Chapter 19
IT’S BOTH WEIRD AND NOT weird being in my childhood home with Alistair. His room feels so much like him that I can almost keep my own memories at bay. Everything smells like that balsam-and-cedar candle sitting on his nightstand.
And I’d been right about those end tables: Alistair made them himself.
We’re wrapped up in his duvet, neither of us in any particular hurry to untangle ourselves. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what just happened here. My body feels limp and sated and perfectly content.
What was Christmas like for you growing up? The thought bubbles up from nowhere, and it’s out of my mouth before I can decide whether I should really be asking it, given what I know of his childhood.
He sighs, rubbing his hair off his forehead. I’m lying on my side to look at him and feel that feeling again, like a wave crashing into my chest.
Mum tried to make it as special as she could, Alistair says.
Always found the coolest new toys for Finn and I, always went above and beyond to decorate the house and cook a full Christmas dinner.
But, he takes another breath, there was always a fight, in the end.
Something would set dad off and it would be downhill from there.
He turns from his back onto his side, facing me too, and I ask him, Did you ever call the police?
Mum never did. But when I got older, I would sometimes.
He pauses, clearly trying to collect his thoughts.
Sometimes they were great, helpful even.
They would try and coax my mother into getting some help.
Other times they seemed bored or like it was a waste of their time.
No matter their attitude though, it would send my father into a white-hot rage.
Mum would deny what was happening, so to my knowledge he was never charged with anything.
He rubs his hair back off his forehead—stressed, clearly, about dredging all of this up. He adds, as if it’s an afterthought, That always bothered me, that he never had any kind of criminal record. Or at least one that I knew about. It still bothers me, honestly.
Is that how you got into policing?
Yeah, probably. I remember even as a really little kid, I didn’t like when friends would do things that I considered dangerous.
I was always the kid running off to get the teacher, I let out a little laugh at this.
But it upset me, to know that they could get hurt.
Then when I got a bit older, it’s like I developed this sixth sense whenever I was in a big group of people—I was aware of everyone at all times, and aware of myself, too.
I never wanted anyone to feel unsafe around me, and I still don’t.
I don’t want anyone to feel like I did as a kid, in those moments.
He sighs, rubbing his eyes. I track the way the blanket falls off him slightly, exposing more of his bicep. I try to focus on what he’s saying and not the zap that surges through me.
To be honest though, for a lot of people, police officers do the opposite.
Just a cop being somewhere makes them feel unsafe, and honestly, I get it.
When I find myself in that kind of situation, I try to be as calm and non-threatening as possible.
But a lot of officers don’t do that, they seem to feed off the anxious energy or something.
He glances over at me when he finishes speaking, an almost-chuckle escaping him.
Sorry, that’s a lot. The job is a lot, honestly, but therapy helps.
Knowing I’ve made any sort of difference helps, even if it’s something small like making a ramp for your uncle or volunteering to put up Christmas lights.
You go to therapy? I ask, a little surprised.
You don’t? He responds, looking right at me when he says it. I try not to squirm out from under his gaze.
I haven’t before, no.
Why not?
This guy is so direct and doesn’t seem to give a single fuck about it. He stares right at me, waiting for an answer, and I’m stubborn enough not to back down from a challenge.
There’s a lot to unpack, I guess. I haven’t really ever been brave enough to do it. If I’m being honest, I haven’t wanted to, either.
Well, what’s the worst thing that would happen if you did? He reaches out to play with a strand of my hair, weaving it through his fingers. Open up about it, I mean.
I can feel my shoulders tensing, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that’s so open and raw, it wouldn’t be fair to avoid answering his question.
Well, I would have to admit that it’s real, I say, a lump forming in my throat. That she’s really gone. If I run away from it all, I can sometimes pretend. Pretend that she’s still here, at home in Cape Breton, still alive and happy.
He chuckles softly. I was a runner too. I think that’s why I came here initially.
Like if I could separate myself from that life, I could pretend all the bad stuff hadn’t happened to me.
But it catches up with you eventually. I’m grateful I had friends on the force who encouraged me to go to therapy.
It started off with talking about work stress, but honestly once that ball started rolling, it opened the door for everything else.
I can’t bring myself to answer, worried that if I open my mouth again the tears will start. I think he reads that all over my face.
It wasn’t easy for me to open up about all of my own shit at first either, you know, he says, his tone so gentle it’s in danger of making me burst into tears. But learning to live with the pain, to cope with it, is better than running away from it. A life on the run isn’t a real life at all.
