Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 29

29

GABY

‘I think that’s everything,’ says Raff, checking the contents of the cart.

Through a minor miracle, Trader Joe’s is not wall-to-wall people two days before Christmas – must be something about a city-stopping snowstorm – so we’ve zipped through the aisles in less than thirty minutes.

‘Everything in the store ?’ I tease. ‘I’d say that’s accurate. You do realise we have to lug all this home?’

‘Oh, sorry,’ he says, being ultra-English – i.e. needlessly apologetic. ‘Perhaps we should ask your dad to come and get us.’

I smirk at him. ‘I’m kidding . It’s going to be an incredible cake, Raff. Monica and Brian are going to love it. I still can’t believe you’re making fondant from marshmallows. You’ve got mad skills, dude.’

‘Well, yes, but do we have too much to carry?’

‘We’ll cope,’ I deadpan, then I lose it and grin at him.

‘Oh, so you are joking.’

‘ Yes .’

‘Gaby?’

There’s a surreal moment in which the world seems off-kilter and somewhere in the depths of my heart, a hairline fissure painfully cuts through my contentedness. I inhale sharply and the fissure swells – fracturing, gaping, morphing into a chasm. Then I’m sucked backwards, as if I’m being swept into a black hole. Only instead of being consumed by a giant vacuum, I plummet through time, landing eight years ago with a vicious thud.

I turn – seeing the store through a slow-motion lens – and there he is. A thirty-four-year-old version of the only person who has ever broken my heart.

‘Eric,’ I state, my voice flat and raspy.

‘Oh my god, Gaby. It is you.’

His face – older now – wears a mask of a smile and his voice cracks on the second syllable of my name like a teenage boy whose voice is breaking.

Beside me, I sense Raff stretch to his full height, a phenomenon so rare, we’re bound to see a leprechaun any moment now. Raff’s hand finds my waist, and he draws me towards him protectively. I numbly place my hand over his, and our fingers entwine.

‘Wow, you look great,’ says my ex.

Either his definition of great has dramatically shifted or I’m seriously pulling off this North-Face-meets-the-Michelin-Man vibe.

‘Hello. Rafferty Delaney.’

Raff takes a half-step forward, his hand outstretched. As his other hand is cemented to my waist, I’m tugged forward with him.

Visibly shaken, Eric stares at Raff, then his eyes flick towards me. Finally, they land on Raff’s outstretched hand. We all know he has no choice but to shake it, and he does.

‘Uh… Eric,’ he says. ‘I’m?—’

‘Honey, are these the ones?’

Donna appears in the aisle with a toddler in tow, so pregnant she looks like she might give birth any minute now.

Clean up in aisle four , I think .

Eric looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time, then his gaze drops to the packet of pecans she’s holding. ‘Uh… yeah.’

Other than uttering his name, I’ve completely lost the ability to speak.

So, this is Donna. There were months when I spent more time on her social media profiles than on my own, but I’ve never actually met her. She frowns at him, clearly confused at finding her husband in such a state.

‘You remember Gaby?’ he asks, and when her head swivels in my direction, so many emotions cross her face, I would laugh out loud if this weren’t my worst nightmare.

‘Hi,’ she says. Her mouth hangs open and a deep furrow forms between her eyebrows. Her expression says, ‘Fuck. You’re her. You’re the one I stole him from. And you’re here. You’re right fucking here.’

Raff’s hand squeezes mine and his one-armed embrace tightens, bolstering me.

‘Hi,’ I say brightly. ‘And who’s this?’

I wriggle free from Raff’s hold and bob down, peering at their toddler, a sweet-looking boy who has no idea that his father cheated on me, then married his mother a few months later.

He ducks behind his mom’s leg, gazing at me curiously now that he’s ‘safe’.

‘This is Tyler,’ says Eric wanly.

Right, so he gave his kid the name we were going to call our first kid. Fucking fucker. I bet Donna doesn’t even know.

‘Hello, Tyler. Are you excited about Santa coming?’ I ask.

