by K. A. Hobbs
“I was fine where I was, thank you very much.” I scowl at him, my hands balled into fists at my side,
“You may well have been, but you have work to do. You can’t sit around in trees daydreaming about whatever it is you spend your time daydreaming about. You must focus, Imogen.”
I spend my time daydreaming about you, you arse. And I’m very focused on it, thank you very much.
“I’ve told you, I’m not ready.”
“And I’ve told you, you are.”
“You don’t know this for certain. There’s no way you can.” I sigh, dropping to the grass and pulling my knees up to my chin.
He drops down beside me elegantly and crosses his legs, his shoulder resting against mine. “I know it’s scary. I’ve been there once, too, remember? But you are more ready than you think you are.”
I take a deep breath and prepare to voice my doubts for the first time. “And if I fail? Then what?”
“Then we talk about it, we work out where it didn’t go to plan and we make sure it doesn’t happen again. Everyone has failed at some point. Not to fail is not to live. You want to live, don’t you?”
A bubble of laughter escapes and I smile at him. “More than anything.”
“The only way to truly live is to do the things that scare you. Those are the most rewarding and exhilarating things. They are what make life worth living.”
How does he do that—make me believe that I can do it, that my worries are unfounded?
“And you promise to help me? If I do it, I mean?”
“When you do it, I’ll be right there with you. Anytime you need me, you know how and where to find me.”
I close my eyes and try to steady my racing heart. Fear has me breaking out into a cold sweat and my lips going numb.
“She needs you, Imogen. You’re the perfect person for the job.”
“She does?”
He nods, smiling softly at me as he rests his head on top of mine. “And I’ll let you into a little secret… I think you need her, too.”
“So what do I do?”
“She’s going to be at a Christmas market at the weekend. You need to be there, too. I’d like you to go over and introduce yourself. Make friends with her.”
“Just go up and speak to a random person at a Christmas market?”
I don’t know what’s got into me.
I have always been the kind of person who can walk into a room full of people I don’t know and make conversation. He’s not even asking me to do that. He just wants me to talk to one person.
“Yes, I’d like you to find a way to put yourself in her path and talk to her. She needs you. She probably doesn’t know it herself, but she does.”
I shake my head in disbelief at his request but lift my chin off my knee.
“Okay. I guess I don’t have any other choice, do I?”
“Not really. I assure you, though, the first time is the worst. It gets a lot easier after that.”
I roll my eyes and glare at him. “Sure… Where have I heard that before?”
I spend a good half an hour just watching, even though George told me to just get it over with.
But what does he really know?
I mean it’s so different for men. They don’t overthink anything, and women overthink everything.
I watch people wandering around, coats pulled tight, hats low on their heads trying to keep the bitter cold from seeping into their bones.
Just a few feet away from me, a family are waiting in line to meet Santa. The little boy is bouncing on his toes, desperately trying to peer around everyone in the queue to get his first glimpse of the big man himself.
I close my eyes and try to remember back to when I believed—back to a time when life was simple: I didn’t have to make decisions. I didn’t have to worry about anything.
It seems to me that childhood is a waste because you don’t appreciate it, and by the time you do, it’s gone.
When I open my eyes, I see the family moving forwards, the little boy jumping up and down. It’s finally their turn. I move forwards with them, wanting to spend just a few minutes more pretending that I’m normal—pretending I’m like everyone else here.
The little boy bounds up to Santa and doesn’t hesitate to sit on his knee. He pulls off his thick, blue woollen hat and looks him right in the eyes.
“Hello, Santa.” He smiles.
“Hello, young man. What’s your name?”
“Luke, my name is Luke.”
Santa smiles and looks at the little boy intently. “Lovely to meet you, Luke. What’s on your list?”
Little Luke looks over at his mum and dad, and then back to Santa. “I’d like for my dad to be with us.”
Santa looks over at the couple and frowns a little. “That’s your mum and dad?”
Luke nods his head and smiles proudly. “You see, my dad is a doctor. He’s the best doctor in the world and he works a lot because people always need saving.”
“They do. Your dad is super special, isn’t he?”
“Yes. But you see,” the little boy continues, “because he’s the best, he sometimes works over Christmas. Last year, he wasn’t home when I woke up. I know I shouldn’t ask because I get my dad a lot, and if people need him sometimes, it’s okay. But, I really want my dad to be home for Christmas Day.”
I instinctively move closer, needing to hear more from this strikingly compassionate little boy.
Santa looks at the little boy’s father, who nods subtly, letting him know he’ll be doing his best to be home this year. “You know what, Luke? I think there are other doctors who can help this year. I’ll do my very best to make sure your dad can be home with you, okay?”
Luke beams and wraps his little arms around Santa’s neck. “Thank you, Santa.”
“And so, what would you like to unwrap with your dad on Christmas morning?”
“Nothing. I just want my dad. But my mum would like a new pair of boots, so could you get those for her?”
Laughing, Santa nods and tells him he’ll do his best. He hands the little boy a present, poses for a photo, and then Luke and his parents leave, smiling and hugging each other, to enjoy the rest of the market.
