CHAPTER SIX – SYLVIE #2
“Don’t. You. Dare.” Hazel shot up and glared at him. “Sylvie, if that song is played at any point during my wedding, I will strangle you with a holly garland.”
I held up my hands, dropping my pen on the floor in the process. “Don’t worry, I’ve already told everyone in charge of music that there is a ban on Mariah Carey for the duration of the wedding. If anyone even thinks of asking, they’ll be warned they’ll be kicked out if they mention her name again.”
If I was going to die this Christmas, it would not be by garland at my sister’s hands, thank you very much.
“Seems extreme.” Julian looked at me. “Do you not think so?”
Yes.
I did think so.
I wasn’t going to say that out loud in front of my sister, though.
Hazel turned her head oh so very slowly until she was facing her fiancé. She stared daggers at him, and Julian stilled.
Something told me he saw that look a lot.
“Mariah Carey is extreme,” Hazel said. “Mariah Carey at Christmas is nauseatingly extreme. My hatred of her is not extreme. I want to plug my ears with superglue every time she melts after Halloween. As soon as November first rolls around, I get twitchy.”
No.
Her hatred was not extreme at all.
“You love Christmas so much you insisted on getting married on Christmas Eve,” Julian pointed out. “She’s like… part Santa Claus at this point. How can you love Christmas and not like Mariah Carey?”
The distinct tinkle of a xylophone that could only be the opening to one particular song rang through the air, and we both peered at my sister to see what she’d do.
This really couldn’t be worse timing.
“She’s everywhere,” Hazel hissed, looking around the pub, baring her teeth, almost deranged. She smacked her hands against the table, sending my pen rolling off. “There’s no escaping her.”
Laughing, I shuffled across the bench seat and bent under the table to retrieve my runaway pen.
“You know you don’t have to hide under the table to avoid me.”
The sound of Thomas’ voice made me jolt, and I smacked my head on the underside of the table.
“Ow, shit, owww,” I said, looping around so I didn’t do it again. I rubbed the back of my head as I stared up at him. “What makes you think I care enough about you to hide under a table when you show up?”
“The fact you were just under the table when I showed up is rather convincing.” He quirked an eyebrow.
I held up my pen. “Just getting this. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Stop bickering,” Hazel said, still glaring at various spots around the pub as if her stare alone would make the music stop.
Thomas leant against the back of the bench and bent down towards me. “What’s she doing?”
“Silently declaring war on Mariah Carey.” I grimaced.
“That’s fair. I can’t bloody stand her either.”
Julian smirked. “You can’t stand anything to do with Christmas.”
“I’d rather gauge my eyeballs out than celebrate the stupid thing.” Thomas pointed at him. “With good reason.”
I looked up at him.
Right.
Beth had said that.
Three years ago, his father was diagnosed with cancer, the following year they found out it was terminal, his mystery fiancée broke up with him, and it wasn’t that long before Christmas last year that his dad passed away.
I could understand how that would make anyone hate Christmas.
“I hate this song.” My sister grabbed her fork and stabbed it against the table, gripping it tightly.
“I think you need therapy,” I told her, tapping the end of my pen against the notebook. “And to tell me what songs you do like, so you have something to dance to at your wedding, or I’m going to instruct the DJ to make your first dance the Macarena.”
“Yes,” Julian said. “Please decide. Although the Macarena might have my vote.”
“Oh,” Thomas said, leaning over and tapping my notebook. “Write down the Cha Cha Slide, too.”
I peered at him. “A good idea? From you? Nana’s pig must have taken flight.”
He tugged on a lock of my hair in response, and I whacked my pen against his fingers.
“Ow, ow.”
“How can I decide anything with this offense to my ears playing?” Hazel asked, glaring at all three of us. “Not to mention you two bickering. Or are you flirting? I don’t even know.”
I pressed my hands against my face and huffed out a breath.
Choose your battles, Sylvie. “Okay, fine. While you sit here and steam about Mariah and her perfectly harmless festive song, I’m going to get a glass of wine since Julian is driving, and I need something to deal with how neurotic you’re being. ”
Julian laughed, and I shooed Thomas out of the way so I could get up. I leant over to grab my purse from my bag and headed up to the bar.
I wasn’t kidding. I really did need a drink to deal with her madness. If nothing else, going to the bar would get me away from her little ball of anger until the song was over.
I leant against the bar and tapped my thumb against the surface. Thomas came up next to me and mirrored my stance, sliding his gaze in my direction.
“Can I help you?” I asked without looking at him.
“Can we talk?”
“Without shouting at each other? Unlikely.”
He inclined his head in agreement. “About before. At Beth’s shop.”
I should have known that was coming.
I finally looked at him. “Did you come all the way here just to talk to me?”
“To the bar? I thought that was obvious.”
“I meant the pub, and you know it. You’re too old to be a brat.”
“Yet here you are. Being a brat yourself.”
I slapped my purse on the bar and turned to the side, glaring at him. “What do you want, Thomas? I’ve seen far too much of you in the last five days, and I would quite happily go from now until the wedding until I must do such a thing again.”
“Beth. What did she tell you when you had lunch?”
“That’s between us. It’s none of your business.”
“She’s my family.”
“And that doesn’t give you the right to know every single detail about her life. She’s entitled to privacy. She’ll share with you what she wants to share with you.” I looked at the bartender and ordered my glass of wine.
When the bartender left to get it, Thomas sighed, and his shoulders dropped. “I spoke to her when she got home.”
“You won’t bait me into telling you anything, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
“I know she’s pregnant. I know how she got pregnant. I’m going to kill my sister.”
I turned around and leant on the bar again, not saying anything until after the bartender put my glass in front of me. I pulled out my card and waited for him to retrieve the machine, then tapped it, got my receipt, and tucked it and the card back into my purse.
“I didn’t realise how alone she was until she told me, and I feel awful. My sister has abandoned us all so she doesn’t have to grieve and that’s not fair.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked him, peering over at him. “We’re not friends. We never have been.”
“Thank you,” he said, somewhat unexpectedly. “For being a friend to her today when she needed one.”
I pushed off the bar and grabbed my glass. “Someone had to be.”
Thomas sighed, and I walked back to the table without turning around. I really didn’t want to get involved in his family drama—organising my sister’s wedding was enough family drama for me—and I certainly wasn’t going to be his shoulder to cry on.
I was sorry about his dad.
I was sorry about the fact his fiancée left him.
I was sorry his sister was struggling and channelling her grief in a way that hurt the people who loved her.
But that was none of my business. None of it.
So why the fuck did I feel awful about walking away from him just now?
More specifically, why did I want to find out more about that mystery fiancée of his?
Why did I even care?