Page 34 of Mad Girl

“Here. Try it with this.” You handed me a rectangular chocolate cookie—I mean, biscuit—with chocolate cream in the center. A bourbon cream, you called it. One might assume this biscuit contained actual bourbon, which sounded…questionable. But one would be wrong. It tasted delightful.

“Nice,” I said, nodding appreciatively. The biscuit mellowed the bite of the tea, and together, they slid down easy. Sweet, but not too sweet. Simple. Comforting. The perfect afternoon snack. “I could definitely get used to this.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hand dropping from your mouth.

“Yeah.” Even if it had been awful, how could I say no to the smile that burst across your face? One so big it reached your eyes, making them all glittery and bright? Like sunlight skipping across the surface of the ocean?

“Great,” you said. “We’ll have it every day.”

And we did. From that day on, afternoon tea became part of our routine. You put the kettle on the second I got home from school.

We watched nothing but Christmas movies the whole month of December, and like me, you loved the older ones best. It’s a Wonderful Life. White Christmas. Miracle on 34th Street. I put on one of my favorites—Meet Me in St. Louis—but you grew weirdly stiff during the part where Judy Garland sings her heart-wrenching version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” You left the room with tears pooling in your eyes, only coming back to tell me Nic had brought home takeout for dinner.

One Sunday after brunch, Bree practiced the violin for an upcoming holiday concert at school. When she had trouble tuning the instrument, you surprised everyone by asking her if you could try.

“I used to play,” you said by way of explanation. Bree handed the violin over, and you slowly—but expertly—readjusted the pegs, then handed it back to her, the issue fixed. She asked if you wanted to play something, but you said, “Oh, no. I haven’t played in years. I’d rather hear you play.”

Bree played “Silent Night” while you sat next to Michael on the sofa and listened, nodding along to the melody, your eyes drifting closed as her bow moved gracefully back and forth. I don’t know how else to describe the expression on your face. Just this: rapturous.

Five days before Christmas, you mentioned flying back to England to spend Christmas with your family.

“You’re leaving?” I asked, dropping my fork. You’d scrambled eggs for my breakfast, insisting my daily bowl of cereal wasn’t an acceptable form of nutrition. No protein or fat to keep me full until lunchtime.

“Well, look at you.” Across the kitchen island, you leaned against the sink with both hands, a dish towel slung over your shoulder, grinning wide. “Are you disappointed to see me go?”

“What?” I scoffed. “No. You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“Right,” you said, still smiling.

“I’m sure your sister will be happy to see you.”

“Very,” you said. “She’s just had a baby and I’m dying to meet him. I’ve got a nephew now.”

This bubbly feeling oozed straight through me. You, excited to be an uncle. You, excited to meet a little baby.

“Do you have pictures?” I asked.

“Loads.” You slipped out your phone and rounded the island, then pulled out the stool next to mine. Leaning close, you swiped through photos of a sleeping baby with round pink cheeks, a tiny Cupid’s bow mouth, and little bowlegs curled up close to his body. You paused at one of him dressed entirely in knitwear—matching bloomers, booties, and, most precious of all, a little cable-knit sweater with wooden buttons.

“This baby,” I said, “is wearing a cardigan.”

“Yes,” you said, beaming proudly. “A gift from me.”

I fought back a smile. “Of course it was.”

“He’s the most adorable thing,” you said, gazing down at the photo. “Just look at his little nose. And his hands—I can’t get over how tiny his fingers are.”

My heart melted—literally melted—inside my chest. I had trouble finding my voice again. “He is adorable. What’s his name?”

“Rhys.” You’d pronounced it Reese.

“After you. Your middle name.”

You glanced up, both surprised and confused. “How did you—? Oh, right. That time you snooped on my laptop.”

I went back to my eggs, then asked when you left.

“Tomorrow,” you said, the word sending a stab of disappointment through me.