“I don’t believe you.” I shake my head with an unconvinced look on my face.
She stands and walks in front of me, her face close to mine, her eyes looking at the top of my head as she runs her fingers through my hair. Nails dragging across my skull, it sends goosebumps down my neck and arms. I’ve been growing out my hair for fun, and the top reaches my ears, so it’s a little long. I’ve not been this close to her face to admire her from such a short distance. Her hazel eyes sparkle under the overhead lighting. Her lips are a soft shade of pink. I can see a small scar near her hairline, indented but the same colour as her skin, indicating she got the scar at a young age.
Taking the hair tie from my hands, she ties the gathered hair in a spout on the top of my head. Stepping back, she laughs. “Hang on.” She takes her phone out to take a photo of my hairdo. “Now take it out,” she instructs with a flourish of her hand.
I pull the hair tie, preparing myself for pain, but get nothing. “Alright, it doesn’t hurt. I’ll believe you from now on.”
“As you should,” she says triumphantly. “Let’s get going.”
It’s not a long walk to the supermarket as we discuss what we should have for dinner. We agree on steak and salad so we can both help make the meal. Walking through the supermarket, we gather the ingredients, never running out of things to talk to each other about. Right now, the topic is what classifies as an ideal Christmas meal.
“Are you are saying Christmas meals are determined by how rarely you have it during the year?” I ask, trying to get my head around the concept.
“Yeah, what do you think?” A quizzical look is on her face as she picks a few ripe tomatoes and puts them in the basket I'm carrying around.
“It’s the family’s favourite foods! No matter how many times they have it during the year,” I reply.
“So, are we ignoring the standard traditional meals, yeah? Like turkeys, hams, and prawns?” she asks.
“Naturally. We’re going non-traditional, ideal Christmas. No stresses, no pressures,” I reply, reaching for some chocolate before putting it back down.
“Ha, that would definitely be an ideal Christmas!” she scoffs, but I notice her shoulders tense. “Okay, we have everything.”
“We donothave everything!” I exclaim jokingly as I walk near a huge cardboard cut-out of Javi at the end of the aisles. Winning the championship last year means sponsorship agreements. “Do you think the store will let me take it? I have plans!” I exclaim, eyeing the flat Javi as I rub my hands together.
Mabel laughs. “No, they won’t let you have it, considering the first two races are here, and in less than a week, there will be fans flocking here for both said race weekends. But we can always take a photo?”
“Sold!” I strike a few poses next to the Javi cut-out, eliciting laughter from Mabel.
“Beware, I might post some of these on Infraction32’s socials,” she replies as we walk back to the hotel. As she scrolls through the photos, I looking over her shoulder at them while I carry the few shopping bags I insisted on taking.
“Make sure you tag me. Do the one where I am kissing his cheek. That one is hilarious!” I reply.
Back in the hotel, we lay out everything we've bought and get to work, divvying up the food prep tasks and working fluidly in the space together. I’m on salad duty, and Mabel insists on cooking the steaks, as it was her suggestion. When I've finished the salad, I sit at the stool at the kitchen counter, looking into the kitchen as she finishes everything up. Her back is to me at the stove as I talk to her.
“So what is Christmas actually like at the Bowman residence?” As soon as the last word is in the air, her shoulders tense again.
She takes a few long beats to reply. “It’s pretty chaotic and stressful, to be honest. Because I’m an only child, I don’t have other family members to hide my actions behind. My parents are highly-critical and things need to be done their way, and that’s it. Anyone who goes against their set ideals and expectations are degenerates, in their eyes.”
I'm glad she feels this open with me to unload about her family. She’s been pretty cagey about them the last few weeks, and this is the first time she has opened up so much about them.
She continues, “It’s also the reason I was running late on the first day. They guilted me into going to spend time with thembecause they live so far away and wouldn’t see me for the season, because they refuse to travel to me. There's only one track that will be kind of close to them, and they said they may or may not be around to travel to that track because they might be on vacation. Which is fine, but they're both retired. They can travel whenever they want. But they picked that time tomaybebe away.”
By the end of her rant, she has turned around to look at me, spatula flailing around as she gets more worked up. She exhales deeply, then looks sheepishly at me. “Sorry. That was a bit much.” She turns around, making sure she didn’t burn anything.
“Don’t be sorry. Thank you for sharing. That makes a lot of sense why you were late and so frazzled that first day,” I reply. I feel the need to get up and hug her, but I can see that her shoulders have lowered and her back looks a little relaxed.
“Same question for you. What’s Chrissie like at the Fortuna household?” She turns to face me as she lets the meat rest for a few minutes.
“Not to be a jerk, but it’s the complete opposite of yours,” I say cautiously, not wanting to upset her.
“Don’t worry. I have no illusions that my family are assholes, but sometimes it’s easier to just agree and go with it to avoid the drama. Please, I want to know. I already know it’s going to be brilliant based on your video calls with them. I know they are amazing parents,” she replies, no trace of sarcasm or jealousyin her voice. She's come to terms with her family situation, it appears.
“Mum goes all out on decorations. She sets up a million Christmas gnomes all over the house. She even has bathroom gnomes. Dad conceded that in November and December, he shares the house with all these gnomes. And while he complains, he’s also there helping her set them up and making sure they're following her vision.” I wave both hands past my face at the word ‘vision’. “Dad covers Christmas breakfast and has made waffles since we were kids. Mum and Dad make lunch together, which is normally whatever Mum feels like. She’s a superb cook, so whatever she imagines up is delicious. We have the whole extended family over for lunch—my aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends. My mum loves having the house full of everyone she loves. For dinner, we normally fend for ourselves and have leftovers, because she will over-cater or we will be too full from lunch, and start to make a dent on the chocolates,” I reminisce fondly.
“Wow, that sounds great,” she replies, serving up the steaks and passing me my plate. Pushing her plate and the salad closer towards my side, she comes around to sit by me to eat dinner. “You have a sister, too, right?”
Freezing slightly, I reply, “Yeah, but she isn’t around anymore.” I know she has shared a lot, but this part of my life is still too raw to talk about. Keeping my tone short, I hope there are no follow-up questions. To deflect, I ask, “What was the worst thing you got from your parents for Christmas last year?”
