by Lucy Knott
Suddenly there’s a knock on the open door. Two figures are hovering, a mix of amusement and curiosity etched on their faces.
‘We didn’t want to disturb you or anything, just in case, you know, you needed some privacy and whatnot, but if you’re OK, then we’ll leave you…’ Jess trails off, waving his hands and shrugging apologetically like he’s interrupted something. He then tugs Hope by the elbow, trying to guide her back to the stairs, but she’s too stubborn to move, too enthralled with gawping at the scene of Devon still holding my cheek.
When Jess finally gets her to move, I hear her chuckle and mumble, ‘Who knew superheroes liked it rough.’ There’s no doubt that Devon heard this too as he snaps, albeit gently, his hand away from my cheek and starts fumbling to find his spare trousers to create distance between us. I nervously fiddle with my hands, stepping from foot to foot.
‘I’ll, erm, I’ll be downstairs. I’ll let you change,’ I stutter and jog the short distance to the door.
‘Yeah, erm yes. Scar?’ Devon stutters and I pause at the door.
‘Do you always wear clothes like that to work?’ he asks, his tone serious but softer and clear now as he nods at my blue blouse and grey skirt.
I lean against the frame and bang my head against it. ‘Yes, D.’ I groan, wishing he would stop analysing my entire life. ‘Lots of people have “work clothes”,’ I add using air quotes. While that was true, I’m sure Hope would be more than fine if I wore my more favourable denim dungarees or jumpsuits. She allows everyone in the office to wear what they feel good and comfortable in. I guess by now she thinks my outfits are of my choosing for the office. I groan again, not liking Devon’s ability to somehow know me when it feels like I don’t know myself anymore.
‘OK, well I liked what you were wearing at the pub the other night. It was very you, but that looks nice too.’ His tone becomes a tad husky, he coughs to clear his throat at the end.
‘Thanks,’ is all I manage, my own voice feeling a touch restricted at the idea of D noticing my outfit. My mind flits to what I had been wearing underneath my olive dress that night and suddenly I wonder if he would like that too, which makes my cheeks heat. I quickly turn away.
I take my time walking down the stairs so I don’t make a scene and so my cheeks can cool down. I did not need to concern myself with what kind of women’s underwear rose Devon’s hammer. Did I just use the term “Devon’s hammer”? How much wine had I had tonight? OK, stop it, I urgently tell my brain. The more carefree I act, the quicker this whole incident will be forgotten. I will not speak of it and therefore it shall not become a big deal.
When I get to the doorway of the kitchen, both Jess and Hope are leaning against the counter, mumbling to each other in a hushed whisper – I can’t make out what they are saying – the sink is overflowing with bubbles and plates piled high.
‘Everything OK?’ Hope asks merrily when she spots me – a beaming smile on her face, a dish cloth in her hands. Jess is eating another bowl of ice-cream.
I rest my hand against the arc of the doorframe. ‘Of course, yeah, everything’s fine. Do you need help with the dishes?’ I ask, silently praying that Hope and Jess will have the clean-up covered so I can get home to bed and sleep this night off, though I’d usually clean up with Hope having done all the cooking. Footsteps creek on the stairs to the left of me and Devon appears, creating a shadow next to me.
‘Can I help with anything?’ he asks, seemingly reading my mind and going with my plan and choosing to move past the silly bedroom ordeal – my nose is still throbbing. I’m sure I need ice but that will have to wait until I get home.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. No, no, you two go and rest, the dishes are no trouble,’ Hope assures us, waving in the direction of the living room.
‘OK, then, well it’s getting late. I’m going to head off. Thank you so much for the food – it was amazing.’ I jog to the counter kiss Hope on the cheek and give Jess a one-arm hug. ‘Love you both, see you tomorrow.’
I squeeze past Devon, and, in the corridor, I gather my coat and scarf, then look up to address him. ‘See you around, D. Be safe getting back to the inn.’ I throw on my beanie, make quick work of the lock and am out into the welcome, refreshing, crisp air in a flash.