I take a deep breath and head over to do what I’ve been sent here to do.
I make my way toward Molly and take a few seconds to just observe.
And in those few seconds I can see everything I need to.
She’s about five seconds away from a breakdown in a very public, overly happy place.
Three seconds later, it happens. She says something frantically to the person she’s with and makes a run for it, finding a deserted corner of the market.
She hides, hunching over and resting her hands on her knees. She struggles with each painful breath as wave after wave of grief crashes over her.
And she does it alone.
I turn left and stop at one of the stalls selling various drinks and food. I ask for a glass of cold water and thank the kind-faced girl who passes it to me. Then, I head to Molly.
As I get closer, I see the lack of life in her body, and I can physically feel the pain she’s in, like it’s running through my veins.
Just like George said I would.
“Hey,” I say softly, dropping to my knees in front of her.
She sniffs and looks up, her sad eyes meeting mine. “Um… hello.”
“I thought you could do with a drink.” I hand her the glass and she tries to smile. “And maybe a tissue?”
Her smile wavers at my kindness, and I want to scoop her into my arms and tell her it’s okay. I know… I understand.
But I can’t.
Rule number one: never tell them you know.
She takes the tissue and mumbles her thanks. I kneel patiently until she’s composed herself a little and meets my eyes again.
“I’m okay… Just a bad day,” she tells me.
“You don’t have to explain anything to me. I just saw you and thought you looked like someone
with a heavy burden to carry, and I know when I felt like that, an act of kindness, no matter how small, meant the world. Even if I did want to become invisible. Even if all I wanted was to disappear.”
A look of shock registers on her face and in a split second I see she understands that I know what it’s like, too.
“How did you…?”
Her words don’t come as a shock to me. I know Molly pretty well already, even though she has no idea who I am. “It’s okay. Speaking the words heals you a little, even if you think it doesn’t. It won’t always be so awful.”
She laughs, a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “Everyone says that.”
“I’m sure they do,” I tell her, reaching for her hand. “But I mean it. I know it’s true. Trust me?”
She flinches slightly as the feeling of warmth leaves my body and travels to hers. “I … I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Imogen.” I smile.
She looks at me skeptically, but there’s a twinkle of hope in her eyes that I can see her trying to hide. “Molly.”
“It’s good to meet you, Molly. Would you like to go somewhere warmer? Somewhere less… festive?”
She stares blankly at me, confusion marring her features. “I don’t think… I don’t mean to be rude, but I teach stranger danger every day at work, and, well, like I said, I don’t know you.”
I smile. “That’s true, but I mean, everyone is a stranger to start with, aren’t they? If we’re not to talk to strangers, who are we supposed to talk to?”
“Generally, I prefer not to speak to anybody. Hermitry is kinda my thing these days.” She shrugs, as though she’s just announced that she likes cheese and not that she doesn’t like speaking to people.
“Hermitry? Is that the study of crabs?”
She lets out an inelegant snort that seems to surprise even her. Her eyes widen and her hand leaps to her mouth as she stares at me. It’s clear that laughter hasn’t been a big part of her life for quite some time.
“You know, psychopaths are known for being charming. Are you planning to take me somewhere and butcher me?”
I inwardly wince at her choice of words. “No, I’m a vegetarian,” I lie.
Her face scrunches up in disgust and I see the first spark of what must be the real Molly shining at me from her steely grey eyes as she finally meets mine. “No bacon?”
“Of course bacon. What fool doesn’t eat bacon?” I keep my eyes trained on her face and decide I’m going to have to try a different tack as this is getting me nowhere. “I’m not a psychopath. I eat way too much bacon and I love cake. Perhaps I can convince you I’m of sane mind over cake? No one can say no to cake.”
One blonde eyebrow quirks up at me as she seems to weigh me up silently. “What sort of cake?”
Dammit, Molly, I don’t know what kind of cake you like.
I think on my feet and say the first thing that enters my brain, which just so happens to be my sister’s favourite. “Lemon, of course.”
She blinks, and a moment of genuine fear flashes in her eyes before she trains her expression back to neutral. “Who are you?”
I sigh, a little exasperated at this point. We’ve been over this. “Imogen Thomas. And you’re Molly.”
“Yeah, but… “ She peers over my shoulder, her eyes searching for a moment before they drop back to mine. “Why are you talking to me? Don’t you have some gorgeous dish of a man to get back to? Or woman… I’m not judging.”
That makes me smile. “I do as it happens, but not like that. He’s a… friend.”
It’s not a lie; George is a friend, and he is in fact gorgeous, but I’m in no rush to get back to him, to have him tell me I made a big deal out of asking Molly for a coffee.
He said it would be easy. It’s not. This girl does not want to have coffee, cake or even bacon with me.
Molly wants to go back home, alone, and sit in her pyjamas looking into nothingness for hours.
“I’ve seen that look before,” she says with a knowing smirk. “Friend, my arse. Who is he?”
My eyebrows knit together.