I stay quiet, because I can sense he’s not done.
He finally admits, his voice hoarse, It’s hard for me to talk about it, the stuff with my dad.
I reach up to move a strand of his hair that keeps falling into his eyes, tracing my hand across his forehead.
He sighs and closes his eyes at the movement.
It makes me feel greedy, this chance to look at him fully.
His hair looks more unkempt than I’ve ever seen it and I smile, knowing I’m to blame for that.
I trace a finger along the scar by his left eye.
With his eyes still closed, he asks me, his voice almost a whisper, What was Christmas like, with your mom?
It hurts. God, it hurts. I try to force past the pain.
It was perfect, I say simply, my voice quiet.
Always. Stockings full of presents, incredible food, board games.
Alba and her dad always used to spend Christmas Eve here with us, actually.
Uncle Albie would sleep in my room and Alba and I would camp out in the living room, waiting for Santa to come.
He opens his eyes again at this, smiling. I can only imagine what sort of traps were waiting for him at the bottom of that chimney.
I laugh. We did try once, but mom told us he had special magic that would tell him if there were traps involved. And he didn’t visit those houses. That stopped our plans pretty quickly.
He chuckles before asking, And what were your plans if you did catch him?
Oh, it was purely a catch-and-release situation. We only wanted to see him with our own eyes—then we’d feed him cookies and send him back on his merry way.
That’s quite the scheme. His smirk is back, but this time it doesn’t irk me. In fact, it does the opposite.
Over on the dresser, Alistair’s phone starts to buzz.
That’ll be Finn, he says, standing up and pulling on his boxers and a shirt.
He grabs his phone and comes over, kissing me on the forehead.
He’s incessant, he’ll keep calling if I don’t answer, so I’ll go chat with him in the living room for a bit.
You can come say hi, if you want, once you’re dressed.
With that he goes out into the hallway and I hear a voice, similar to Alistair’s, yell out, Merry Christmas Allie! There’s a pause and then. What’s got you looking so smug?
I hear Alistair laugh but he ignores the question completely and wishes his brother a merry Christmas.
I eavesdrop, just a little. It sounds like Alistair’s mom called before I arrived, and she’s currently, according to Finn, running around the kitchen with our aunts like a chicken with her head cut off.
I feel uneasy about saying hello to his brother, but I guess it’s Christmas so I can’t really avoid it?
It feels a little fast. But I suppose Alistair’s already met my entire family.
I don’t see a way out of this, so I try to shove down my apprehension.
I pull my leggings and sweater back on, fixing my hair in the mirror above Alistair’s dresser.
It’s kind of a tangled mess and I wish I’d brought an elastic—or a hairbrush.
I walk back out into the living room and Alistair’s eyes dart to me, his face lighting up. His brother clocks it immediately.
Who are you looking at? Finn demands. Turn this bloody phone around!
Alistair turns the phone, giving me a look that seems to say, Sorry in advance. I recognize Finn from the photo I saw the last time I was here, but I would have recognized him anyway. They look a lot alike, but Alistair’s features are a bit more angular.
Merry Christmas, I wave towards the camera. I’m Florence.
Flor-ence, Finn says in a singsong voice that tells me immediately this guy is trouble. He’s got that same wolf-in-a-henhouse grin that I’ve seen on Alistair’s face before. Aren’t you the beautiful little speed demon that’s been giving my brother such a run for his money?
Alistair groans and says, Okay Finn, lovely talking to you mate, chat later. His brother only laughs as Alistair abruptly ends the call.
Sorry about that, he says with a little laugh. Finn is… Finn.
I snuggle in beside him on the couch, but I notice the time on the clock hanging up on the wall and sigh.
I should get back, it’ll be time to start making Christmas dinner soon. I look up at him and my stomach lurches, but I don’t let myself think about the question too much. Want to come? I say it casually, trying not to show how badly I want him there.
His expression is serious. Are you sure?
The answer comes instantly, easily—Yes.
I sit up as another thought occurs to me. But I should warn you, I had a bit of a fight with Alba yesterday. So, things might be a little tense.
His eyes search my face, his own slowly forming into a frown. About what?
About what happens after the wedding. I can’t make eye contact with him when I finish the sentence, so I pretend to be looking out the window and towards the water instead.
I can feel the question hanging in the air: What does happen after the wedding?
But he doesn’t ask it.