‘Oh, she’s lovely, Henry.’
‘Do you want tea, dear? Something stronger?’
‘We’ll need to find another chair.’
‘Or put Henry on the kids' table.’
‘Mum,stop fussing!’
It was too much. Too loud. Too warm. Too everything. I didn’t know who to talk to first, them all merging into one voice. I was torn between ducking behind Henry and running back into the snow.
He saw it right away.
Of course.
He always sees me.
He closed the distance between us and put that steadying hand on my lower back. To anyone else, it likely looked casual, but it grounded me amongst the chaos. His breath brushed my ear.
‘You’re alright,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll soon filter through the loud.’
‘Loud?’ I whispered back. ‘It’s practically noise pollution.’
He smiled, his hand staying exactly where it was.
The terror eventually morphed from overwhelming to welcomed. Folded into the family as though I had always belonged there.
The evening fell into a rhythm I had never experienced before, where arguments fell easily into laughter, children climbed onto laps without being shooed off, and grandparents dispensed sweeties with a soft smile. The kitchen table groaned under the weight of leftovers. Betty might have a propensity to burn Yorkshire puddings, but she certainly made up fr it in sheer quantity of food.
Henry’s father told a story about a turkey disaster that had me choking on my drink. At various intervals, people kept touching my arm affectionately as we spoke, fully invested in what I had to say. Being in the James home was being surrounded by love. Overwhelmed by it.
It shouldn’t have felt like home. I’d only known the family for a few hours, but everything in me relaxed. I found myself laughing with his sisters and playing cards with his grandmother, who definitely cheated.
Henry was never more than a few feet away from me. Ready to swoop in whenever I looked remotely uncomfortable. He wove in and out of the room, chatting to everyone, both young and old, giving piggybacks and dispensing pretty packages he’d brought. Every now and then, he’d sidle up beside me, his fingers finding mine.
Later, in the living room, the family decided to play charades with the most competitive teams I’d ever seen. A brutal, cutthroat game that slightly terrified me. Betty announced she would tolerate no cheating this year, which immediately set off arguments from people who were clearly planning to cheat or accused others of historical cheating. Apparently, the greatcharades debacle of 2017 still hadn’t been settled. Henry pulled me onto his lap in an armchair.
‘Watch or play?’ he asked.
‘Watch. I don’t think I’m quite ready for active participation.’
‘A good choice,’ he whispered. ‘They become feral during games.’
He wasn’t exaggerating.
I had never in my life seen such competitive energy. There was shouting. Accusations. Victory dances and more than one set of flipping birds. One of his sisters performed a charade so violently when her team couldn’t figure it out that she sent a slipper flying into the Christmas tree. A child clambered onto Henry’s lap next to me, midway through a round, yawning sleepily and placing her sweet little hand in mine.
And through it all, Henry kept me giggling. Kept me involved. Certainly kept my fizz topped up.
I loved how protective he was, without being domineering. Outside of the bedroom at least.
‘Having fun?’ he whispered when the child fell asleep against my arm, her. Pink little cheek hot against me. The sweet curve puffing out with each sleepy breath.
‘I am. Thank you for inviting me.’
‘They’re a lot,’ he said, eyes gleaming, ‘But they already adore you.’
‘Theybarelyknow me.’
