Faking It, page 30
• • •
It’s Harry who suggests we do something on Friday night, the day after my work Christmas party. I’m still feeling delicate from my hangover, having somehow managed to drag myself through the day by working from home and doing the bare minimum, glad everybody else was also winding down for the holidays. I give my next article one last proofread and submit it—it’s all about not wasting time with guys just for the sake of saying I’m trying to find a boyfriend to appease other people, wanting to stop seeking happiness and validation from others, and how my Christmas gift to myself this year is some self-respect.
I don’t normally turn in my articles this early since they’re published on the last Friday of the month, but since it’s Christmas the schedule is a little different. I feel good about this one, though.
It feels more like me, more honest than anything else I’ve written all year. Not sharp and witty, just up-front.
I’m so pleased with it, I even show it to Harry when we’re sitting on his sofa eating pizza and watching Love Actually. (It’s only the eighth time I’ve seen it this year. Harry thinks it’s overrated but didn’t complain too much when I put it on.) I’m sure he’ll appreciate my article, though. Clichéd as it is, I think it’ll really speak to him; this must be how Tally and Lena feel when they send me my own articles.
Now he lowers my phone and hands it back to me with a nonchalant “Yeah, it’s good,” and reaches for another slice of pizza.
“But—but it’s . . . ”
Somehow I’m disappointed by his reaction. I’m not sure what I was hoping for or expecting, but I do know it wasn’t that. I’m fizzing with energy (now that some more pizza has mopped up the last of my hangover) and shift on the sofa to tuck my feet underneath me and kneel, facing him. I want to burst with how much relief this little epiphany has brought me, how I realize maybe it’s been a long time coming. I want to shake him by the shoulders and make him see, but if he didn’t get it from the article, I don’t know what else to tell him.
“But don’t you get it?” I press, fingers tightening around my phone and my chest puffing out. “I’ve had a breakthrough, about dating. About how I’ve let other people dictate and influence my life. How I’ve just been trying to do what everyone else thinks I should want. It’s about boundaries! Making space for myself!
Valuing myself!”
Harry nods, a small and bemused smile on his face and his head cocked to one side. (Add to the list of things that should be a criminal offense: the way he makes confused look so enticing. I so badly want to kiss that smile.) “Sure it is. Good for you, Soph. But . . . ”
“But?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just think of you as being pretty self-sufficient already. Good at being on your own. Not like me, you know?” He laughs, reaching for his bottle of Peroni and taking a swig, eyes on Alan Rickman trying to buy a necklace on the TV screen.
I want to argue, thinking about how much effort it took to just get coffee on my own up until recently, but then I notice, once more, how sparse and impersonal his apartment feels. Aside from a couple of books and some photos, he hasn’t decorated at all—and he’s been here for the better part of a year. The lone string of tinsel around the TV to mark the season somehow makes the place feel more depressing than if there were no decorations at all; I know my little three-foot tree with its cheap glittery star on top and my collection of stuffed reindeer are nothing to write home about, but they feel like a Selfridges window display by comparison.
And I think, maybe he’s got a point.
I always thought our single status made us kindred spirits of a sort, on the same page; now, all of a sudden, I’m not so sure. It’s not the first time I’ve thought, I will never understand why he thinks that or where he’s coming from, but it is the first time I’ve felt like it matters.
It occurs to me that maybe, when I think about this idea of breaking up with my old life, maybe that should include this pseudorelationship I have with Harry. He pines for a life I can’t even imagine for myself; when I try to put myself in that “picture-perfect marriage and two point four kids” life he wants—not with him, necessarily, but with anyone—I struggle. It makes my skin itch, my heart seize. Not because I know for certain I don’t want it, but because I just don’t know. He always said this wasn’t serious and I know it can’t be, but that makes me think that maybe this thing we’ve got going . . . as much fun as it is, as much as I like spending time with him, I don’t know that anybody could call it a healthy choice.
We’re just covering up the cracks in each other’s lives, pretending they don’t exist rather than dealing with them.
I say nothing, not really sure what to say. And knowing that we’ve made plans to spend Christmas together, I can’t spoil that now and let him down when he needs me—so when he glances over at me and smiles, I smile back. I nestle into his side to watch the rest of the movie. Later, I get an Uber home instead of spending the night.
For the first time since we met, I’m in no danger of falling in love with Harry.
Thirty-seven
December is nonstop. Even if I don’t have plans, I still have plans: watch the new cheesy rom-com on Netflix with Tally, do some present shopping, spend some time with Harry, wrap presents, run to the shops after work for the presents I forgot to buy, go up to Granny and Granddad’s for the weekend to see them for a bit of a pre-Christmas weekend since I’m spending the day with Dad and Camilla and my sisters this year.
As if Nadine would let us get out of baby Finlay’s first Christmas.
Auntie Dawn and Auntie Janine are much happier to have a quiet one, but Laura and my grandparents will be going over on Christmas Day—again, not willing to miss baby Poppy’s first.
Mum’s out of the country again this year.
On December 24, I get a text from a name I don’t immediately recognize.
Gareth.
It doesn’t ring a bell until I open it.
