Only Dad continues arranging his mince pies on the plate, as if nothing has happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that no one — not even someone as slow and deliberate in his actions as Dad’s always been — can possibly takethatlong to set out half a dozen pies, I’d be starting to think nothinghadhappened, and that I’d just imagined my little moment of bravery. Or stupidity. Or whatever it turns out to have been, once Dad finally speaks; which he only does once he’s found the absolutely perfectpositioning for the mince pies, at which point he straightens up and turns to face me, his cheeks slightly redder than usual.
“Of course, you must do whatever you want, Holly,” he says calmly. “For Christmas and for everything else. You’re a grown woman, after all. Time for you to start living your own life, I think. You mustn’t worry about me. I’m more than capable of looking after myself, you know.”
Then he picks up the plate of pies and empties them all abruptly into the rubbish bin next to the counter.
“Well, time we closed up for the day,” I think, he announces to no one in particular. “I’m sure there’s a tin of tomato soup upstairs that I was planning to have for supper. Yes.”
He turns the sign on the shop door to ‘closed’, then shuffles off towards the stairs that lead to our apartment above the shop, and there’s nothing left for me do but stand there and watch him, feeling like I’ve just done something unforgivable, that no amount of warmed-up tomato soup will help fix.
“You okay?”
Elliot touches me gently on the shoulder, having somehow crossed the room without me even noticing. I nod wordlessly.
“He took it pretty well,” he says uncertainly. “He said all the right things.”
“Yeah. He did. So why do I feel so bad about it?”
I hand him the box of decorations which I suddenly realize I’ve been holding this whole time, and sit down in my usual seat behind the counter — the one with the cushion that’s so well-worn it’s practically molded to my butt, but which I can’t bring myself to replace because Mum bought it, just a few months before she died.
Mum.
The thought of her brings a lump to my throat, and I have to duck behind the counter for a moment, pretending to be looking for something, so I have time to compose myself.
When I straighten up again, though, Elliot is still standing there watching me, one of those evil-looking Elf on the Shelf toys peeking its head over the box of decorations he’s holding, as ifit’swatching me right along with him.
Mum bought that, too. Dad and I said it was creepy and would probably murder us in our sleep, but she said it would be fun. And then, once she was gone, we stuffed it into a box, and forgot all about it.
“Elliot, I don’t think I can do this,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I just can’t.”
“Holly, it’s okay,” he says softly, putting his arms around me. I wind my arms around his waist and tuck my head into his shoulder, breathing in the strong, clean scent of him.
“Um, just so we’re clear,” he mumbles into my hair. “What is it you can’t do exactly? Is it the tree decorations or the coming-to-America?”
“Both,” I reply in a small voice. “Neither. I can’t do any of it. But most of all, I can’t leave Dad. You saw him, Elliot. You saw the way he looked when I told him I wanted to go. I know he said he was fine with it, but … he isn’t fine. He obviously isn’t fine.”
I pull back so I can look at him, horrified to realize that I’m having to do it through the tears that are filling my eyes.
Elliot reaches up and carefully brushes them away.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“That’s the thing, though,” I say slowly. “Ido, don’t I? I mean, I don’twantto stay here, but I don’t want to leave Dad, either. And I don’t want to leave you. Or for you to leave me. I … just don’t like the … theleaving. I wish it wasn’t so hard.”
I also wish I didn’t sound quite so pathetic right now, but if Elliot notices, he’s kind enough not to mention it.
“Let’s forget about ‘the leaving’ for now, then,” he says, kissing me on the forehead. “Let’s just do something fun; take our minds off it.”
“Like what?” I ask doubtfully, struggling to imagine what could be ‘fun’ enough to stop me thinking about the look on Dad’s face when I told him I wanted to go to America.
Elliot thinks for a second.
“Ice skating,” he says triumphantly. “Sandra at The Rose told me there’s a pond near here that’s frozen over. Apparently they’ve turned it into an ice rink.”
“Really?” I reply, wondering who ‘they’ are, and what on earth they were thinking. “That sounds kind of dangerous, don’t you think? Remember when Amy fell through the ice inLittle Women? That’s where ‘living dangerously’ gets you.”
“Yes. And Laurie pulled her back out again, didn’t he?” says Elliot. “Then they lived happily ever after.”
He grins at me in a ‘gotchya’ kind of way.