The multi-coloured twinkles from our grand, maybe not as grand as the Rockefeller, tree light my path, as does the glowing moon. I only have to cross the square, turn right at the bakery and I’ll be on my street. As I round the bend, I nearly skid on a pool of ice when I hear my name. There’s no mistaking who the voice belongs to – even now with its older, deeper, baritone, I’d recognise it anywhere, and because only Devon and my dad call me “Scar”. My stomach does that horrible tornado of mixed emotions that seems to be a new thing since Devon arrived. It’s a swirling concoction of joy, confusion and fear. But I can’t exactly run; he knows where I live.
‘Scar,’ he shouts again.
I spin around as he catches up with me. ‘Are you trying to wake up the whole village?’ I ask. Surprisingly a laugh escapes my lips – I must still be a little tipsy, even with the icy air nipping at my cheeks, but really it’s the memories of us sneaking out of our houses after dark to ensure the safety of the village that makes me giggle.
‘If I remember correctly that used to be one of our powers: talk loudly and the baddies will know someone’s watching.’ Devon smirks, once again reading my mind. ‘Can I walk you home?’ he adds, hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes and ankles.
‘Sure,’ I find myself saying, through another chuckle at Devon’s words – yes, he had remembered correctly, and he only came up with that power because he couldn’t ever stop talking, even when it was paramount to our mission to creep around and be silent.
‘I’ve missed this place,’ he notes, as we walk side by side. Coming up to Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery, I glance at Devon whose eyes are fixed on the window. For the second time this evening my stomach flips with guilt. I never once thought about him missing our village and all its comforts. Every time I thought about him I pictured him excited to leave me, thrilled about making new friends and getting away from me. I never did stop to think about how it had all made him feel; his first few letters had been happy ones, telling me all about his new house and new school.
‘When you wrote to me, you always seemed so happy?’ I say, as we pick up the pace again, having slowed for Devon to stare longingly at the cake counter, which at this time is empty.
He shrugs. ‘I was a kid. Mum and Dad had made it all sound so exciting and I guess I thought if I went along with it, if I was happy and enjoyed myself, pretended it was a holiday, did what they asked, that it would all be over quicker, which sounds so backwards now saying it out loud. And, I was happy, Scar. My parents were happy, so I couldn’t burst their bubble,’ he says, his hand finding its way to the back of his neck.
‘You’re good at making people happy, D. I’m glad you are happy too. You deserve all the happiness living your dream,’ I say, looking up so I can meet his gaze.
That’s what Devon did when we were kids: he made people happy. He was always being goofy and trying to make people laugh even if they weren’t always laughing with him but at him. He wanted to see them smile. Whereas he used this huge change to excel and look at the positives, go into theatre and make something of himself, I became an introvert, buried my feelings and stopped believing in myself and my dreams. But that didn’t mean that Devon hadn’t struggled. I truly meant what I said – he deserved to be happy and with or without me I was so glad that he had found his happiness.
Devon’s eyes grow warm, still a little glazed from too many beers. He rocks back on his toes, hands in his pockets.
‘You do that too, you know, Scar,’ he says, bending over slightly so I don’t have to crane my neck too much.
‘Do what?’ I ask, aware that we have stopped walking again.
‘Make people happy,’ he answers causing me to howl with laughter. In the distance I hear t
he faint hoot of an owl and quickly put a hand over my mouth. It’s late – we don’t need the neighbourhood snooping out their windows and speculating on Devon and I being out late together.
‘Why the laughter?’ Devon asks, confusion spreading across his face, his eyes narrowing as he bends down further, getting a little closer, like he’s examining my features.
‘Oh, D, I wish that were the case. My mum is never happy with any decision I make. I’m a complete failure to her. I can’t even pull off this blue blouse. My dad wishes I would draw again – it’s always disappointed him that I stopped. I guess I make Hope and Jess happy sometimes – we laugh, we have a good time together – but I’m boring and have missed out on movie dates, game nights and upset them both over the years making them think they were uncool in their nerdy ways,’ I say, spilling my insecurities out into the night. Thank you, wine, and thank you, Devon.
