, leaving me alone and freezing on the beach.
Chapter 9
IT’S THURSDAY WHEN I FIND myself idling in the rental, parked on top of the snow-covered hill of the cemetery. We’ve had some fresh, powdery snow over the last few days and the sun is finally out this morning. I can see clearly across the water, the light sparkling over the lake. I try to focus on that, instead of what I’m about to do.
I decided that my punishment for not coming here on Sunday was running into Alistair on the beach. It took me a few days to work up the nerve to try again, but frankly I’m worried if I don’t do this today, that I’ll cross paths with him again—some kind of karmic joke from the universe.
I twirl the stems of the bright, red berries in my hand. I stopped at a winterberry bush on the side of the road and tried to make a little bouquet. My mother taught me never to show up anywhere empty-handed, so I’m not about to start now.
Despite my ability to find trouble wherever I could, Mom still fought tooth and nail to raise me into someone polite and courteous. And she did have to fight for it. If I was going to a friend’s place, she would ask me what I was bringing. Later, once I started to bake, this came more easily—but I wasn’t allowed to go to anyone else’s house without a little something to show my gratitude.
These people are opening their home to you, Flora, she’d say. This is the least you can do. Mom was also super involved in our community and volunteered around Cape Breton, often dragging Alba and I to be put to work wherever we could.
Look at how lucky we are, girls, look at all the help we have. We should give that right back to our neighbours. When I was a teenager, this was often the reason for the epic screaming matches my mother and I would occasionally get into: I wanted to go hang out with my friends, not hand out pamphlets or clean up at a soup kitchen.
I cringe now, thinking about the way I spoke to her in those moments. The awful things I said. I can never take any of that back, but I believe on some level she understood it was the reality of the teen years. She wanted to keep Alba and I out of trouble, I think, but also really wanted us to understand gratitude. And that people here help each other out, in good times and in bad.
