Someone Like You (The Ever After Agency #4)

Chapter 32

32

GABY

I wake early the next morning – well before dawn, lying on my back as my eyes adjust to the dim light. Issy is snoring softly beside me, which happens when she drinks.

What the actual fuck did I do last night?

I try to catch hold of the moments leading up to me kissing Raff in the middle of the dancefloor – and him kissing me back – but they elude me. All that materialises are some static snapshots and blurry movement, like something out of a Christopher Nolan movie.

I kissed Raff.

And Raff kissed me back.

That is, until he came to his senses and sprang apart from me, staring at me wild-eyed, his mouth working but no sound coming out.

At some point in all that, Heidi left in a huff. Well, the room, not the wedding. By that time, there was a huge line for rides home with the snow chain brigade, which was being managed by Dad’s friend, Dave, while he ate three pieces of wedding cake .

Issy snuffles and rolls onto her side, and I return to the here and now. Oh right, it’s Christmas.

Merry fucking Christmas, Gaby.

How the hell am I supposed to face him? Or anyone in my family?

Here I am protesting from the mountain tops – well, from the top of Queen Anne hill – that Raff and I are just friends, and then I go and kiss him in front of everyone. At a wedding! At least I didn’t catch the bouquet. That was Heidi. Frigging Heidi.

‘What?’ asks Issy, rolling over and squinting at me in the dim light.

Shit, I must have said that last part out loud.

‘Nothing, go back to sleep.’

She props herself up, elbow on the mattress, cheek in her hand. ‘I’m awake. Spill.’

With a sigh, I throw one arm over my head, colliding with the bed frame. ‘Ow!’ I whisper. ‘Mother fucker .’

‘Are you okay?’

I shake out my hand. ‘Yeah – it stings though.’

‘Yeah, I didn’t mean your hand, you dork. I mean are you okay? About you and Raff?’

I look over and she’s wearing her big-sister face. I miss that face. I miss Issy. Not right at this moment – because she’s here – but there is something to be said for sisterly love. It’s like bestie love on steroids.

‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ I retort.

‘So, we’re both a mess.’

I snigger. ‘You’re the mess. I’m just a little untidy.’

‘Yeah, yeah…’

‘You can talk to me, you know. All this shit with Raff aside, I’m, like, a real grown-up. I know stuff. ’

‘Like what stuff?’ She gives me a dramatic side-eye, which I’m sure is supposed to make me laugh, but enough joking around.

‘Like Jon is not good for you. He’s only happy when he’s big noting himself or putting you down. And I hate what that does to you, Is. We all do – me, Mom, Dad…’

‘Then why didn’t you say something?’ she asks, her voice small and hoarse.

‘Because you love him. And it would have hurt you.’

She sniffs and wipes under her nose with the back of her fingers. ‘I get it. But I don’t love him any more. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything even resembling love towards that man.’

Referring to Jon as ‘that man’… Even someone like me, without a long romantic history to point to, knows it’s a marital death knell.

‘You know why he didn’t want to come up for Monica’s wedding or have Christmas with Mom and Dad this year?’

I shake my head.

‘One of his clients offered him the use of their condo in the Bahamas over the holidays and for him, that was a no-brainer. Why would we come to dreary old Seattle with my boring family when we could “vacay in paradise”?’

‘Did he really say “vacay”?’

‘What do you think?’

‘And we’re not boring! That Jenga tournament was intense.’

This teases out a weak smile that vanishes almost instantly.

‘You’re right, you know,’ she continues. ‘He does put me down – constantly . I’m boring and I never want to go anywhere. I’m stupid because I don’t understand crypto, even though he doesn’t either – not really. Oh, and I’m fat and unfashionable, which means I don’t fit in with his real estate buddies or their perfect, Californian wiv?—’

Her words give way to sobs and I reach for her, enfolding her in a tight embrace, and rocking her gently as I whisper that it will be okay.

