I’d be leaving Hoxton alone over Christmas.
I know he probably wouldn’t care, but the notion feels wrong, almost unsettling. It’s accompanied by a twinge of something I can’t quite place. Guilt, maybe? Or something else entirely?
Hoxton laughs suddenly and I look up in time to catch the Grinch burning down the Whoville Christmas tree.
‘You are absolutely not beating the Grinch allegations anytime soon,’ I say, although I can’t help but laugh too.
‘He has his reasons for hating Christmas,’ Hoxton says with a shrug. ‘I respect that.’
I hum, thoughts of the storm and Christmas at Gran’sevaporating instantaneously as I realise we’re teetering on historically rocky ground here. ‘And you?’ I ask quietly. ‘Do you have your reasons?’
He stiffens a little beneath me and I immediately regret voicing the question. Hoxton’s gaze flickers away, his jaw clenching as if he’s debating whether to confide in me or shut me out. I can see the turmoil in his eyes, the memories stirring beneath the surface, and guilt threatens to drown me.
Why do I keep prying? There’s obviously something deep-seated simmering beneath the surface. Something he’s not ready to talk about. Maybe he will one day, but it’s clear today is not that day.
‘Actually, don’t worry about it.’ I wave an airy hand, trying to dispel the sudden tension that has settled between us. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I get it. You’ve been through some things.’
Things that have clearly scarred him deeply.
Hoxton exhales a deep breath and runs a hand down his face. ‘It’s not that.’ He finally turns to look at me, something beyond pain flashing behind his eyes, and holds my gaze.
‘Really,’ I say, reaching between us to clasp his hand in my own. ‘You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just enjoy the rest of the film.’ I try to tug him back to settle into the sofa, but Hoxton just shakes his head.
‘No,’ he murmurs, tugging his hand gently out from my grip. ‘It’s time.’
Something unpleasant settles in the pit of my stomach as I take in the grim look on his face. ‘Really, Alex, I mean it. You don’t have to.’
He pushes himself up from the sofa and walks stiffly towards the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. My mind is racing with about a million scenarios at once – all darker and more depressing than the last.
What is he going to tell me? What could possibly have happened in his past to make Christmas such a dreaded day for him?
Worst-case scenarios flood my mind and I reflexively reach out to squeeze his hand in pre-emptive sympathy. I want him to know I’m here for him. That whatever he’s about to reveal won’t have me running for the hills.I’m here.
He’s not facing me anymore, but I can see his reflection in the window. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and he’s got a faraway look in his eyes. He might be here physically, but his thoughts are somewhere else.
‘Christmas is…’ Hoxton says slowly, still staring out of the window. He takes a deep, shaky breath and I brace myself for the worst. ‘It’s. Well. It’s my birthday.’
I stare at him dumbfounded for a few seconds, certain I must have missed the part where he shared another reason for hating Christmas. ‘Come again?’
Hoxton turns to face me, the look on his face no lessgrim, 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 ChristmasDay? December 25th?’
‘The one and only,’ Hoxton says with another drawn-out sigh.
I try to keep a straight face.
I tryextremelyhard.
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—
