Page 102 of Shipwrecked

Mary and Charles laugh to themselves as they peel away. “We’re grabbing the rest of our things from the car!”

As soon as they’re gone, I double down. “Tell me what it is.”

Seán tilts his head back, groaning again. “Cillian.”

“Something good has happened.”

“Nothing in particular.”

“I’m not spending Christmas with you if you’re acting like this.”

“Oh Christ.” Seán laughs. “You’re so comfortable here that you’re answering the door without clothes on. You’d barely even unpack your bags when you lived with me, including when you were a teenager at the family home. You’re happy and settled, and that makes me happy. That’s it, I swear to God.”

I can feel the way my brow wrinkles. Seán’s laugh softens to a grin. “That’s it, alright? Now, can you answer me? Jules and Mathieu? They’re not really wrapped up under the tree, are they? Those boxes look a tad small to fit them…I wonder what’s in them that has you wound up?”

If the kitchen counter wasn’t between us, Seán would be getting a right shove. He must see the threat in my eyes because both hands shoot up, palms flashing white surrender.

“They were running to the shop before it closed. They should be back any minute.”

Gravel crunches in the driveway, and it’s four people that enter the house. I go to Mathieu, taking the shopping bags out of his hands. “Is there more in the car?”

“This is everything,” Jules answers, brandishing the last two bags. There’s a mountain of biscuits in one, fizzy drinks in the other.

“Are more people coming?”

“No,” Jules says. “I just thought snacks would be good. The turkey smells good, is it almost ready?”

Mathieu dives in to divert Jules from getting anywhere near the food. Despite Jules’s adeptness at following instructions, he’s terrible at cooking. A tray of cookies he can manage, but something hearty like a roast is well beyond his wheelhouse. Mathieu and I take turns cooking, and take turns pinning Jules down when he tries to help.

“Is there a pot we can use? I have mulled wine.” Mary grabs the bottle with the green and gold label. I see the percentage symbol, and my attention snags as I try to decipher the numbers in front of it. I feel the weight of Seán’s gaze, and I abandon my attempts. This time I give him a look to stop with the looks.

“Here, I’ll do it.” Mathieu takes out two pots, pouring wine from different bottles into each. The next hour is spent chatting and drinking and finishing off the dinner. When we sit down to eat, everyone has an elaborate cocktail that Charles mixed up for us. When I awkwardly stared at the drink being handed to me, Charles said in a good-natured manner, “Jules already said you don’t drink alcohol, it’s spirits-free.”

I relax into the evening, though the parcels under the tree feel conspicuous, looming despite their innocuous size. Mary talks about her classes, Charles talks about the under-sevens he’s teaching Gaelic football, Seán brings us back to Thailand for a discussion about his latest tour group, and me, Jules and Mathieu each talk about work and play in turn.

Mathieu has had a cocktail and two cups of mulled wine by the end of dinner, and Jules has had the same. The knowledge makes me keenly aware of every smile they share with me. Every measure of warmth I see in their eyes. I suppose it’s some measure of improvement that I hardly register that Seán’s sipped his way through two cocktails.

“Let’s do presents,” Jules suggests.

Another round of drinks goes out as we move to the couch, and everyone exchanges gifts. I don’t reach for the small gifts under the Christmas tree, instead handing over bigger presents to Jules and Mathieu.

Mathieu opens his with a befuddled look, finding a thin black band. “A smartwatch?” he asks. He pulls out a keychain that’s small and inconspicuous.

“A key finder,” I explain. “If you go too far away from your keys, the band will vibrate.”

Jules laughs. Mathieu pouts. “I’m not that bad.”

“Cillian answered the door—”

I shove Seán before he can finish the sentence. Jules’s gaze darts between us, a smile curving his lips. He’s smiling too much, eyes glassy with alcohol. I hate myself for the nerves that tighten in my stomach. I wish I could just enjoy the affection in his face, that my body wouldn’t complicate it.

“Mary, that’s a big present.” I divert everyone’s attention.

“Yes, this is for you, Jules.” Mary hands over the large box.

Jules unwraps the present, revealing a gleaming black pot with orange figures painted on it. I recognise the image at once. After we were free of the island, I asked if I could see the presentation Jules had talked about in the lean-to. The image of Narcissus and Echo is the same as one that was shown on the marriage chests he studied.

Jules blinks, and the glassiness isn’t from alcohol. He traces the image in the air above, not touching the figures. It’s obvious before he manages to raise his eyes to Mary that he loves it.