It’s not as if Lucas loved me back.
There’s a whimper at my feet and I look down to see my parents’ Golden Lab, Frodo, staring up at me, his ears back.
‘I know, kiddo. Sucks, doesn’t it?’
I tickle his head and look out across the lawn. It’s pretty out here. It’s nearly lunchtime and the frost hasn’t lifted so everywhere is crisp and white. Almost as festive as snow itself.
I breathe in fresh air and let it seep out in a puff of white. I’ll have to go back in soon. I can’t avoid them for ever.
‘Eva?’
I turn. Mum’s hanging out of the kitchen doorway.
‘Could you give me a hand with the potatoes, love?’
I give a soft sigh and whisper, ‘Time’s up, Frodo.’ Then I call back, ‘Sure!’ and start towards her, Frodo trotting in step beside me.
The festive favourite ‘White Christmas’ leaks through the gap she leaves in the door and my heart squeezes.
You’ve only yourself to blame, giving your heart away a second time.
‘I thought Nate was on potato duty?’ I say as I enter the kitchen and strip off my coat.
She’s pulling the turkey out of the oven. Its scent fills the room, warm and inviting. But still my insides fail to smile.
‘I’ve sent him to talk with your father.’
‘Talk?’ I pull open the larder door and root around for the potatoes. ‘Sounds ominous.’
‘They need their heads knocking together. I’ve simply led the way.’
‘Mum, what have you said?’
‘Only what needed saying.’
‘Which is...?’
‘Never mind that—you just focus on those potatoes and leave their foolishness to me.’
She’s basting the turkey, her manner brooking no argument. Not that I have the energy for one.
‘And smile, please, Eva. It’s Christmas and I have faith that all will be well again soon.’
I lug the heavy sack of spuds on to the side and swing the larder door shut, wishing I had her confidence. But then she isn’t the one with the broken heart.
‘Right, how many do you need?’
Mum goes about giving instructions and I do as she asks, my smile forced and firmly planted. I even start to sing with her. Nothing like a good Christmas tune to get you in the mood.
Not that I am—not at all.
But I’m trying. I really am.
‘I think you’ve peeled more than enough, love.’
‘Huh?’ I look at her and see her frown, full of concern. I look back to the peeled potatoes, far in excess of the twenty she requested. Oh, dear.
‘You always tell me it’s better to have too many than too few,’ I force out jovially. ‘And there’s always bubble and squeak tomorrow, right?’