5. Angelica
5
ANGELICA
“ H i, Dad.” I turn the bacon in the pan, wanting to make a nice breakfast for Sawyer after he took care of me last night. After dinner, we sat and talked about Mum and then he tucked me in before he went to the guest room where he’s been sleeping for the past month.
“Hey, muffin. How’s the weather down there?” He means London, but I’m no longer there.
I look out of the kitchen window, like a scene from a Christmas card with the sun shining on the snow-topped trees like glitter, the lake still like a foiled mirror. “It’s snowing, but it has slowed since last night. What’s it like where you are?”
“We’re staying at Lorraine’s son’s house for a few more nights until the snow stops. We don’t fancy driving to Scotland in this.”
“Yeah, good idea.”
“I just wanted to let you know in case you change your mind. There’s plenty of room.”
“Dad. I told you already, I’m happy to stay in London.” I put my dad on speaker and set the phone on the worktop while I remove the bacon from the pan. My skin itches. I hate lying to my dad.
“Something smells good,” Sawyer says as he enters the kitchen.
“Who’s that?” Dad asks.
My eyes widen and I shoo Sawyer away, mouthing “my dad” and pointing to the phone. “Er, it’s just a friend, Dad.”
Sawyer nods and walks around to the other side of the breakfast bar.
“Sounds like a boy to me. Is that why you wanted to stay in London?”
I look at Sawyer, a mix of guilt and fear clawing up my throat, making it scratchy. He’s anything but a boy.
“Angelica, do you have a boyfriend? Muffin, I know I’m not your mother, but you can talk to me about boys?—”
“Dad,” I say, then lift the phone, taking him off speaker. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I promise.” Chance would be a fine thing. The last time I had a boyfriend, was in school and the furthest we got was a kiss behind the bike shed.
“All right. All right. I just want you to know that if you had a boyfriend, we’d love to welcome him to the family. Or even a girlfriend?”
I palm my forehead. Of course, Dad thinks I’m gay. I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman who’s never had a serious relationship. “Dad. I don’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend. I just wanted to hang out with friends.”
“Okay, muffin. I’ll let you go and be with your friends. I’ll check in later in the week.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you.”
I tap the phone, making sure it’s disconnected.
Sawyer comes up behind me and cracks an egg into the pan. “So, are you going to tell me why you’re here with me and not in London with your friends?”
I lean against the worktop, letting him take over the breakfast. I scrunch my knitted cardigan into my fists. How can I tell him I don’t even have any friends? My flatmate, Eve, has moved to Texas to become a weather reporter, and other than her, I don’t have a single person in London who I’d like to spend time with. Not even my colleagues are nice to me. I should say former colleagues seeing as I lost my job.
“Did you fall out with your boyfriend?” His eyes bore into me as if he can figure out the truth telepathically.
I fiddle with the key necklace hanging at my collarbone. “Why does everyone assume I have a boyfriend?”
“Girlfriend?”
“You heard Dad?” A smile curves my lips. Perhaps telling him I fell out with a girlfriend would get him off my back, but I can’t seem to lie to Sawyer. “I hate London, okay.”
“But your dad’s always saying how much you love it. Said you’re thriving down there and you love your job.” He flips the egg, remembering just how I like them. “Your mum would be so proud of you, working at the National Gallery. A curator’s a really fancy role.” He points the spatula towards me. “That art degree’s come in real handy, hasn’t it?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, wishing I hadn’t lied to my dad. The closest I got to curating was in the evening when the museum closed and I went around the gallery with a duster. “I hate my job. I hate the flat. I hate my life.” My hands fly to my face and I rub under my eyes.
“Hey.” Sawyer takes the egg from the pan and slides it onto a plate, then rounds the breakfast bar, wrapping me up in his arms like a giant teddy bear. “If you hate it so much, you never have to go back there.” His huge mitts slide up and down my spine, soothing me.
I inhale his fresh scent from the shower; minty with a hint of wood from his shirt. His beard tickles my forehead. “I can’t go back there if I wanted to. I lost my job.”
“And you haven’t told your dad?”
I shake my head against his soft chest, nuzzling my face deeper into it to inhale more of his scent. “He would be so disappointed in me.”
Sawyer’s belly shakes against me with a silent laugh. “There’s nothing you could do that would make your father disappointed.” He pulls back, holding my shoulders at arms length. “Except maybe keep secrets from him.”
“How do you know?” I gulp, gazing into his eyes, inches from his face. All I can think about is what it would feel like to rise onto my tiptoes and press my lips against his, have his beard scratch at my skin, his tongue lick at my mouth.
“I know, because I feel exactly the same.” His eyes darken. This isn’t the same way a dad gazes lovingly upon his daughter. This is something else. Something primal. Heated. Intense.
“You can’t tell Dad I’m here.”
“Why don’t you want him to know where you are? Won’t he be worried?”
She sighs. “Not if he thinks I’m spending the holidays with my flatmate and friends. I just want him to enjoy his Christmas with Lorraine. If he knew I was coming here alone, he’d feel obligated to come and stay with me, and I don’t like the idea of Lorraine being here.”
“You know you mean everything to your dad and he’d put you first before anything, even Lorraine.”
“I know, and that makes me feel guilty. I want him to be happy, but I’m not ready to share this cabin and all the memories of Mum with her yet.” Curling my shoulders inwards, I swallow down the guilt. “Does that make me a horrible person?”
“You don’t have a nasty bone in your body. You’re an angel.”
“I don’t feel like it right now.”
He lifts my chin to look me in the eye. “You’ve just sacrificed your time with your dad so he can enjoy his Christmas with his new woman. That sounds pretty selfless to me.”
He releases his hold on me and steps back, retreating behind the worktop to continue cooking breakfast. “Do you want to butter the bread?” he says nonchalantly, as if he hasn’t just made a flood in my knickers with one look from his ravenous eyes.
“Sure.” My voice squeaks as I lift out the rolls from the bread bin. “I’ll come clean with Dad, but after the holidays. No point in having him worry about me and spoil his trip to Scotland.”
“Okay. I’ll keep your secret until then. But I don’t want you worrying about it either. I’ll get out of your hair today.”
“No. Please.” I have to hold back the emotion in my voice before I practically beg him to stay. “I don’t want to be alone this Christmas.”
“I meant, I’ll be busy outside, so you have the house to yourself. You want a tree chopped down, don’t you?”
“Oh. Maybe I can help.” I look over his shoulder at the flakes of snow drifting past the window pane.
Sawyer follows my gaze. “Make sure you get wrapped up if you’re coming out. I don’t want you catching a chill.”
There he goes, treating me like I’m a child again. “I’ll dig out my hat and mittens. Don’t worry, Uncle Sawyer.”
His brown eyes darken.
I’m sure a rumble rises from his throat. I feel it vibrate in my centre.
My stomach clenches. I want to do my best to bring the grizzly bear some festive cheer this year.