‘I don’t believe that for a second. Our mums will always be our mums, but I saw the way your dad looked at you – every day for sixteen years in fact – and not once did he not have a smile on his face. Hope and Jess love you and Hope never stops raving about how much you keep her life organised at work and how lost she would be without you. You put everyone around you first; you just need to remember to think of your own happiness too,’ Devon states, sounding like a wise old Yoda, which makes me giggle. This is all getting too deep.
‘I do think of my own happiness,’ I mumble, tripping up over my thoughts as we reach my front door. Did I really or did I think too much about what made everyone else happy?
I yawn as Devon gives me a cheeky, ‘Mmm, hmm.’
‘Night, Devon,’ I say with a roll of my eyes.
‘Goodnight, Scarlett,’ he replies and his whole face looks like it’s radiating happiness. Away from the cameras, away from the world, just standing on my doorstep, he looks like my Devon.
14
Tuesday at the office whizzed by in a blur of Christmas fair planning, gingerbread house competition prepping, emails and sitting down with Hope to discuss the magazine potentially switching to monthly. Today at work was pretty much the same except after an evening of baking, chimney making and decorating in a mad rush to get my project finished for Saturday, I had struggled to keep my eyes open. Now, it’s Wednesday evening and I’m stood behind a Great British Bake Off style workbench under a gorgeous tent behind Mr and Mrs Rolph’s bakery, which is littered with pastel bunting, strung tinsel and twinkling fairy lights with a Christmas tree in the centre decorated with all kinds of beautifully carved kitchen utensils and brightly coloured cake ornaments. Festive music is humming in the background and half the village – couples, kids, singletons, and families – are packed in like cranberries in cranberry jelly.
I’ve managed to scrape my short black hair into some resemblance of a ponytail in order to keep it out of my face as I focus on dicing up slivers of peppermint bark. The smell wafts around me with every crack of the bark, causing a flurry of snowflakes to dance in my belly. I’ve not had one drop of alcohol since Monday night and I’m not going to lie, I love this time of year even more when I glance over to Hope at her table where she is insisting on teaching Devon how to use the stand mixer while I get our cookies underway. Yes, with no alcohol in my system I’m admitting that having Devon home for Christmas is the Christmas present I’ve always wanted. This confession suddenly has the flurry of snowflakes in my stomach forming a blizzard; it’s a dangerous confession I know, when I must remember that he will be leaving again in four days.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen Scarlett this happy.’ My ears prick up to my name, but I don’t look up, afraid of catching Hope’s attention. She is talking in a low voice purposefully, so I won’t hear her, while she has Devon to herself. I keep busy but I can’t help straining my ears, earwigging into the conversation.
‘You and Jess make her happy and I know her parents do, even with all her mum’s weird expectations. She loves her family; she loves this village.’ Devon hits the nail on the head; Hope should know this. I’m very happy with my life – OK, OK, parts of it.
‘It’s a different kind of happy,’ Hope explains. I pretend that my furrowed brow is because of the precision I am using to get my slivers of chocolate. I bend down with my eyes narrowed, looking over my chopped chocolate. Is there a different kind of happy? I don’t think so. As far as I am aware happy was just happy and though, yes, drawing and creating comic books makes me ridiculously happy, so does working with my best friend.
‘Can I ask you something? Has Scarlett had many boyfriends?’ I barely catch Devon’s question. His voice goes so quiet I have to pretend I need another bar of chocolate that rests at the edge of our table, closer to Hope and Jess’s. I really don’t need any more chocolate; suffice to say the Mount Everest of peppermint bark I now have on the chopping board in front of me is enough. Devon has his back to me. I chance a glance when I hear Hope bustle around her oven, bending down to switch it on. He has one hand resting on the work top, one hand picking at some mint leaves Hope is using.
‘If you want to call them that.’ Hope doesn’t hesitate or mince her words. I can feel my face flush. With all these people around and ovens getting ready to bake, it’s certainly heating up in here. ‘Scarlett seems to fall for the wrong guys. They have their fun and then leave her heartbroken. She hasn’t dated in years,’ Hope tells Devon gently.
