“I just met my new bestest friend.”
“Well that’s very exciting… who?”
“Her name is Evangeline, but she likes going by just Evan.”
“And where isjustEvan?” Maggie asks, moving the camcorder around.
“Over there!” Clara points to me, sitting in the shade with a book. We laugh softly together, no one removing our eyes from the screen. “She needed a break from people,” Clara explains, matter-of-factly.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet her.”
“You’re gonna love her, mama. I already do.”
The recording ends with a fuzzy sound and squiggly lines.
I look between Clara and the television, speechless.
She’s smiling at the video, almost in disbelief. “How did it take me twenty years to notice?”
“I coulda told youlongbefore that,” Maggie says stubbornly.
Clara stands, kisses her mom’s cheek, and goes to fetch the video for safe keeping. I reach for and squeeze Maggie’s hand yet again. Unsure where to even begin with all this gratitude inside of me.
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing.
“Last present,” Clara sings-out, holding a long, narrow box. “Ms. Paul… you mustpromisenot to ask how much this cost me.”
“Oh lord,” Daryl mutters.
“Promise?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Okay.” I laugh, taking it from here. It’s so light, and such an odd shape I have absolutely no clue what could be inside.
But the moment I tear into the packaging and open the end of the wrapped shipping box, I realise. “Oh my god!” I feel my jaw go slack as Icarefullyremove a long-stemmed rose from the box. A very, very realistic fake red rose signed by the one and only Chris Harrison, long-standing host of the Bachelor franchise.
“I couldn’t resist.” She clears her throat. “Evan… do you accept this rose?”
“What in the…” Daryl says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Yes!” I jump to my feet. “Of course I do!” I’m giggling like a little kid as I twirl the fake flower between my fingers.
“Merry Christmas, Evan.” She kisses my nose.
“Merry Christmas, Teens.” I hug her, admiring the rose over her shoulder.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Clara
We spent the rest of Christmas morning preparing for our mid-afternoon meal. Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, gravy—the whole lot. It was delicious. We pulled Christmas crackers, wore the silly paper hats, and told the bad jokes from inside them as we feasted. Afterward, it was time for the last of our many family traditions—one we haven’t done in a few years: ice skating out behind the High School.
I checked with Evan a dozen times whether she was absolutely positive she was up for going to a very busy town event. We’d most likely run into a few familiar faces, if not her parents. She assured me, each time more confident than the last, that she wasn’t going to miss out on anything else.
While I’m quite literally a deer on ice, Evan is graceful. She holds us both upright as we skate around after my parents—who keep stopping impromptu to chat to fellow townies and almost causing a traffic jam.
“Evan?” A voice calls out and my stomach nearly falls out. But when I look towards the voice I immediately recognize them to be our high school English teacher, Ms. Jean. Evan balances me onto the railing and skates over to say hello.