Inside, I’m seething. If I ever see that man again, every ounce of hate I have for him for making my sister feel worthless – my beautiful, funny, kind, smart sister – will manifest in violence.

I can’t say how long we stay like that, but eventually Issy stops crying and gets out of bed. ‘I need to pee,’ she says, disappearing into the bathroom. I hear the toilet flush, then the sink run.

If I know Issy, she’s splashing water on her face, then looking in the mirror and telling herself to get a grip. She always was hard on herself, but when you add a verbally abusive husband into the mix, it must be impossible not to see yourself as ‘less than’.

I sit up, tucking my knees into my chest, waiting for her to come back. Then something occurs to me.

She scuttles across the bedroom floor – it’s chilly out from under the covers – and jumps back into bed, pulling the comforter up around her chin. I wait for her to snuggle in before telling her my idea.

‘Hey, so you know Dad’s friend, Dave?’

‘Dave who drove us to Aunt Christine’s and Uncle Marv’s? Yeah. I mean, a little.’

‘He’s a divorce attorney – one of the most respected in Washington.’

‘The guy in who looks like Dave Grohl, who ran the underground Uber network for the wedding?’

‘Yeah. Don’t get hung up on how he looks… He’s a divorce attorney.’

Finally, she gets it. ‘Oh. Oh . I don’t know that… And I’m not saying I want…’ Her eyes have gone wide – and wild.

‘Issy, you’ve been the big sister all my life. Let me be the big sister now.’

‘What do you mean? ’

‘I mean you left Jon days before Christmas, you’re not taking his calls… You know you’re not going back to him, so isn’t a divorce the next logical step?’

‘No, you’re right. It’s just… divorce – that word.’ She shudders.

‘Yeah. But you’ve got me and you’ve got Mom and Dad. We’re here for you.’

‘Thanks, sis. I’ll think about it.’

Letting Issy ‘think about’ divorcing Douchebag is allowing her the space to recognise that it’s what she already wants – and needs. Besides, there is no way my parents are going to let her go back to Jon without her knowing her options. I’m crossing all my digits that she’ll be divorced by her birthday in October.

We’re quiet for a moment, each in our own thoughts, then she nudges me with her knee.

‘Wanna go see what Santa brought us?’ she asks, taking me back to every Christmas in our childhood when Issy would come into my room and wake me up.

‘Fuck yeah.’

Our Christmas stockings, including the latest addition with ‘RAFF’ embroidered on the collar, are stuffed to the gills, something ‘Santa’ would have done after we got home from the wedding and Issy, Raff, and I went to bed.

‘How long do you think Mom and Dad are going to stay up late and play Santa for us?’ asks Issy, her mouth filled with chocolate.

‘Forever. Or at least until we give them grandchildren,’ I reply as I unwrap a candy cane. ‘Then they’ll do it for our kids.’

‘I thought I heard voices.’

Raff enters, sleep-rumpled and wearing PJs with reindeer on them. I spent several nights in the same bed as him and he wasn’t wearing those.

‘Merry Christmas,’ says Issy. ‘And nice pyjamas.’

He looks down as if he’s surprised by what he’s wearing. ‘Oh my god! Father Christmas must have brought them.’

‘You dork,’ I say.

He meets my eyes with a grin, making my heart flood with warmth. And that’s not the only part of me that heats up, because that crooked smile and those green eyes watching me with an impish expression… they do things to me.

Issy goes to the fireplace and takes down Raff’s stocking. ‘Here,’ she says, holding it out.

He comes further into the room, a look of astonished delight on his face. ‘Oh, I hadn’t expected…’ he says to her. He looks to me and I nod at him encouragingly. ‘Well, how lovely.’

He accepts the stocking with a grin, then brings it over to the sofa, sitting on the opposite end to me.

Right as he’s about to dip his hand inside, he stops. ‘Sorry, should we be waiting for your mum and dad?’ he asks, looking between us.

‘They won’t be up for ages,’ I reply.

