Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 23

23

GABY

After a pretty decent night’s sleep, thanks to several glasses of wine and lingering jetlag, I wake up sober and confused. I look over at Raff, who’s sleeping with his back to me, and watch the rise and fall of his torso.

What am I doing?

There were countless times yesterday – and last night – when we were just Gabs and Raff, riffing off each other, sharing in-jokes, crushing the others at Win, Lose or Draw and celebrating with a high five…

But then he’d sling an arm around my shoulders and tingles would run down my spine, or he’d say something like, ‘Right, Gabs?’ and smile at me so intensely, I felt it to my very core.

And since my conversation with Monica, unwanted thoughts keep surfacing like pop-up ads on a free mobile app.

What if we hadn’t gone to the Forty Under Forty party? Would I ever have realised how I feel about Raff?

Would Raff want me if Julia wasn’t in the picture?

How would he react if I leaned over and kissed him right now?

How would I react if he leaned over and kissed me ?

Lying here in the dim dawn light, I’m at war with myself, posing the ultimate question over and over: should I wake him up and tell him the truth or just suck it up for the rest of the week?

It’s way too tempting to poke him awake and spill, so before I do something stupid and derail the most important friendship in my life, I slip out of bed, quickly shower, and get dressed.

I’m right about to head downstairs when I hear Raff’s voice through the bathroom door. Hating myself for what I’m about to do, I press my ear against it, straining to hear what he’s saying. He could be talking to CiCi and Devin , I tell myself.

But then I hear it – clear as a bell. ‘So, how’s St Moritz?’

My chest tightens and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. I could stay and torture myself or…

I opt for self-preservation, slipping out of the bathroom via Issy’s bedroom where she’s still asleep and Monica is on her phone.

‘All yours,’ I whisper, indicating the bathroom. She smiles, then throws the covers back and I head downstairs.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ says Dad. ‘Coffee?’ he offers.

‘Yes, please.’ I climb onto a stool at the kitchen counter as he pours from the coffee pot. I never drink this stuff in London – it’s either a flat white or nothing – but there’s something nostalgic about drinking Mom’s favourite, hazelnut drip-filter coffee with vanilla creamer, while Dad empties the dishwasher.

‘So, a big baking day ahead, I hear?’

‘Ah, yep,’ I say unenthusiastically. But it’s only because I’m worried about spending the whole day with Raff.

‘Count yourself lucky – your mom and I are on wedding duties.’

‘What wedding duties?’

‘Your mom’s going with Christine and Monica to pick up the dresses…’

‘Dresses? Plural? ’

‘Uh-huh. You haven’t heard about your aunt’s mother-of-the-bride dress?’

‘Nope.’

‘Let’s just say that it’s a little more bridal than it should be.’

‘Yikes. Though, that tracks. And I guess there must be bridesmaids’ dresses too.’

‘I wouldn’t know, sweetheart, but probably. Anyway, while they’re doing that, Brian, Marv, and I are heading out to Woodinville to collect the wine and beer for the reception. Three different cellar doors and two breweries.’

‘Fun! You’d think $100,000 would include delivery fees.’

‘You would think that, yes,’ he says, his lips drawn into a taut line.

‘Good morning, hun,’ says Mom. She gives me a quick hug from behind and without being asked, Dad pours her a coffee and doctors it with a generous pour of creamer. ‘Cin cin,’ she says, raising the mug in his direction. She leans against the counter and looks at me over the rim as she drinks her coffee.

‘Your dad tell you what’s on for today?’ she asks.

‘Yup. Lots of wedding shit.’

‘Gaby,’ she chastises. ‘Actually, never mind, it is “wedding shit”. First dresses, then we’re stopping by the florist to check the flower order.’

‘Aunt Gina’s only coming along to stop me from murdering my mother,’ says Monica as she enters the kitchen.

‘Or the other way around,’ quips Mom. ‘And that poor florist. I hope everything’s up to Chrissy’s standards this time.’

Dad, who has taken on the role of resident barista, pours Monica a coffee.

She thanks him, then turns to me. ‘So, what are you up to today?’ she asks.

‘Morning, all,’ Raff says before I can respond. I turn around and his tall frame fills the doorway. He’s freshly showered – I can smell his spicy cologne from here – and looking handsome in a rust-coloured sweater and jeans – fitted jeans – the new ones. ‘Apologies for the late start. I didn’t mean to oversleep.’

‘No apologies necessary,’ Mom and Dad say in unison, like they’d rehearsed it.

‘You’re on vacation, hun, so sleep as late as you want,’ adds Mom. ‘Besides, jetlag can be killer.’

‘It’s hitting me quite hard, I’ll admit,’ he says. ‘And just watch – the moment I adjust to Seattle time, we’ll be back on a plane to London.’