I’m trying to measure flour, aware that it’s going everywhere as I’m concentrating more on their conversation and looking at them through my peripherals. Devon turns slightly and I can see his cheeks ablaze too. Oh gosh, did Hope really just tell him that?
‘She’s not really someone guys fall for, so she tells me. They want someone more elegant and more womanly and she ain’t that, apparently. She doesn’t believe in fairy-tale love; she says it doesn’t last. But I think she’s wrong and just hasn’t met the right person.’ She scoops up cookie dough onto her sheet. Meanwhile, she’s pinched my partner and I’m yet to form a dough; however, I can’t bring myself to interrupt their conversation. I’m not sure I want Devon to know all this, but at the same time I can’t help wondering why he’s interested.
‘But I see the way she looks at you and Jess,’ Devon argues. ‘She knows love and her parents are childhood sweethearts.’
‘And I see the way she looks at you.’ Hope pauses and leaves that statement lingering in the aromatic air for a few moments before Jess appears, straight from work. ‘Hi, hon,’ Hope starts, before wielding a spatula at Devon. ‘I’m aware that Scarlett’s words are just a front. I’ve just never been able to get through her protective armour. Maybe you could talk to her.’
‘You want me to talk to Scar about love?’ There’s no denying the croak in Devon’s voice.
‘She talks to you,’ Hope pushes.
‘Yeah, about caped crusaders and stakeouts – we don’t talk about love.’ He clears his throat.
Hope shrugs. ‘Then why did you ask about boyfriends, Mr Wood?’ Hope winks at him and I take that as my cue to save my dear ex best friend from further questioning. And even though Devon was partly to blame for engaging in this conversation I can sense he wasn’t prepared for the direction Hope is about to take it.
I march over. ‘Hope, I need my partner back please. D, I’d love it if you could fold in the peppermint slivers,’ I say confidently, as Jess dons his own apron and starts helping Hope.
‘I thought we were making cinnamon cookies?’ Devon queries.
‘Oh, we are. We’re combining all the flavours of Christmas into one cookie.’ I squeal. ‘You’ll love it.’ I emphasise the word “love” causing both Devon and Hope to roll their eyes; Devon turns a considerable shade of pink as he does so while Hope swipes flour across my nose as punishment for listening in to their conversation. It’s better I tell them though; that way Devon knows he most definitely does not have to adhere to Hope’s wishes and try to conceive a conversation about “love” with me.
I receive a wide-ey
ed, awkward smile before Devon walks off to deal with the peppermint bark. I watch him for a second before turning my attention back to Hope, giving her a mock evil glare.
‘It’s rude to eavesdrop on people’s conversations you know,’ she informs me, licking her spoon.
‘You know it breaks all kinds of best friend codes to fraternise with the enemy?’ I counter.
Before Hope can respond Mrs Rolph announces that we have twenty minutes left and best get our cookies baking as she gives Devon and I a pointed glare.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Devon nods politely, which softens her very serious expression. ‘Oh, it’s so good to have you back, Devon dear. You mustn’t be a stranger,’ she says, closing in on our spot and pinching Devon’s cheeks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile. I snicker. Devon gives me the side eye, but I can see his lips twitching with a smirk.
‘Hope, please keep an eye on these two when they use the oven.’ Her tone is back to serious as she addresses Hope.
‘Oh, come on, we weren’t that bad,’ I protest, pushing a loose strand of wayward hair behind my ear with the back of my hand.
‘What is the oven used for?’ Mrs Rolph asks Devon and me. I feel as though I’m back in school, or on an army base. I stand a little straighter and hold my head up. Devon does the same next to me.
‘The oven is for cooking and baking the most mouth-watering eats; it should not be used to melt action figures.’ Devon and I recite in monotone unison. Hope and Jess burst out laughing. I give Hope a hip-check. Her counter is all clean and Jess keeps checking the oven, whereas with all these distractions ours is covered in flour and our four different fillings and flavourings. Once we are dismissed from our lesson for the evening Devon pops our cookies in the oven under Hope’s supervision and I get to clearing away our – OK, mostly my – mess.