‘They always stay up really late,’ Issy adds. ‘It’s their thing – stay up late on Christmas Eve, stuff the stockings, drink brandy…’

‘Now we’re older,’ I say, ‘they do this thing where they reminisce about each Christmas from our childhood, including which big present “Santa” brought us.’

‘Remember the year of the Barbie Dream House?’ asks Issy with a smirk.

‘Ha-ha-ha!’ I turn to Raff. ‘You have never seen two little girls more excited about anything ever in the history of the world. What were we?’ I ask Issy. ‘Five and seven? ’

‘Yeah, that sounds about right. I’m pretty sure our squeals were so high, all the dogs in the neighbourhood went berserk.’

‘We were pretty cute,’ I say to Issy.

‘Wait – so they still do that, stay up late on Christmas Eve?’ Raff asks disbelievingly. ‘Even after last night?’

Issy and I share a look.

‘For sure,’ says Issy. ‘Why do you think Dad rounded us up at quarter to eleven? It was his exit strategy. Even if the wedding had gone ahead exactly as planned, I can guarantee he and Mom planned to be back here by eleven, then send us to bed, so they could have their traditional Christmas Eve, just the two of them.’

‘It’s their Christmas Eve date night,’ I add, feeling a surge of love for my parents.

‘Wowser,’ he mutters to himself. ‘My parents barely speak to each other. Talk about couple goals.’

Couple goals.

Like supporting each other through life changes and awkward situations? Like championing your partner’s successes and being there to pick up the pieces when it all goes to shit? Like sharing in-jokes and having entire conversations simply by exchanging a look?

Like us, Raff?

‘You still haven’t looked in your stocking,’ Issy says, gently admonishing him.

Issy bites the head off another chocolate Santa to punctuate her point, and I shake my head, dislodging my futile thoughts. I go back to my stocking, taking out trinkets and candy, and laughing at a magnet that says, ‘In Seattle, we have two seasons: rainy and August.’

I look over at Raff, who’s now delving into his stocking, each item he takes out making him smile with delight.

I love this man and last night, he kissed me back.

Now what?

Hours later, we’re all in the living room wearing our ugliest Christmas sweaters – although, I’m still not sure Raff knows we’re wearing ours ironically – surrounded by discarded Christmas wrapping. ‘White Christmas’ is (aptly) playing on the stereo and we’re munching on rugelach, mince pies, and Christmas cookies, even though none of us can possibly be hungry after Dad’s traditional Christmas brunch.

Actually, I may never be hungry again after that. Eggs, sausage, bacon, hashbrowns, grilled tomatoes – Dad’s plate drowning in the hot sauce he gets sent in from Texas.

Right before we sat down to eat, Raff cracked a bottle of Champagne and when Mom had a sip, she declared it was too nice to make Mimosas from, so we had our juice on the side.

We’re on the third bottle now and there are only two presents left under the tree – mine for Raff and his for me.

‘I’m going next,’ I say, getting up from the floor. I stamp my feet, which are seconds away from getting pins and needles, then retrieve a large, flat, gift-wrapped box and hand it to Raff. He accepts it with a curious smile, and I go back to my spot on the floor by the coffee table.

As we have with every gift – oohing and ahhing as the wrapping is peeled away – we all watch him remove the paper, then lift the lid on the box. The gift inside is wrapped in tissue paper with a gold sticker holding it in place, and he slides his finger underneath the sticker to release it. When he parts the tissue paper, revealing the gift, he gasps.

‘Oh, Gabs,’ he says in a whisper.

‘What is it?’ asks Issy.

I flick at glance at Mom, who helped me with the gift-wrapping, and she raises her eyebrows, giving me an excited smile .

Raff takes out a crisp, white jacket and holds it up in front of him.

‘It’s monogrammed chef’s whites,’ he says, his voice filled with wonder.

He sets it back in his lap, his long fingers running over the embroidered Baked to Perfection logo, under which is ‘Rafferty Delaney’.

