I last probably less than five seconds before I burst into laughter.
‘Oh myGod,’ I cackle, my sides literally aching because I’m laughing so hard. ‘You’re not serious.Pleasetell 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 situationbefore he pulls all the way back and we’re back at square one. ‘I’m not laughing atyou.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I’m laughing at the situation,’ I say. ‘Alex, comeon. I thought someone haddiedor something equally devastating and that you were harbouring deep, deep traumatic memories related to Christmas because of that.’
‘I never said anyonedied,’ 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.’
‘Itisa 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 hishead. ‘And when youdoget 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 wasmyspecial 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 justonebirthday. 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 forChristmas. 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, noperson,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 thatI’mgoing 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.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEAlex
If next year is going to be all about me, this year needs to be all about Noelle.
Somehow.
I’m still working on that, hoping that an idea to bring Christmas to life for the beautiful woman lying across my lap will spring to mind in the next— I glance at my watch. In the next hour and a half. Definitely cutting it fine.
Noelle stretches as the credits start to roll, a content smile on her face. ‘Thoughts on your first official Christmas film?’
‘It was decent,’ I concede, though I’m pretty sure the grin on my face betrays me.
Noelle hums, seemingly satisfied and sits upright. I feel the absence of her body against mine as soon as it’s gone, andthe urge to pull her back down and press her flush against me again is overwhelming.
‘I think I’ll shower and get ready for bed,’ she says, springing to her feet with more energy than I currently possess. She hovers on the spot for a second or two, looking strangely hesitant, and then says, ‘I’ll… I’ll meet you in your room?’
