Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 21

21

GABY

‘Gaby!’ I can hear my dad’s voice, but it takes a moment to find him in the crowd of people, all of whom are on tiptoes scouring the emerging passengers for their loved ones.

I finally see him and when our eyes meet, we break into matching grins.

I glance over my shoulder at Raff. ‘This way,’ I call out, and he nods. The poor guy looks exhausted. We landed over an hour ago and I was straight through immigration, but the non-US-citizen line took a lot longer. I was waiting for him in baggage claim with both our bags by the time he cleared immigration.

‘Hi, Dad!’ I say, throwing my arms around his neck. I’m super close to my mom, but I’ve also been a ‘daddy’s girl’ since forever.

‘Hey, sweetheart.’ He squeezes me tightly.

We step back and regard each other, him with a mock-appraising eye. ‘Your mom is going to tell you you’re too thin,’ he says, a longstanding joke between us.

He means he thinks I’m too thin – though compared to his mom, my abuela , his sisters, my female cousins on the Rivera side, and even Issy, I am. Abuela calls me ‘her little stick girl’, something my older cousins used to echo mockingly.

Dad looks past me and grins at Raff, his hand outstretched. ‘Rafferty,’ he says.

‘Roland,’ Raff replies. They shake hands and do the manly back-slap hug.

‘Okay, let’s get out of this chaos,’ says Dad, taking the handle of my suitcase. ‘Come on, I got a great spot next to the elevator.’ This means he drove around for at least twenty minutes until a spot near the elevator opened up.

We follow Dad through the crowded arrivals hall, then outside towards the parking garage. The air seems colder and crisper than I expected – none of Seattle’s trademark ‘mizzle’ – but it’s not likely to stay this way.

We pack our luggage into the back of Dad’s SUV, then Raff and I fight over who gets the front seat. He insists I take it, and I lob back with, ‘You’re a foot taller than me and need more leg room. Besides, it’ll give you the best view of the city.’ He relents and gets in next to Dad.

As we drive onto the freeway, Dad runs us (well, me) through the latest news from the Rivera family – mostly good, although Abuela is being stubborn about taking her medication because it makes her head fuzzy. As she’s typically a quick-witted, super-sharp octogenarian, I can understand why that would frustrate her.

Dad also wants to know all about his baby girl’s new role. It doesn’t matter to him that I haven’t landed it yet.

‘Just a technicality, right Raff?’ he asks.

‘Absolutely,’ replies a transparently jetlagged Raff, stifling a yawn.

‘You’ll get it, sweetheart,’ says Dad, doubling down on his fatherly reassurance.

I hope so .

Raff has done a stellar job as marketing director, creating a team culture of thinking outside the box, but there’s a lot more we could be doing with emerging tech. It will take some convincing to get established luxury brands to agree, but I want to try. I raised it with Claire in our meeting and from what I could tell, she’s also keen. I took that as a good sign, mentally crossing my fingers that my suggestion would be the decider and she’ll appoint me to the role.

Dad asks Raff about working with CiCi and despite being exhausted, Raff perks up and talks animatedly about the plans he has for launching a new division of Baked to Perfection, creating a range of high-end specialty cakes.

There’s a particular swooping curve of the 509 I’m waiting for, and when we get there, I reach forward to tap Raff’s shoulder, interrupting him.

‘Look.’

Seattle comes into view, lit up in the distance like one of those Christmas villages people have in their living rooms over the holidays.

‘Oh, wow,’ he says, and Dad and I exchange satisfied smiles in the rearview mirror. ‘I had no idea it would be so… pretty .’

‘Yeah, it’s a tech hub, the birthplace of Grunge, and has the worst weather in the world?—’

‘Hey now,’ says Dad, stepping in to defend my hometown.

‘But Seattle sure is purdy ,’ I finish with a southern twang.

Conversation stalls while Raff gawps out the window and I see Seattle through fresh eyes – his eyes. It is a beautiful city and it’s good to be back but, oddly, this doesn’t feel like a homecoming. More like a visit.

‘Here we are,’ Dad says as we pull into the driveway of their two-storey Queen Anne home twenty minutes later. ‘Welcome to the madhouse,’ he adds .

‘Dad!’

He chuckles, the deep timbre of his voice resonating through the car.

He helps get the bags out of the trunk, and soon the three of us, plus two suitcases and two carry-ons, are standing in the entry.

‘Gina! They’re here!’

‘You’re here!’ says Mom, bursting through the door from the kitchen. She heads straight for me, grabbing both my hands and holding out my arms so she can get a look at me. ‘Even more beautiful than the last time,’ she says, tears in her eyes.