And oh—it’s that Gareth. The Gareth Who Stole Christmas, the guy I dated last year who dumped me on Christmas Eve when I thought we were meeting up to exchange presents.
Hi Sophie. Hope you’re doing well. Sorry for reaching out like this but I just needed to get something off my chest. I’ve done a lot of growing in the last year and today’s got me thinking about us, and how I ended things. I know you were very upset and believe me, it wasn’t my intention to break your heart—I should have noticed that you clearly had very strong feelings for me when I thought we were still quite casual, and that’s on me. I should have been more considerate, and it was unfair of me to break up with you so close to Christmas the way I did. I hope you can forgive me. ’Tis the season for it, right? All best, Gareth.
PS. I am now in a relationship with a really wonderful woman so am not looking to rekindle anything, just clear my conscience. Merry Christmas!
I read the messages five, six times, in stunned silence, before I burst out laughing. Poor, deluded Gareth, I think. It was never really about him—that wasn’t why I was so upset. It was because it was Christmas and it was so out of the blue. It was another Sophie-centric spiral of: But what did I do wrong? What’s wrong with me? Is it too late to get a refund on his Christmas present? I’m alone again, and just in time for the holidays.
And it’s a bit bloody rich, I think, that he wants to clear his conscience. That he’s done “a lot of growing” and just doesn’t like living with the guilt of being the person who dumped someone on Christmas Eve.
He doesn’t deserve a reply, I decide immediately, already screenshotting it to send in the group chat—and to Jessica and Nadine too. I’m halfway through the first message to the girls about it when something stops me.
I’ve done a lot of growing in the last year.
Yeah. Maybe that makes two of us, I think, and find myself deleting the message and the screenshots. I’d like to do some growing myself.
And I think, Good for you, Gareth—and I mean it.
’Tis the season! You’re forgiven. Glad to hear you’re doing well. Merry Christmas to you too!
And maybe it’s just the festive season and the fact that Disney’s The Santa Clause is currently playing on my TV, or maybe it’s that I’ve done some growing lately, too, but I put my phone down feeling a little lighter, and a lot better.
• • •
Christmas Day itself is pure chaos. With Harry planning to swing by his parents’ place to make a cursory appearance and then join us for lunch, Dad picks me up at seven o’clock wearing his felt antlers and a gaudy elf sweatshirt. I climb into the car with my bags of (mostly) neatly wrapped presents, bleary eyed and already regretting my sequined T-shirt dress because I don’t think it will be very comfortable to take a nap in later. The car is already packed to the brim. I thought I’d gone overboard with presents for a seven-week-old baby, but it’s nothing compared to Dad.
At Nadine’s house the chaos only increases. She’s decorated, but not to her usual pristine and carefully thought-out standards.
A garland is tossed around the banister and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she told me Finlay decorated the tree himself.
(It turns out David did it, but he’s also very sleep-deprived right now, so I’ll give him a pass.)
Camilla is busy in the kitchen preparing the roast dinner and I only get a few minutes of cuddles with Fin, who’s dressed in the most adorable reindeer outfit I have ever seen in my entire life, before I get roped in to help with the sprouts and carrots.
Harry shows up a full hour earlier than we were expecting him—which is saying something, because I remember it was at least an hour’s drive between his parents’ and Nadine’s; he can hardly have spent any time at all with them.
Shuffling in from the cold, Harry sets down a Santa-emblazoned gift bag and shrugs out of his coat. He looks like he’s just come from a funeral, not celebrating Christmas with family. I give him a hug and, before I can think better of it, I automatically give him a kiss—not for appearance’s sake, but because, after spending so much time together the last few months, that’s been our default greeting ever since I broke up with Jaxon.
As soon as my lips touch his, I cringe. After realizing the other night that we should probably stop this, for both our sakes, it feels suddenly weird to be kissing him. It’s not easy or electric; it’s awkward, like kissing a friend.
I try to turn it into just a quick peck on the lips; I don’t want to give him one more thing to feel shitty about today after all, but he slips his arms firmly around me, securing me against him as he deepens the kiss.
He tastes of mince pie and coffee, and for a moment I almost lose myself in it, but I draw away, standing in his embrace. Harry lets out a long, weary sigh, his breath washing over my face, and tips his head forward to lean against me, his eyes closed as the tension rushes out of his shoulders.
I pull a sympathetic face. “That bad, huh?”
“My brother and the kids got there early. Think my mum was trying to ambush us into being in the same room. Like it’s not enough I’ve already agreed to see them New Year’s Eve.”
I wince on his behalf. New Year’s Eve was Harry’s compromise to his family: he could use “his new girlfriend” as an excuse to get out of Christmas Day so he didn’t spoil it for his niece and nephew, but agreed to their usual family tradition of New Year’s Eve at his parents’ local pub. The kids won’t be there, he said, and nobody will judge him half so much if he gets incredibly drunk and ignores his brother in favor of playing pool with total strangers all night.
He looks like he’d rather go ten rounds with Tyson Fury.
My heart breaks for him. Even if I think we should stop using each other to make ourselves feel better, I do care about him—and I also know him well enough by now to know that New Year’s Eve would be a prime opportunity to be his fake plus-one.
