Chapter Twenty Noelle #2
Hoxton turns to face me, the look on his face no less grim, like he’s just given me earth-shatteringly awful news. ‘It’s my birthday.’
‘It’s… your… birthday?’ I parrot weakly.
Hoxton nods. ‘Tomorrow, I mean. Not today.’
Gears start to turn in my mind. ‘Your birthday,’ I say slowly. ‘Is on Christmas Day? December 25th?’
‘The one and only,’ Hoxton says with another drawn-out sigh.
I try to keep a straight face.
I try extremely hard.
Because Hoxton looks so serious right now, his brows knit together in the middle, his jaw tight, and I can tell that this is something very important to him.
Something that he’s been holding onto for far too long, and I should feel grateful that he’s willing to open up to me.
I’m probably the first person he’s told in years and I can’t betray his confidence.
Must keep a straight face.
Must keep a straight—
I last probably less than five seconds before I burst into laughter.
‘Oh my God,’ I cackle, my sides literally aching because I’m laughing so hard. ‘You’re not serious. Please tell me you’re not serious.’
He doesn’t say anything, just narrows his eyes. He still hasn’t moved from the window.
‘Okay, okay,’ I say, trying to get a hold of the situation before he pulls all the way back and we’re back at square one. ‘I’m not laughing at you.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m laughing at the situation,’ I say. ‘Alex, come on. I thought someone had died or something equally devastating and that you were harbouring deep, deep traumatic memories related to Christmas because of that.’
‘I never said anyone died,’ Hoxton says, looking almost indignant that I would jump to that conclusion, despite it being a perfectly natural conclusion for literally anyone else on the planet to arrive at.
He finally makes his way back to the sofa and drops down next to me.
‘I can’t be blamed for you having an overactive imagination. ’
‘But you’re so dramatic about the whole hating Christmas thing,’ I say, still laughing just a little. ‘When you’re that passionate about hating something, people are going to assume there’s a serious, potentially traumatic, reason for it.’
‘It is a serious reason,’ Hoxton says, though I’m pretty sure I spy a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his lips, the absurdity of his words finally sinking in a little.
‘For me anyway. Imagine being seven years old and watching all six of your siblings have their birthday celebrated properly all throughout the year. Seeing them get cakes and parties and gifts, and having a whole day dedicated to them. And then when your turn comes around, you know that you’ll be lucky to even get a card.
’ He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head.
‘And when you do get one, nine times out of ten, it’ll be Christmas-themed and addressed to everyone else in your family anyway.
Dear The Hoxtons, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Oh, and happy birthday to little Alex too.
’ His lips curl in disgust. ‘I’m an afterthought every December 25th. ’
I try to put myself in his shoes. As a twin, I’ve had my own fair share of birthday disappointments over the years.
I remember when Eve and I turned twelve and we couldn’t agree on what cake we wanted.
Eve’s choice, a disgusting mint chocolate chip abomination, won out over my tried-and-tested vanilla raspberry and I remember refusing to blow out the candles or even have a slice.
Partly because I can’t stand the taste of mint chocolate, but mostly out of principle.
It was my special day too, and I was suddenly an oversight.
Expected to happily play second fiddle to someone else and go along with whatever they wanted to do.
I remember exactly how angry and upset I felt.
How bitter. How I wanted nothing more than to toss Eve’s cake – because I absolutely refused to claim it as mine – out the nearest window and make us both suffer.
And that was just one birthday. The thought of having to deal with that every year would turn even the most reasonable person into… Well. Would turn them into Hoxton.
‘As a kid,’ Hoxton says, watching my expression carefully, as if waiting for my judgment on his childhood revelation.
‘You expect to feel special on your day, right? But for me, it was just another excuse for my parents to throw a bigger party. Not for me, but for Christmas. Everyone all together, celebrating and swapping gifts and eating food. But nobody ever celebrated me.’
My mind conjures up images of a child Hoxton, seven years old and excited for a day of birthday surprises and special treatment that never came.
Four days ago, I would’ve gladly let this man walk into traffic without batting any eyelash. But now? My heart breaks for him.
‘I get it,’ he continues, that sad smile lifting his lips again.
‘I know it sounds childish and ridiculous but, after years and years of the same thing, I’ve just become numb to Christmas.
It’s a symbol of everything I never got as a child.
’ He lifts his shoulders in a self-deprecating shrug.
I can see real pain in his eyes, the lingering disappointment from years of neglected birthdays and I suddenly feel awful for laughing.
‘Alex, that’s…’ I reach for his hand again and give him a little squeeze. ‘I mean, that’s actually kind of heartbreaking.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he says, forcing a chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘I guess I am a modern-day Grinch. Every single birthday I’ve ever had has been lost in the Christmas frenzy – it all just blends into one big, forgettable event where I’m an afterthought.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly. And I mean it too. ‘No child, no person, full stop, should feel overlooked on their birthday, especially not year after year. Christmas or not.’
He gives me another small shrug. ‘It is what it is. I’ve made my peace with it.’
‘But it still hurts,’ I insist. I can tell from the look in his eyes how vehemently he’s kept up this anti-Christmas personality for decades.
‘Every Christmas, you still feel the same pain.’ I give his hand another light squeeze.
‘Let’s make a pact. Next year, December 25th is going to be an Alex-only event.
Christmas can wait another 365 days. Next year is only going to be about you. ’
I realise, belatedly, that what I’m offering implies that I’m going to be around next year too. That this, whatever it is, has the legs to make it another year at least.
Hoxton swallows, and I know he’s currently thinking the same thing. ‘That would be… nice.’