‘The hat’s in there too,’ I say.

‘Oh, really?’ He digs deeper into the box and takes out a toque. ‘Wowser.’ He looks over at me. ‘ Thank you.’

‘Put it on!’ says Issy.

‘All right.’ He stands and slips on the jacket and does up the buttons, then positions the hat on his head. I don’t love a chef’s hat, to be honest, but CiCi said they’re not really worn while working – they’re more for show. He’ll wear the jacket, though, and he’ll need four more – one for each workday – but I wanted to give him his first.

‘How do I look?’ he asks us, stretching his arms out and doing a slow turn.

‘Like a pro,’ says Dad.

‘Like a pastry chef,’ Mom replies.

‘You look hot,’ says Issy, and my head swivels sharply in her direction. She pretends not to notice that I’m glaring at her.

Raff laughs it off. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that, but it certainly makes it feel real,’ he says with a nervous laugh. He turns to me, suddenly earnest. ‘Really, Gabs, thank you. It’s brilliant.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I say, ignoring the tummy flutters that penetrating look induces.

‘Right, and now my gift for you…’ He rushes over to the tree, still in his chef’s whites, and comes back with a smallish box about the size a mobile phone comes in. I look up at him, confused. Did Raff buy me a new phone ?

‘Well, open it,’ he says, still standing there.

Unlike he did, I tear the paper, revealing a white box without any branding. So not a phone then. I eye him curiously and he nods, prompting me to lift the lid. I do.

Inside are tightly packed cards and I use a nail to prise one free. It’s a Global Reach business card and under my name is ‘Marketing Director’.

Now I know how Raff felt a few minutes ago, seeing his name on his chef’s jacket. It does make it feel real. But wait…

‘You must have had these made before I landed the role.’

‘Yes.’

‘But…’

‘I knew you’d get it, Gabs,’ he says, his belief in me emanating from his eyes. ‘All I had to hope for was that Claire would break the news before Christmas.’

‘Wow, that’s… Thank you, Raff.’

‘That is so sweet,’ says Issy. ‘Your gifts to each other – they’re, like, the same.’

Raff and I look at her, then back to each other, and share a grin. Because Issy’s right. These gifts both say, ‘I believe in you.’

‘Hold on… what if didn’t get the job? Or what if Claire hadn’t told me before Christmas? What would you have given me then?’

‘A rather boring cashmere jumper.’

‘Is it here?’ I ask.

‘In Seattle? Yes.’

I raise my brows and blink at him slowly, making him laugh. ‘How about I give it to you on your birthday?’

‘Her birthday’s in June,’ interjects Issy.

‘All right, yes, fair point. I’ll go up and get i—’ Raff’s phone chimes with a text notification. ‘Hang on, this could be Aunt CiCi and Uncle Devin. ’

He slips his phone out of his pocket to check, and I look down at my new business card.

Gabriela Rivera

Marketing Director

Luxury Brands Division

Global Reach

It’s kind of an old-school gift – well, it would be if we worked in Seattle – but people in London still exchange business cards. And even if they didn’t, it’s the gesture that counts – a manifestation of Raff’s belief in me.

‘Um… would you please excuse me?’ says Raff. ‘I should…’

When I glance up at him, he suddenly seems very uncomfortable.

‘Is everything all right?’ Mom asks.

‘Yes,’ he says with a fake smile. He waves his phone. ‘It’s not them but…’

‘Oh, is it your parents?’ I ask, concerned.

I wouldn’t put it past them, doing their ‘parental duty’ of wishing their only child a Merry Christmas, not realising – or caring – the impact the intrusion will have. Raff has gone from elated to deflated in mere seconds.

‘No. Umm… it’s Jules.’ He fake smiles again. ‘I won’t be long,’ he says.

When he leaves the room, unease snakes through my veins, making me shiver.

Not only was he uncomfortable when that message came in, but he called her ‘Jules’. He’s given her a nickname. A Raff nickname.