‘Mo-om,’ I drawl as she envelops me in a hug. Every time I visit, and the few times she’s been to London, she greets me the same way. But with Raff standing right behind me, it’s the first time I’ve been embarrassed.

She releases me, then reaches up to hug Raff. ‘And even more handsome than the last time.’

‘Hi, Gina,’ he replies. His cheeks flush, so at least I’m not alone. ‘And thank you so much for having me.’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble at all,’ she says with a flap of her hand.

‘Raff, want to help me get these upstairs?’ Dad asks, indicating our suitcases.

‘Happy to.’

Just then, my cousin, Monica, appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Gaby!’ she exclaims.

‘Hey!’ I reply, brightly. I hadn’t expected Monica to be here. I glance at Mom, trying to catch her eye, but she and Dad are exchanging an unreadable look.

Monica flies downstairs and flings herself into my arms. ‘I am so glad you’re here,’ she says in my ear.

I give her a squeeze, then let her go and introduce her to Raff, only now noticing that she’s in her pyjamas. My mind leaps to the obvious conclusion .

‘Are you staying here?’ I ask, tempering my tone to sound ultra-happy about it.

‘Just till the wedding. Mom is being impossible and I swear if I had to spend another night under that roof…’ She looks lovingly at Mom. ‘That’s why I asked Aunt Gina if I could crash in Issy’s old room.’

‘Oh, cool! That’s awesome,’ I say, faking a smile. I finally catch Mom’s eye and she grimaces at me guiltily.

‘Plenty of time to catch up on that over dinner,’ says Mom. ‘Raff, Roland, how about you take the bags upstairs to Gaby’s room and, Gaby, you can help me in the kitchen.’

‘I’ll bring these,’ says Monica, grabbing a carry-on with each hand and jogging up the stairs.

I turn to Mom, my eyes narrowed. ‘Sooo… I just flew long-haul. Do you mind if I freshen up first?’ I ask, jerking a thumb towards upstairs.

‘Plenty of time for that too,’ she says way too cheerily. She beckons me with her hand and heads back to the kitchen. I follow, catching a waft of the aroma from the stove as I enter the kitchen. She’s making creamy salmon and dill linguine – my favourite.

‘So, busting out the big guns, I see.’

‘What’s that?’ she asks, playing dumb.

‘You’re buttering me up with my favourite dish.’

She shrugs as if it hadn’t occurred to her.

‘Anything you want to tell me?’ I ask.

‘Monica is staying in Issy’s old room,’ she tells me in a stage whisper.

‘Yeah, I got that part,’ I retort drily. ‘But why ?’

‘You heard her. Chrissy’s being impossible and it’s getting worse every day. Yesterday, the embossed paper napkins arrived. Now, keep in mind these are only for cocktail hour, which is immediately after the ceremony, so Monica and Brian have time to get their photos taken…’

‘ And? ’

‘Oh.’ She shakes her head at herself. ‘The napkins. They were – get this,’ she says pausing for effect, ‘ ecru and not eggshell .’

‘Are those colours?’

‘Yep.’ She widens her eyes and nods as if this one anecdote says everything about my aunt’s behaviour. And it does.

‘Monica didn’t care – they’re basically the same colour – but Chrissy went through the roof! I offered Monica sanctuary to avoid World War Three.’

Mom and Uncle Marv are the only people who still call my aunt ‘Chrissy’, a name she abandoned when I was around five. I have a vivid memory of her shouting at me when I forgot to call her ‘Aunt Christine’. You would have thought I’d called her a bitch. It was a lot for a five-year-old – I avoided her for nearly a year after that.

‘That’s very nice of you, Mom, and Aunt Christine clearly needs to chill. But where’s Raff supposed to sleep?’

‘Your dad’s put an air mattress on your bedroom floor.’

‘An air mat— But I get headaches if I sleep on an air mattress.’

I had to be collected early from 7th Grade camp because my head was pounding well into the next day. I missed out on ziplining, which for a 7th-grader was devastating.

‘I remember. It’s for Raff.’

‘Raff is six-four, Mom. He’s not going to fit on an air mattress.’

‘What do you want me to do, Gabriela?’ she asks, chopping the dill with far more ferocity than required.

Uh-oh, I’ve been here ten minutes and Mom’s already using my full name. If I’m not careful, she’ll ground me and I’ll miss the wedding – or worse, Christmas .

‘Sorry. It’s fine. You’re a good aunt. ’

Her expression softens and she sets the knife down. ‘I just figured… well, you two are best friends and I know you’ve shared rooms in the past.’

