Ben chokes on a sprout, clutching the edge of the table. The offending vegetable shoots from his mouth, landing in the jug of gravy. There’s silence for a beat before the table erupts into hysterics.
“No, Liam,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. “I didn’t feel a thing.” The two teenage girls snort into their napkins.
“Too wrapped up in the moment, Aunt Amy,” Rose pipes up.
“But, Rose,” Liam interrupts, turning to his older sister, “when you had one on your neck, you covered it up with a scarf so Dad wouldn’t see it.” He smirks, and she pales. “You said it was so he didn’t worry about you being hurt. That if he saw the bruise, he would take you to the doctor. Which makes no sense because Dad is…a doctor.”
Poor Rose stares at her plate like it might swallow her whole.
“When was this?” Ben snaps, no one speaks. “Rose,” he warns, “who sank their teeth into you?”
“It was a while ago,” she mumbles. “I’m not seeing him anymore.”
Oliver decides to pour salt into Rose’s gaping wound. “The first time was Halloween, but you had a hickey on your chest last week.”
Ben’s head whips toward his daughter. “On your chest. What the fuck is a boy doing sucking your chest?”
I’m so tempted to fill in the blanks for him, but I stay mute. This is going downhill fast. I’m too sober for it.
“Dad, I’m old enough to have sex,” she says flatly. Ben’s jaw opens, then snaps closed. When it opens again, no sound comes out.
The room dissolves into chaos. Rose jumps up from her chair, grabs her glass of water plus her sister’s, and dumps them over her younger brothers’ heads.
“Assholes!” she screams before storming off.
The two teenage boys laugh, shrug, and pick up their forks, to continue to eat their meal. Ben drags a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Bloody kids.”
“She’s not really a kid anymore,” I whisper. His gaze lifts to meet mine. “You were probably the same at her age.”
“Don’t fucking remind me,” he grumbles, but there’s a reluctant smile.
Later, when the house is quiet, Ben and I lounge in the living room, polishing off another bottle of wine.
“So,” he says, swirling what’s left in his glass. “Who is he? This mystery man.”
My hand instinctively rises to my neck, brushing the embarrassing blemish.
“You don’t know him,” I say, lightly. “It’s early days.”
“Does he treat you right?” His tone softens, and the teasing disappears.
I nod, a small smile tugging the corners of my mouth. “Yes, Ben. He’s a gentleman.”
“Good, you deserve someone who adores you, Amz,” he says. “Enjoy it.” My phone rings, interrupting the Christmas film on the TV. Ben’s snoring softly on the opposite sofa, an empty wine glass balanced on his chest.
The screen glows in the half-light, an unknown American number calling. My stomach drops, immediate dread hitting hard. Katie.
“Hello,” I say, “Katie?”
“Hello ma’am, I’m sorry to call you on Christmas Day.”
I glance at my watch, seeing that it’s actually now Boxing Day. “Do you know a Katie Clark? You’re listed as an emergencycontact. My name is Henry Turner. I’m with the New York Police Department.”
The words drop like a stone in my stomach. “Yes, she’s my friend.”
“Can I confirm your name, please?” he asks.
“Amy Corrigan.”