Those are the magic words, and he ventures out from behind his mom’s leg. ‘Santa’s bringing me a little baby brother,’ he tells me proudly.

‘Wow. Lucky you. You get to be a big brother. That is a very important job. ’

He beams at me and sticks his chest out. ‘And… and if I’m a good boy, I might get a puppy.’

‘Puppies are the best,’ I say.

‘Do you have a puppy?’ he asks, his big blue eyes so earnest, my heart may burst.

‘I did once. They’re amazing.’

He grins at me.

‘We should get going,’ says Eric. ‘But nice to see you, Gaby.’

Really? It’s nice to fucking see me, Eric?

Donna says nothing as she guides Tyler back down the aisle the way she came. ‘Bye!’ Tyler calls, turning around and waving.

‘Bye, Tyler,’ I reply, waving back.

As I stand, I meet Eric’s eye and glare at him, breathing noisily through my nose. I can only imagine what I look like right now – my nostrils flaring, my jaw set, shooting not daggers but machetes at him.

So much anger that I didn’t know was still in there.

Eric breaks eye contact and follows his wife.

Time stops for I don’t know how long and when it starts again, I slump against Raff, tears pricking my eyes. But I will not cry over that asshat. Never again. Because him cheating was the biggest favour he could have done for me.

‘Are you all right?’ Raff whispers, his voice low. His arm encircles my waist again and he holds me firmly, propping me up as I face my past.

I take in a deep breath through my nose, then exhale slowly.

‘I’m okay,’ I reply. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

It’s a silent walk back to Mom and Dad’s and Raff holds my hand the entire time, somehow intuitively knowing that’s what I need .

And he’s right.

The strength I’m siphoning from him through two pairs of gloves is the only way I make it those five blocks without dropping into the snow and staring up at the grey sky and having a full-blown, rage-filled, teary tantrum.

Do I want Eric?

Fuck no.

But do I want what Eric has with Donna?

That’s a harder question to answer, because what hits me as we walk through this winter (fucking) wonderland is that while I may have mourned the loss of Eric – of what we had together – I never properly mourned the loss of what I envisioned we would have together – our future.

Why doesn’t anyone tell you that you also need to process the future that will never come?

Or maybe they do, and I wasn’t listening.

I’m listening now.

Tyler – he called his kid Tyler.

My throat closes and tears prick my eyes at the memory of that sweet, little, blue-eyed boy.

I blink back the tears and swallow the lump.

‘Nearly there, Gabs,’ says Raff softly, squeezing my hand.

I suddenly love that Raff calls me ‘Gabs’ and not ‘Gaby’. He’s the only person who does and that means it’s ‘ours’, the nickname.

But not ‘ours’ in the way I want it to be. I bet he’ll start calling Julia ‘Jules’ soon.

When we turn the corner, Mom and Dad’s house comes into view and Dad is out front, shovelling the front walk.

‘Hey, you two,’ he says cheerily. ‘Your mom’s making hot chocolate.’

I smile at him, feeling an overwhelming sense of ‘home’. If I had to be anywhere the day I ran into my ex, at least it’s here where I’m surrounded by loved ones.

Safe .

Busyness has been my salvation through the tumult of this trip and this afternoon is no exception. It’s nearly sunset – though, not even 4.30p.m. – and Raff has me and Issy on sous chef duties. Or is it, sous baker?

So far, there has been a lot of measuring – sorry, precise measuring – and stirring and mixing and following instructions to the letter. This isn’t a batch of Christmas cookies I can half-ass. This is a wedding cake, and we need to whole-ass every step. When I say that to Issy, she cracks up, earning us a stern look from Raff.

‘Sorry,’ I mumble.

But I would rather be here, being bossed about by my best friend than unpacking what happened at Trader Joe’s.

Even if I wanted to talk it through with Mom, she’s otherwise occupied, somehow persuading her friend’s college-aged daughter and her friends into being waitstaff at the reception – now a buffet with a bar, rather than a sit-down dinner. They’re getting paid in wine.