So I find myself blurting, “I could go with you, you know. Be an extra buffer.”
“You—you’d do that? I mean, really? You’re already doing me a massive favor letting me spend Christmas with you lot.”
“Sure. I mean, you’ve helped me out plenty, and it’s not like I really had plans. Tally’s decided to go spend New Year’s with her family anyway, so we won’t be doing anything now.”
Harry stares at me for a moment, his expression indecipherable, his shoulders sagging with relief. Then he yanks me in close and presses a swift, enthusiastic kiss to my lips. “You’re the best, Sophie Barker. A literal lifesaver.”
I smile, trying to ignore the little squirm of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Note to self: do not sleep with Harry again tonight, or at New Year’s. He needs me, and I’m happy to be there for him, but I also know one of us has to do the right thing here, as scary as it is.
We can’t use each other to hide from the real world forever.
We’re interrupted by Camilla leaning out of the kitchen and clearing her throat pointedly.
“Okay, lovebirds, break it up, these parsnips won’t glaze themselves! Hello, Harry, dear, lovely to see you again. Merry Christmas!”
I slip out of Harry’s arms. “That’s my cue to go. The others are all in the living room.”
“You go see them,” he says, hands squeezing my waist before he pushes me off in that direction. “I’ll help in the kitchen. I could use the distraction.”
I’m ready to argue just on principle—he’s a guest, and Dad would never forgive me for making our guest slave away in the kitchen—but Harry enjoys cooking, and he definitely looks like he could use the distraction. So I simply say, “Thanks,” and let him take my place as Camilla’s sous-chef while I go spend some time with the rest of my family and steal a few more cuddles from little Finlay.
• • •
We’re all stuffed more than the turkey was after dinner, and find spots in the living room to flop down and drowsily argue over what to watch on TV. I decide to break open a bottle of prosecco; Camilla and Conor both have a glass with me but Jessica declines, complaining about a headache. Nadine and David crash completely, both fast asleep before long, slumped against each other. It’d look sweet, if Nadine wasn’t covered in gravy-stain handprints from Fin playing around at dinner and David wasn’t drooling into her hair.
Actually, to be fair, even then it still looks quite sweet.
“This one needs a change,” Jessica announces from the floor, where she’s playing with Fin and one of his many stuffed elephant toys. She declares this with a tone of noble self-sacrifice, but glances at Dad and Camilla, waiting for one of them to volunteer instead.
But Camilla says only, “We should put him down for a nap too.”
There’s a brief standoff while we all wait to see if Jessica will cave or not; I’m about to start laughing over the whole thing when Harry nudges me and stands up.
“I’ll sort him out. Come on, Soph, you can give me a hand.”
“Oh, no, really, Harry,” Camilla starts, but then she says,
“Thanks, Sophie.”
I roll my eyes and when Jessica gives me a smug, triumphant grin as she hands Fin to me, I poke my tongue out at her. We leave them all checking what time the Strictly Come Dancing special will be on and wondering if they should bring out a board game.
Upstairs, I let Harry take care of changing Fin’s nappy. I stand well back (having learned my lesson after getting peed on last time Nadine showed me how to do it).
“How do you look like such a natural?” I ask him.
“Practice. Don’t forget I helped out with my niece and nephew when they were born.”
For ages, I didn’t even know he had a niece and nephew. He still rarely ever mentions them, but I’ve noticed that of the few pictures he does have in his apartment, they’re all two sweet-looking kids with his brown hair and mischievous smile.
“Do you . . . do you miss them? Now you and your brother don’t talk so much?”
Harry sighs. “Yeah. But, you know, I call to talk to them. I got to see them a couple of times when they were staying with my parents and my brother wasn’t around. The oldest is only eight, so it’s not like we can explain the whole thing. It’ll . . . I mean, you know. It just takes time, doesn’t it? I guess I’ll get over it eventually.”
He sets Fin down in his Moses basket but as we start downstairs again, he catches my arm, his fingers tracing languidly over my skin and a cheeky smile tugging at his lips.
And oh, I think, this is why he said for me to come with him, so we could steal a few minutes alone together.
But instead of drawing me in for a kiss he says in a rush, “I completely forgot to tell you earlier. It’s been a bit hectic, so I haven’t had a chance to talk to you properly since, but I finally got some good news the other day! Just in time for Christmas. Go on, guess.”
He grins at me, a wild excitement glittering in his eyes. They shine silver like morning frost and, god, he’s just so devastatingly handsome sometimes it’s a little hard to think straight, so I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Penny and Ieuan have let go of the fact we stole their dog’s karaoke machine back before they could open it and we’ve been invited to their next little soirée?”
But Harry shakes his head, still beaming at me, his large hands splaying out across my arms as he takes hold of me, almost like he has to brace himself. He takes a deep breath and looks so excited I think he might almost burst into song, but what comes out of his mouth is, “The divorce papers are signed. It’s done. It’s over! Six fucking months, and it’s finished. I’m divorced!”
He whisper-shouts it, aware of my family just downstairs, but, given the opportunity, I think he’d want to run into the middle of the street to bellow it at the top of his lungs for everybody to hear.
