“Mhm,” I say, faking another smile.
Byron nudges me where we stand at the corner bar in the sitting room. “Try harder, brother.”
I scoff. I told him Janelle and I had had a fight to explain my melancholy. I said I’d try to put up a good front for our mother.
Well.
I didn’t realize how hard it was to function without your heart beating in your chest. I can’t eat. I’m so bloody tired I can barely see straight, then I lay down and can’t sleep.
And why is everything so…happy? Sparkling lights and cheery songs.
“Is Christmas always like this?”
“Yes and you usually love it, you big baby.” Byron says and I just grunt in reply. My only saving grace is that Emerson and Samantha are Christmassing with her family so I don’t have to deal with my sister-in-law and her sunny disposition. And her questions. My family, save my all-knowing twin, may buy that my wife’s Gran fell ill and we are simply flying in on separate flights, hers delayed. Samantha would never.
“How was the river parade, then?” Dad asks as he joins us.
“Fine,” I grouse back.
“Bloody hell,” Byron rolls his eyes at me. “I’m going to go find the girls,” as he passes me he adds, “anyone other than this sorry sod.”
I stand taller and try. I really do. I tell Mum and Anya how great the meal is.
I hate everything.
I talk to my father about work. He’s made me International Head of Brands at my suggestion which was really Janelle’s suggestion. I don’t totally hate talking to him anymore. Thanks to her.
This is agony.
I play with my niece and talk about stupid polo with my twin when he returns to the room. I compliment his wife on her cheeky holiday sweater.
There’s a balcony upstairs, could I jump?
Dinner ends after eons and eons. Then, as is our absolutely ridiculous Christmas Eve tradition, we go out back to watch a full-on twenty minute firework show. Not for a party or because we’re particularly religious and want to wish the Lord a happy birthday. Dad just likes fireworks.
She was right, we’re totally gross.
I watch the obnoxious explosions out on the lawn without feeling. I almost smile at my niece's adorable reactions to each burst of light. Almost. I need another drink.
I turn toward the house to find some alcohol and see her. Janelle.
Now my brain’s gone looney. Great.
Mum’s voice cries out, “Oh Janie! You made it!”
I frown at my mother, then back at the figment of my imagination. She’s running to me.
“Ben!”
“Janelle?”
She jumps in my arms, shaking, and I catch her. I swallow and start to tremble too, totally shocked. I carry her back onto the porch, away from the ears of my family. She grabs my face and holds it in her freezing cold hands as we go.
When I pause at the top of the steps, she smiles at me, radiant, and says, “Happy Christmas.”
“I…” Thoughts racing, I stick with something safe, our old faithful. I clear my rapidly-closing throat and joke, “I think you Americans are meant to say Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, but I’m totally in love with a Brit and he says everything wrong.”