She’s referring to the one time Freya, Freddie, Raff, and I went to Spain for a long weekend and they’d overbooked the hotel, so Raff and I had to share a room. But we each had our own bed. And it was nearly a year ago – as in way before Raff was anything more to me than a friend.

But there’s no point in splitting hairs. This is a big house, but my dad’s study is off-limits because he takes calls at all hours of the day and night. And since I moved out to go to college, my parents have slowly let the guest room deteriorate into a catch-all junk room. You can barely move in there, let alone lay down an air mattress.

This means Raff and I are either sharing a room, or I need to find decent-but-not-too-expensive accommodation in Seattle – a week before Christmas. Hah – unlikely!

‘It’ll be okay. Now do you really need my help with dinner, or can I go shower now?’

‘I don’t need help, but it’s nearly ready so if you’re showering, be quick.’

‘You know you could have eaten earlier, Mom.’ My parents usually eat around seven. ‘Raff and I could have fended for ourselves.’

‘No way! You’re only here for seven nights. I’m making the most every second before you leave.’

‘We literally just got here and you’re already talking about us leaving?’

She ignores me, instead grabbing me by the shoulders. ‘Shower.’ She spins me towards the door, then pats my butt like she used to do when I was a kid .

‘Is this your way of telling me I stink?’ I call out over my shoulder.

Her high-pitched laugh follows me upstairs where I find Dad giving Raff the nickel tour.

‘This is the door to the bathroom,’ he says. ‘It’s a Jack-n-Jill you’re sharing with Monica, so take it from a man who has lived with women for the past thirty-eight years, it’s always a good idea to knock.’

‘Noted,’ says Raff with an amused smile.

‘So, that’s about it – and help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. Mi casa es su casa. ’

‘Thanks, Roland.’

‘Oh,’ he says, pausing next to me. ‘And don’t let me catch you trying anything with my daughter.’

‘Dad!’ I exclaim, horrified.

He laughs and Raff joins in, so I do as well – even though inside I just died a little.

Dinner is delicious but by nine, which is 5a.m. London time, I’m totally wiped and so is Raff. There’s staying awake to acclimate to a new time zone and there’s the torture of (essentially) staying up all night in your thirties.

Monica gets up to clear the table, and Mom fends off our feeble offer to help with the dishes.

‘No need,’ she says. ‘You two get some rest and we’ll see you in the morning.’

I send Raff up first to shower and get ready for bed.

‘Do we have anything planned for tomorrow?’ I ask.

‘We’re decorating for Christmas,’ Dad declares excitedly, and it suddenly dawns on me that there’s not a single Christmas decoration in or on the entire house. This is very strange – my parents usually start decorating the day after Thanksgiving.

‘Wait, you guys didn’t hold off because we were coming, did you? Because that’s sweet but you didn’t need to do that.’

They exchange one of their married-forty-years-and-we-can-communicate-telepathically looks.

‘Only partly,’ says Mom. I narrow my eyes at her, and she turns to my dad. ‘You take this one.’

‘We’ve just had a lot going on, sweetheart. Franchising has taken on a life of its own – we’re launching eight stores down the west coast next year, instead of five…’ My dad owns World Emporium, a gorgeous store in downtown Seattle that imports fairtrade goods, mostly from Central America.

‘And your mom’s busier than ever at the hospital…’

‘The pandemic caused a baby boom,’ she says with a smile. ‘And of course, there’s the wedding,’ she adds, lowering her voice. It’s doubtful Monica can hear us – she’s in the kitchen and it sounds like she’s washing pots and pans.

‘Do us a favour,’ says Mom. ‘If you ever get married, don’t have a wedding during the holidays. Everything’s twice as expensive and even more difficult to source.’

‘Well, no wonder Aunt Christine is being such a Momzilla.’

Mom makes a face that it says, ‘That’s not the only reason,’ and we exchange knowing smirks.

‘Anyway, we’ve set aside the whole day tomorrow,’ says Dad.

‘Meaning?’ I ask.

‘Meaning,’ he says, leaning closer, ‘we’re having a Christine-free day.’

I look at Mom, confused.

‘I asked her to let us have some family time,’ she explains. ‘Just for tomorrow, then she can go back to catastrophising and bossing us around. ’

I laugh. ‘There’s no way you said that to her.’

‘Well, no. I’m not a novice at handling my sister,’ she replies with a sly smile.

‘Anyway,’ says Dad, ‘I’ll take Raff down to the tree lot first thing.’

‘Will they still have decent trees this close to Christmas?’ I ask.

Dad shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. If we have to, we’ll save a scraggly tree from the woodchopper – give it a good home.’

‘That’s so cheesy, Dad.’

He chuckles to himself.

