7. Ryan
CHAPTER 7
Ryan
T here is no missing the Reynolds’ farm from the highway. It’s lit up like a beacon. The arch over the cattle grid main gate is covered in—I slow and poke my head out the window—bloody mistletoe, with twinkling fairy lights that are flashing on and off in blue, green and red. Really?
If only my parents had thought to hang up a strand of twinkling lights. It could’ve made a difference. I push those thoughts to the back of my mind as I navigate the potholed dirt road taking me to the house.
Up ahead, the homestead glows with festive lights: reindeers, a sled, a dancing Santa, candy canes, spinning wheels, igloos, snowflakes, snowmen. Running across the front fence in LED lights is a train and some carriages. There is not a single surface that isn’t twinkling. But the pièce de résistance is a massive blow-up Santa that towers on the house roof. And thank God the northerly wind has dropped, or it would be in Antarctica.
The temptation to do a U-turn and head back to town, to get as far away as possible from this ridiculous cheer, tugs at me. But I recall what Lilac said. Scarlett is only home for a week. Surely, we can be civil for that short amount of time, and then things will go back to normal when she returns to the city. Life will continue, Christmas will be over, and I can settle into my relatively new job and do the community thing.
After all, I’m only here to drop off the folder. That’s all I’m required to do. Then I can get back to work and finish my shift. Five minutes, max. No discussion needed. No questions asked. Maybe I can just leave it on the front porch.
That thought is squashed when the front door swings open and a sucker punch strikes me square in the chest. Scarlett has covered the ‘I’m too hot for Christmas’ tee with a sexy Mrs Claus apron. I gulp a few mouthfuls of water from my bottle. Lick my lips.
Maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all.
I shake that thought from my head. There is nothing that could make this horrid period any better. I suck in a deep breath and open the car door, stepping out just as Scarlett marches down the path, bringing with her a waft of spices and baking.
‘What brings you out to the farm, Nurse Ryan? No patients for you to see here, and quick, you’d better get back in your car before the Christmas lights grow tentacles and latch onto your arms.’ Under her breath, it sounds like she adds, ‘Grinch’, but I can’t be sure.
‘You would be correct,’ I snap and shove the folder against Mrs Claus’ cleavage on the apron. ‘I have no patience—for you, that is—and now you have this folder, I can get back into my car and leave you to it.’
And I do just that as her mouth forms an O, poised to say something, probably Christmas related because that’s all she seems capable of.
The front screen door opens again, and an older woman with similar features to Scarlett hurries down the path and stands beside her. The apron forces me into smiling, and I wonder if inappropriate Christmas aprons are their family tradition.
I wouldn’t know; I don’t have any. Traditions or family who truly loved me. That familiar stab to the chest returns. The one that reminds me of everything I didn’t have growing up, of everything I always wanted.
‘Hello. Going by your name tag, you must be the infamous Ryan who is sending my Lettie into a spin.’
Scarlett shoves her mother’s shoulder—assuming she is Mrs Reynolds—and growls, ‘Mum,’ between her teeth.
I hold my hand out. ‘I’m Ryan Black. Lovely to meet you.’
She wipes her hands down her naked-man apron. ‘I’m Rae, Lettie’s mum. You’re just in time; we’re about to make our famous eggnog. Come into the cool and join us. You don’t mind, do you, dear?’ A knowing glance passes between Rae and Scarlett.
By the look on Scarlett’s face, she one hundred percent does mind, and against my better judgement, and maybe more to the point, to annoy her further, I agree.
As I step around Scarlett, she mutters, ‘By the way, was that a smile I saw earlier? You like the aprons? Perhaps I’m breaking your grinchiness.’
I shrug nonchalantly, not wanting to admit she could be right.
But that doesn’t last long. When I thought it couldn’t get more Christmassy, it does—just by entering the house. It’s like stepping into the Christmas decoration section of a department store, where every nook and cranny, shelf and wall space has something Christmassy on it. It hits me, suffocates me.
It’s totally foreign, and I’m glued to the floor, my mouth hanging open. So, this is what a family home looks like fully decked out for the festive season.
The real pine Christmas tree, which stands well over six feet, is perched in the corner of the open-plan living area opposite the kitchen. Gifts of all shapes and sizes, wrapped in bright and colourful wrapping paper, are stacked high and wide on the floor underneath and surrounding the tree. And, of course, there are flashing lights wound around the tree from top to bottom. Twinkling like the night sky.
The beacon atop the tree draws me closer.
Stepping over the dog, who barely lifts its chin in greeting, around some shopping bags, and careful not to step on the presents, I peer up at the golden angel, her arms out wide. It’s like she’s welcoming me, beckoning me to let my guard down and open my heart to the possibilities of the joy this time of year brings.
A hand rests on my shoulder. Is it the devil about to tell me to ignore the angel? To remember past Christmases when there was no cheer? Or being told I was too old for presents, that I didn’t deserve them?
When a warmth seeps through my shirt and trickles down my arm, I turn. No devil in sight, only the delectable Scarlett with a worried frown etched between her eyebrows.
When our eyes meet, a thousand questions are flicking through hers. She’s studying me intently, as though trying to decipher my thoughts. No doubt trying to understand how the lanky teenager and the grumpy grinch are one and the same.
When my chest tightens and a bead of sweat forms across my temple, I know my time is up. Overwhelm catches in my throat, and a cough doesn’t clear it.
‘I … I need to get some fresh air, get back to work … Can’t be …’ Shit, what is wrong with me? I can’t even string a coherent sentence together.
Scarlett takes my hand in hers, and together, we navigate the obstacle course back to the front door, where she calls to Rae, ‘Mum, can you bring me that box? We’ll be out on the swing.’
Then we’re outside around the side of the house, where she grabs a camp lantern, turns it on, and leads me across the lawn to a giant double-seat swing hanging from a massive tree. She’s holding my hand with such force it’s almost painful. It’s like she doesn’t want to let me go. Let me go back to that dark place.
With the fairy lights gently twinkling through the branches, making it hard to see where the tree ends and where the clear night sky starts, it’s less Christmassy and more romantic. As my anxiety starts to subside and the comforting warmth of Scarlett’s hand soothes me, I can only hope to God she doesn’t ask about what just happened as I’m not ready to share my story just yet.