How can I possibly begin to explain to her what George is to me?
“He’s… he’s helping me through some stuff. Kind of like a counsellor, I guess?”
“A… counsellor,” she repeats slowly, her lips turning down in a slight frown. “You’re not like, I dunno, recruiting for him or something, are you? Finding people having breakdowns in public places and taking them to him?”
“I promise you, on my life, you wouldn’t want to see him. He’s demanding and so uptight, like, tighter than one of those balloons they model with. Ever seen those?” I look at her face and she’s just staring at me. It makes me uncomfortable, so I try to explain.
“One Christmas, Mum got these stupid crackers that each had a balloon modelling kit inside. We spent longer trying to stretch them and blow them up than we did eating lunch, and truthfully, all we ended up creating were various brightly coloured phalluses.”
Her stare intensifies, her eyes wide as saucers as she takes a single step back towards the wall that hems her in. “Did you… miss your medication this morning?” she jokes. At least, I hope it’s a joke.
“Would you believe this is me sober?” I grin. “Come on, one coffee? You look like you could do with one.”
“My friend is…” She glances back to the stall she made her rapid exit from, her eyes searching for the woman I already know has moved much further down the line. “Uh, she’s around somewhere. And I ought to…” She thumbs over her shoulder, but her expression is filled with doubt. And she’s right to be doubtful. Her friend is already flirting with a Scottish guy wearing only a kilt in the freezing cold Christmas weather, her reason for dragging Molly out of her house apparently forgotten.
Deciding I’m not giving her another out, I smile broadly and lean back casually against the wall. “I’ll wait right here.”
She smiles a small smile. It’s brittle, but it’s a start. I watch as she walks off to find her friend while I stay exactly where I said I would. A few seconds later, Molly comes back over, looking just as pale but holding her head a little higher.
It’s going to take time, it’s going to be painful, but I will make her life better.
I will help her heal.
The cafe she steers me into is blessedly warm after the biting cold outside, and the air smells of coffee and gingerbread. I’m hit by a momentary wave of grief when the scent hits my nostrils, my chest constricting and my stomach turning over painfully.
But it’s been almost two years now, so I’ve become almost an expert at smiling through these episodes by now.
I order a my potion with an extra shot of espresso because literally anything is better than the nightmares that plague me the moment I close my eyes each night.
She looks at me curiously but doesn’t say anything, which already strikes me as a little out of character for her. I don’t know what it is about this woman. She’s like nobody I’ve ever met before.
She’s only tiny, barely making five feet if I had to guess, but every conversation with her feels like a whirlwind.
I don’t do this.
I don’t wander off with random strangers I’ve met on the street. I barely leave the house at all.
So how I find myself sitting drinking the strongest coffee I’ve ever had out of a mug the size of a bowl, exchanging small talk with somebody I’ve never met before, I don’t know.
And yet here I am, and despite myself, I can’t help liking her.
She has this magic about her that just draws you in. Maybe it’s the kindness in her smile. Or perhaps it’s her relentless badgering, sprinkled with a liberal layer of sarcasm, that draws me in.
Either way, as long as we stay in a public place with witnesses, I’m happy to be away from all that festive cheer, which felt like an enforced jail sentence.
She watches me intensely as I take a small sip of my drink, wincing slightly at the flavour.
�
�Do you live far from here?” she asks, raising her much smaller cup to her lips.
I hesitate, biting my lip and questioning the wisdom of sharing too much with a complete stranger, but when I meet her curious gaze, there’s nothing sinister in her expression. She’s just making conversation, and I’m making everything difficult. If Ben were here, he’d be chatting away, telling her both our life stories by now. Or he’d have very quickly extracted hers. So why is this so difficult for me? Why can’t I just do the normal small talk thing and stop overthinking every little thing?
“Not too far—just around the coast,” I finally blurt out, probably too fast for her to even hear. Call it a rush of blood to the head, but I want to trust this woman. I’m so tired of being alone.
She shudders at the mention of the beach. “Not a fan of water,” she says with a haunting look on her face.
“Why not? In the summer, it’s like paradise here. The water is a gorgeous turquoise and the views are something else.”
“Bad experience. I haven’t been able to stomach more than a shower for a long time.”
I duck my head, feeling bad for prying. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, really. You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“There’s nothing much to tell. It happened. I… I guess I survived. I’m just not one for being near the water.”
“Sometimes, the water is the only place I feel at peace,” I admit, surprising myself with my own candour. Not even my mum knows about my nighttime jaunts down to the beach, letting the waves lap around me. Sometimes, I toy with the idea of letting them carry me away, back to Ben, but I never have the courage to let it happen. Perhaps my survival instinct is too strong.
Or perhaps I’m a coward.
Either way, I’m still here.
“I think,” she begins with a smile, “we have to take peace wherever we find it. Don’t let anyone tell you that what soothes your soul is wrong.”
I cringe. “Honestly? You’re the only person who knows. I’m not really one for much in the way of conversation.”
She laughs. “No? Really? You could have fooled me.”
