Page 101 of Riot Reunion
“I can’t believe he disconnected his phone,” Elodie mutters, scowling as she drinks. “Sucha shitty move. If I ever see the bastard again, I’m gonna break his nose.”
“Fuck his nose. I’m gonna break his legs,” Carrie growls. “At least that way he won’t be able to bail before we can all tell him exactly what we think of him.”
“I appreciate that you have my back, guys, but…I’ve had plenty of time to think over the past few weeks. And…as tough as it is to say this, I think he made the right decision. We were up against it from the very beginning. The odds were stacked against us big time. And I’m not blameless, y’know?” I say what they’re too nice to ever say. “I lied to him for weeks. I hid something very important. Something he had the right to know. I ran away from him first, and then I refused to let him in. I’m the reason why he left. At the end of the day, he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He broke up with you hours after you had major surgery!” Elodie thumps a couch cushion, her indignance pretty adorable.
“I know. But what else was he supposed to do? If he had stayed until I was better, that wouldn’t have helped. It would have only made matters worse. He would have been lying to me, trying to maintain a façade that would have been impossible to keep up. There would have been so much resentment between us. And it would havehurtso much more weeks further down the road.”
“You’re too nice, Pres. I’d never forgive him. I’d wish the fucker dead every day until the end of time—”
“Hello, wonderful women who love us!” a call reaches us from the front door. “Your hunter-gatherers have returned from their foraging expedition.”
“Don’t lie to us, Dashiell Lovett. We sent you out for cranberry sauce three hours ago. The store’s right on the corner. You guys have been at the pub!”
Wren and Dash have been enjoying the fact that you can drink at eighteen in the UK without having to lie about your age. I can’t say I blame them, honestly. They’re both grinning from ear to ear as they roll into the living room. “We may have stopped for a pint,” Dash says, planting a kiss on top of Carrie’s head. “But I can assure you, most of our time was spent scouring the city for theperfectjar of cranberry sauce.” He produces a glass jar with a flourish, presenting it to his girlfriend with much fanfare.
She takes it from him, pulling a face. “Dash, this islingonberrysauce.”
“Isn’t that the same thing? The guy at the corner store said it was the same thing!”
Carrie teases Dash endlessly. Wren quietly inserts himself behind Elodie on the couch, taking her in his arms, drawing her back so that she’s using him as a backrest. He whispers in her ear, something personal and private enough that Elodie blushes, and my insides twist themselves into knots.
I don’t know what I was thinking, coming here. I should have stayed home and let these guys have their holiday in peace without me bringing the mood down. But weirdly, Dad insisted that I come. Far from discouraging me as my friends assumed he would, he was practically shoving me out the door the other day. The new woman he’s been seeing invited him to go and stay with her in New York, and he hadn’t even skipped a beat when he'd said yes.
As if realizing that I’m sitting awkwardly on the couch, peering into my empty wine glass while they all canoodle, my friends suddenly disengage themselves, adopting far less romantic positions on their respective couches.
“All right. It’s fucking Christmas Day,” Dash says, a touch rowdier than he would normally. Clearly, he was lying about the one beer they had at the pub. “I think it’s about time we started cooking, don’t you guys!”
“Screw cooking. When are we opening presents?” Elodie asks.
“After dinner. I still need to wrap some of your gifts,” Wren says, bopping E on the end of her nose. “When did you become so impatient?”
“Today. Now,” she answers.
“Tough luck, Stillwater. You’re just gonna have to wait.”
***
Dinner,amazingly, doesn’t get burned. It turns out perfectly, in fact, and is really enjoyable, even though it’s weird that the English eat turkey for Christmas dinner. The last time I ate turkey, Pax was trying to tempt me to try some off his plate while he did his best to wrestle a cup of Jell-O out of my hand. Only hours later, he was telling me that he loved me and kissing me goodbye.
“I don’t wanna wear it. It keeps dropping down over my eyes. I can’t fucking see!” Carrie complains, trying to remove the pink paper crown that Dash valiantly attempts to secure over her curls.
“You have to wear it. It’s non-negotiable,” Dash argues. “They’re a British Christmas institution. You’ll get kicked out if you don’t try to fit in with the locals.” His paper hat is orange. Elodie’s is green. I thought for sure that Wren would refuse to wear his pink one, the same color as Carrie’s, but he surprised everyone by setting the hat at a jaunty angle atop his wavy hair and frankly rocking it. My hat is red, to match my hair.
We polish off another bottle of wine. By the time it comes to opening our gifts, I’m feeling nicely toasted and bone tired. It’s only been a week since I stopped taking some pretty hefty pain meds. I’d do anything to just skip out on opening gifts and go to bed, but when I even suggest it I’m met with a hail of objections.
“Not happening,” Wren says, steering me over to the couch, sitting me right next to the beautifully decorated Christmas tree. “You’re in charge of distributing the gifts anyway.”
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being friends with these guys. Wren Jacobi was a legend back at Wolf Hall. Along with Pax and Dash, he terrorized our year for so long that I was certain I’d need therapy for the rest of my life, thanks to the Riot House boys. I suppose at some point in the future, I’ll look back and find it laughable that my friends were ever so badly behaved. But for now…it’s weird to be included in festivities with these two.
Do not think about Pax.
Do not miss Pax.
Do not think about Pax.
Do not miss Pax.