His words rip through me like shrapnel. I don’t want to imagine the imminent goodbyes with my family. But more so, London is where real life is, where Raff is dating someone and this cosy little bubble I’m starting to settle into doesn’t exist.

There’s also the little white lie he’s just told about oversleeping. Raff has been up nearly as long as I have, only he’s been talking to his frigging girlfriend who’s frigging skiing in frigging Switzerland.

‘Well, we should get going,’ says Dad, his voice dragging me back to the kitchen. ‘I told Marv we’d be there by eight-thirty.’

He, Mom, and Monica burst into action, gulping down the rest of their coffees, and Monica grabs a granola bar from the pantry. Then Raff and I follow them into the entry, where they all put on outerwear, Dad grabs car keys, and Mom and Monica sling their handbags over their shoulders.

‘Bye, sweetheart,’ says Dad. ‘You two have a good day. And when your sister gets up, try and find something for her to do.’

‘Maybe she can help with the baking,’ Mom suggests, giving me another quick hug. ‘We should be home by three.’

Monica’s arms encircle my neck. ‘Wish me luck,’ she says, and I do .

When we close the door behind them, the house descends into silence – which lasts approximately twenty seconds.

‘Morning…’ moans Issy from the top of the stairs.

‘Hey,’ I say brightly. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘I didn’t.’ She clomps down the stairs, skulking past us towards the kitchen. ‘That frigging air mattress!’ she shouts over her shoulder.

I’m sure it played its part, but it’s more likely Issy’s impending divorce that’s the main culprit for her insomnia. And she seemed totally out of it when I snuck past earlier, so hopefully she got some sleep.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper to Raff. He may have signed up for a harried Christmas and the occasional bout of wedding drama, but he didn’t agree to play emotional nursemaid to my sister.

He shakes his head, telling me without words that Issy’s behaviour isn’t a problem. He jerks his head, and we walk in right as Issy holds up an empty coffee pot and bursts into tears.

I look over at Raff – seemingly so confident only moments ago that he was up to the task of looking after Issy – and he seems petrified.

I take charge. ‘Here, let me,’ I say, taking the coffee pot out of her hand. ‘You go sit.’ I point to one of the stools and she glumly stumbles around the counter and sits. I put on a new pot of coffee, spilling a mound of grounds on the counter in the process. Just typical Gaby clumsiness, and neither my best friend nor my sister bats an eye.

Once the coffee’s brewing, I clean up the mess, then go into the pantry where I scout for Pop-Tarts. My sister may be thirty-six, but she’s also a sucker for toaster pastries.

‘Strawberry or blueberry?’ I ask her, holding up two boxes.

She brightens a smidge and replies, ‘Blueberry.’

While they’re toasting, I call Raff into the pantry .

‘Maybe check what ingredients they have and make a list? I can run you down to Metro Market once I get Issy situated.’

‘Sure.’

I go to leave, but he places a hand on my arm, stopping me. He leans in close and I school my reaction. He smells so good, like pine and spices and mulled wine – like Christmas personified. ‘You’re a good sister,’ he whispers, his breath on my ear.

Good frigging grief, I need to get out of here.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, pushing past him.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve fed and caffeinated Issy, and corralled her into the shower. She’s under strict instructions not to call Douchebag and in case she decides to anyway, I’ve ‘hidden’ her phone where she’ll never find it: in the enormous tote bag she carries everywhere. She calls it her portable black hole because she can never find anything in it, and I am counting on it doing its job – at least until we get back from the store and I can keep a close eye on her. If there’s an emergency, she can call 911 on the landline.

I call out, ‘I love you!’ and hear a muffled, ‘Love you too,’ over the stream of water as I close the bathroom door.

Raff’s right – I am a good sister. Though, Issy would do the same for me if our roles were reversed. As I back Mom’s car out of the garage, I’m reminded that she did once – when Eric and I first broke up and he was showing up at mutual friends’ parties with Donna on his arm. At least I think it was Issy who started the rumour that Eric couldn’t get it up.

‘Hey,’ I say, dismissing thoughts of my ‘impotent’ asshole of an ex, ‘before we go to the store, there’s somewhere I want to show you.’

Heading down Queen Anne hill, I turn right onto West Highland Drive. Fortunately, it doesn’t appear too busy when we get to Kerry Park, and I find a spot half a block away and parallel park. It takes me several goes because I don’t drive in London and it’s one of those use-it-or-lose-it skills. But Raff doesn’t seem to notice my shoddy parking or how far the car is from the kerb when we get out – he’s too engrossed in the view.

‘Wowser,’ he says, breathless.

He strides ahead, crossing the park to the railing, then scans the entire skyline from downtown, past the Space Needle, along the waterfront with its converted shipping sheds – now mostly hotels and trendy bars – across to the working port, which is like a giant Meccano set, over to West Seattle, then to Puget Sound where the lush, green Orcas Islands are nestled and the ferries running between them and the city look like toys. It’s a clear-ish day, meaning it isn’t raining but high clouds blanket the sky, hiding Mount Rainier from view.