And Dad is back on the phone, confirming pickups with the fleet of volunteer drivers, including locations and guest names. Even though they’ll refuse at first – happy to do the favour for my much-loved Dad – they’re getting paid in beer.

When a wedding guest list drops from one hundred and fifty to forty, there is a lot of extra booze.

In the kitchen, the three of us work methodically, finding our rhythm, and Issy insists on ‘entertaining us’ with mortifying stories from my childhood. As in, entertaining Raff, who’s guffawing at my embarrassing anecdotes.

‘Did she ever tell you about the night she started her period?’

‘Issy, no .’

Raff’s cheeks turn candy pink, and mine have heated up too.

‘What? It’s funny! You wanted to go to the hospital .’

‘Issy!’

‘She thought she was dying and asked me to call 911,’ she tells Raff.

‘Oh, er…’ Raff mutters.

‘He doesn’t want to know,’ I scold.

‘ Fine! But you’d think the daughter of an OB-GYN would have paid more attention in health class.’

‘Issy!’

She shakes her head, still laughing at the memory, and goes back to making fondant snowflakes. If she weren’t so good at it, I’d kick her out for breaching the sister code. She’s lucky I don’t launch into the story of her getting her driver’s license. Or failing her driver’s license – four times . She was the only person in her junior class who couldn’t legally drive. Though, she did drive il legally a handful of times – something I was sworn to secrecy about in exchange for rides to the movies.

My phone rings with an incoming video call. ‘It’s Freya,’ I announce, accepting the call. ‘Hey, Frey! Merry Christmas Eve Eve!’

She giggles. ‘Hello! Wait, are you wearing an apron?’

‘Yep.’ I flip the camera so she can see Raff and Issy. ‘We’re making a wedding cake.’

‘You are not,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Oh,’ she says when I direct the phone camera towards the cooling cake tiers. ‘You are!’

‘Well, I am,’ says Raff, lifting his gaze from a huge bowl of fondant. ‘Gabs has been relegated to clean up.’

‘Phew,’ Freya replies dramatically .

‘Hey!’ I cry, pretending to take offence – though we all know I have the culinary skills of a llama.

Freya giggles again. ‘Hello, Issy!’ she calls out, and Issy waves. They’ve never met in person, but they’ve said hello a few times on calls like this one – mostly when Freya’s been at my place and Issy has called.

‘It’s wonderful that you could be there for Christmas,’ says Freya. ‘What a lovely surprise for your family.’

Issy’s eyes meet mine and I mouth, ‘Sorry.’

She fakes a smile at the phone, uttering, ‘Mm-hmm,’ before going back to her snowflakes. Next time I talk to her alone, I’ll tell Freya Issy’s real reason for showing up unexpectedly.

‘So, why are you making a wedding cake?’ Freya asks.

‘Shall I take this one?’ I ask Raff, and he nods.

I flip the camera back around and quickly fill Freya in on the Snowpocalypse wedding.

‘Wowser – that’s far more exciting that what’s happening here.’

‘What’s happening there?’ I ask.

She brings her phone so close to her mouth, I could give her a dental exam. ‘I’m so bored, Gaby. It’s either sit around with my older relatives who drink gl?gg and play Alfabet all day – it’s like Scrabble, but it’s in Swedish and I am nowhere near fluent enough to join in, so I just end up doing the drinking part…’

I snigger. ‘Or?’

‘Or I go cross country skiing with my cousins – and you know how unfit I am. I went with them on my second day and they practically had to bring me home on a dog sled!’

I’m sure she’s exaggerating, especially since her family lives in the outskirts of Stockholm. I doubt there are random dog sleds roaming the ’burbs, looking for unfit Brits who need assistance.

‘Doesn’t sound super fun,’ I commiserate .

‘Sorry for the whinge,’ she says, finally taking the phone away from her mouth.

‘It’s okay. That’s what second-best friends are for,’ I quip.