‘You and I will be on decorations – inside ones,’ says Mom. ‘No Christmas lights outside after last year.’ She throws Dad a pointed look.

‘Why, what happened last year?’ I ask.

‘Your father nearly fell off the roof.’

‘What?’ I ask, my mouth wide with horror.

‘It was… I caught myself. It was fine. I was fine.’ He rolls his eyes, but Mom’s mouth flattens into an unimpressed line.

‘Anyway,’ she says to me, ‘you and I will get started on decorating. And…’ she says, as if she’s prefacing something controversial. I brace myself – I have no idea what it could be. ‘It might be a good time to go through all your old ornaments.’

‘My old… Wait, are you talking about the ones I made in elementary school?’

She maintains eye contact, nodding slowly while her mouth twitches.

‘So, you’re telling me you no longer want my macaroni masterpieces on the tree? Because isn’t that part of the parent–child contract? I bring home pasta that’s been spray-painted gold, and you give it pride of place on the tree for perpetuity.’

‘I don’t recall signing anything. How ’bout you, Roland?’ she asks Dad.

Dad looks off with a squint, pretending to scour his memory .

‘Yeah, you two are hilarious,’ I say. ‘But if my painstakingly made ornaments are being relegated to the junk pile, I get something in return.’

‘Like what, sweetheart?’ asks Dad.

‘It’s time for a moratorium on the “Gaby wet her pants on the gondola at Whistler” story. You’re never allowed to tell it again.’

‘Ha-ha-ha!’ laughs Mom, her head thrown back. Dad laughs along and so do I, even though I’m ostensibly laughing at my six-year-old self.

Or maybe it’s simply the hysterical laughter of a jetlagged woman who has fallen for her best friend.

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ Raff’s standing in the doorway, a wistful smile on his face. He holds up his phone charger. ‘I’ve stupidly arrived without an adaptor.’

‘I’ve got one.’ Dad leaps up to retrieve one from his stockpile – can’t have daughter number two unable to plug in all the things when she comes home to visit.

‘Raff, while I’ve got you, I was going to ask… If it’s not too much trouble, I mean…’

I suspect I know where she’s going with this. ‘Mom, just ask him.’

‘Does it have anything to do with baking, by chance?’ he asks, his eyes creased at the corners in amusement.

Mom grins at him. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble,’ she adds quickly. ‘I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to do my Christmas baking.’

‘Which is not such a bad thing,’ I say under my breath.

‘Gabriela – that’s not nice.’

‘But true,’ I add, also under my breath.

She tuts at me.

‘I will happily bake some Christmas goodies while I’m here,’ Raff offers magnanimously .

‘Oh, excellent!’ Mom’s acting like there was a chance he’d say no. ‘And I can run to the store and get everything you need – or Gaby can,’ she adds, volunteering me.

Raff starts naming recipes and with each suggestion, her eyes widen even more. I haven’t seen Mom this excited since Dad gave her a vacation to Mexico for Christmas five years ago.

Then again, Raff is Britain’s Best Baker!

We’re both in bed – me in the double canopy bed my parents bought me for my sweet sixteen and Raff on the shitty air mattress they’ve had since the nineties – and I’m staring up at the ceiling, exhausted but wired and annoyingly wide awake.

‘Gabs?’ whispers Raff.

‘Yeah?’

There’s a plasticky fart-like sound as he rolls over, and I scooch closer to the edge of the bed and look down. In the dim light, I can see that he’s on his side, his head propped up with his hand.

‘What’s up?’

‘I adore your family.’

I smile. ‘They adore you too.’

He’s quiet for a beat, then says, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but when I came down for the adaptor, I… I saw how you are with your mum and dad – teasing each other, making jokes…’

I hadn’t known Raff had witnessed all that, but it explains the wistful expression when he interrupted us.

‘I wish I had that sort of relationship with my parents,’ he says, an undercurrent of sadness in his voice.

‘Raff, your parents are—’ I cut myself off. He knows his parents are assholes. He doesn’t need me reminding him. ‘Look, my parents love you and you love them, so my parents are your parents, okay? ’

He chuckles softly. ‘Is that the family equivalent of mi casa es su casa ?’ he asks.

‘Something like that. Just know that this is a place where you’re loved, so it’s your home too, okay?’

He blinks a few times and I wonder if he’s holding back tears.

‘Thanks, Gabs,’ he says, his voice choked with emotion. Now I’m blinking back tears of my own.

‘Sure,’ I say lightly. ‘Now go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.’

He rolls over again, the noise of the air mattress making us both laugh.

‘Dork,’ I say to the darkness, and Raff chuckles softly.