‘You wouldn’t know it, but there is a huge mountain right there,’ I say, pointing in its direction. ‘Wait, let me show you.’ I take out my phone and search for some pics of the mountain in all its glory to show Raff.

‘Wowser,’ he says again, looking from my phone to the view and back again. ‘It’s completely hidden.’

‘Yup.’ I pocket my phone. ‘So, what do you think of my hometown?’ I ask. ‘And, yes, I am fishing.’

‘It’s incredible, Gabs,’ he says, still staring at the view. ‘And I’d say it’s probably more so at night. From up here, I mean.’

‘Definitely. And look,’ I say, pointing at the top of the Space Needle. ‘This time of year, they make a Christmas tree out of lights.’

‘Can we come back tonight and see it all lit up?’ he asks, his eyes meeting mine.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I reply as casually as I can.

Sure, Raff, let’s come back to the romantic lookout after dark and gaze at the city lights. Why the hell not??? If I don’t bring it up, maybe he’ll forget about it.

‘And where would Frasier’s flat have been? ’

‘Huh?’

‘You know, from the television show. I know it was shot in a studio, but his view of the city was incredible.’

I can’t help it – I crack up laughing, a full-on ha-ha-ha laugh, and poor Raff looks confused. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘But it’s a running joke here in Seattle – that view doesn’t exist. Not unless the building he lived in was right over there.’ I point to the middle of Puget Sound where a ferry is crossing to Bainbridge Island.

‘You mean, in the middle of the water?’ he asks, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘But that’s…’ He chuckles. ‘And all this time I had this picture in my head…’

‘Don’t worry. A lot of people do – apparently, tourists show up all the time wanting to go see the view from Frasier’s apartment.’

He shakes his head at himself.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Metro is only going to get crazier by the second. Might as well get it over and done with.’

Only I forgot who I was going grocery shopping with.

‘I love shopping in a foreign country,’ says Raff, unable to tear his eyes away from the assortment of cake sprinkles. ‘I mean, some of this stuff you’d only find in a specialty shop back in London.’

‘Hashtag America,’ I say, making a feeble joke.

‘Absolutely,’ he replies, missing the joke entirely.

We only have a short list – Mom and Dad have a fully stocked fridge, freezer, and pantry – but we’ve already been here forty-five minutes. Although, that includes the fifteen minutes we spent in the wine section. Despite reminding Raff that my parents have several dozen cases of wine stored under the stairs, he insisted on adding three bottles of French Champagne to our cart.

‘No, Gabs! They’re a gift from me to your family,’ he said when I tried to put them back. ‘A thank you for having me. And it’s Christmastime – that always calls for Champagne.’

There was a sad, kind-of lonely pleading in his eyes and then it hit me – hard . I told him the other night that my parents are his parents, but it’s more than that. This Christmas, we’re his family.

I placed the bottles back into the cart. ‘That’s super sweet, Raff. Everyone will love it.’

He grinned, the tension from his shoulders falling away as he followed my directions and manoeuvred the cart towards the baking section.

Now, as I watch how entranced he is by sprinkles, I chastise myself.

It’s not all about you, Gaby.

I’ve been so caught up in family drama – first Monica’s wedding, now Issy leaving Douchebag – as well as my own stuff, that I haven’t once thought about Raff and what he’s going through.

His parents brushed him off – at Christmas – and the two people he considers his parents are off doing their own thing. And here’s me practically drowning in familial love, yet completely up my own ass.

What a shitty, shitty friend I am.

Sometime later, having checked off his entire list – and filled the cart with a lot of items that weren’t on it – we stand in line to check out. Like he does most places, Raff stands head and shoulders above almost everyone.

He turns to me, grinning. ‘Don’t you just love Christmas, Gabs? I’m already having the best time.’

He turns back around and starts decanting our cart onto the conveyor belt .

And that right there – Raff’s love of life, his enthusiasm for something as simple as the mayhem of grocery shopping days before Christmas – is why I’m falling for him harder than ever.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back to normal when we get home. I don’t want to go back to normal. Because ‘normal’ means Raff and I are simply best friends and he’s dating (frigging) Julia.

As we move up in the line, Raff’s takes his phone out of his pocket and taps on the screen with his thumb, smiling gently to himself as he reads. I attempt to get a peek, but all I can see is that his messaging app is open, not what the message says. His head tilts to one side and he starts chuckling.

As he pockets the phone, he looks over his shoulder at me. ‘Julia – funny incident on the ski slope,’ he says, giving no further explanation.

Of course it was her. I probably willed that message into existence just by thinking about her.

And it’s not like I need further explanation from Raff. He’s super into her and soon we’ll be back in London and so will she.

And then what?