Raff looks up, a quizzical look on his face, and I scrunch my nose at him. It’s a slip-up because if he asks about it, I’ll have to make something up.

Freya sighs. ‘Anyway, I should go.’

‘Yeah, it’s late there.’ I check the clock, realising that Freya’s awake in the middle of the night. ‘We miss you, Frey.’

‘We miss you!’ Raff calls out, and suddenly Freya looks like she’s about to cry.

‘Love you both!’ She gives me a wan smile and ends the call.

I’m putting my phone away, ready to do another round of clean-up, when Raff’s phone chimes with an incoming message. He looks over at it and breaks into a smile. ‘Oh, lovely. It’s Julia.’

He wipes his hands on a dish towel, then collects his phone and leaves the kitchen. Issy meets my eyes again, and this time it’s her telegraphing sympathy to me .

Right after 7.30p.m., Dad comes into the kitchen.

‘Looks like you’re making amazing progress,’ he says, looking around.

And we are. All the cake tiers are out of the oven and cooling – two layers each of two different sizes – the frosting is made and most of the decorations are done.

‘Thank you. Nearly there,’ says Raff. ‘Well, for tonight, anyway. It’ll be best if I assemble the cake and ice it in the morning, then add the flowers when we get there. Now, I haven’t got any doweling,’ he adds with shrug, ‘so it’s a bit of a risk it will sink but?—’

‘Doweling, as in wooden doweling?’ Dad interrupts .

‘Yes, it’s used to create stability in tiered cakes. It goes in, then you place a cardboard disc on top, then stack the next layer.’

‘Well, you’re in luck, son. I’ve got some in the garage – a few different thicknesses too…’

They grin at each other. ‘Perfect,’ Raff says.

This charming tableau of the two men I love most in the world, punctuated by Dad calling Raff ‘son’, makes my heart so full, it might burst. Yet, at the same time, it’s a reminder that Raff isn’t mine and he isn’t going to be Dad’s son any time soon.

‘Well, I’ve done all I can,’ says Mom, joining us. ‘Oh, wow,’ she says, clocking everything we’ve accomplished. ‘You guys are machines!’

I shove aside my maudlin thoughts and smile at her. ‘Don’t forget Raff made a much bigger cake in only five hours to win Britain’s Best Baker . By himself .’

‘Even so, I couldn’t have got this far without your help,’ he replies magnanimously. ‘ Or amusing stories from Gaby’s childhood,’ he adds, tossing a conspiratorial glance at Issy.

‘Ah-hah!’ says Issy, pointing one of Mom’s fondant tools at me, a remnant of her cupcake-baking phase. Before today, I had no idea fondant tools were even a thing.

‘So, you guys about ready to call it good?’ Mom asks. ‘I’m starving – how about I do something simple, like grilled cheese?’

I groan with pleasure – nothing is better than my mom’s grilled cheese sandwiches. She could open a café that just sells those, and it would be a huge success.

‘We’ve finished up for tonight,’ says Raff. ‘But I’ll need some clingfilm.’ Mom stares at him blankly.

‘Plastic wrap, Mom,’ I tell her, being fluent in both American and British vernacular.

‘Oh, right.’

Mom gets Raff what he needs, and we pack all the delicate fondant decorations into containers, being particularly careful, the way Raff showed us.

Then Issy and I switch gears and help Mom make an enormous stack of her famous grilled cheese sandwiches, while Dad goes to ‘the cellar’ – AKA the space under the stairs where they store wine on IKEA bookshelves – and returns to the kitchen with two bottles of Oregon Pinot, my favourite varietal from my favourite region.

‘Two, Roland?’ asks Mom from the stove where she’s working a loaded griddle.

‘There are five of us. That’s only two glasses each,’ he replies, and Mom shrugs.

When the wine is poured and Mom flips the last sandwich onto the platter, we pull our stools up to the kitchen counter.

On the whole, it’s been a satisfying and productive day.

If I completely ignore that I ran into my ex today, getting a painful glimpse into a life I once thought would be mine.