Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) (3 page)

He adjusts the scarf around his neck. “Yes. Professor of film studies. They want me for the undergraduate film theory curriculum.”

“They want you? You mean, they have you.”

“I haven’t accepted yet.”

I frown. “Why not?”

He looks away and shrugs. “It’s in London.”

“And? You like London.”

“I don’t,” he says quickly. “And you’re here.”

“Brigs,” I say slowly. “I’m fine. Really. I appreciate the sentiment, but for God’s sake, this is something you’ve been waiting for. Working for. Anyway, you’re a train ride away from Edinburgh. Have you told Jessica and Donald?”

He shakes his head and takes a tepid sip of his coffee. “No. I will. I just wanted to tell you first. I think I need some convincing.”

I scratch at my beard. “Well, mate, I don’t know how to convince you. All I know is that this is exactly what you’ve wanted. What you’ve needed.”

And that’s the truth. I don’t need to mention that getting out of Edinburgh will probably do him a world of good. The city has too many memories for him. Every time I feel sorry for myself and my own struggles—my addictions, my abandonment issues—I think about Brigs and how he lost absolutely everything. To see him bounce back from it is astounding. The fact that his future is finally opening up to him after all that is nothing short of a miracle.

“Aye,” he says softly. “I do think I need this.”

“So tell them that you accept.”

He studies me for a moment. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, worry maybe, but I can’t tell if it’s for me or for himself.

“When would you start?” I ask.

“Not until next year. Autumn. But I would move there at the end of the semester, before summer. There’s a lot to do before classes start, and I’m not going into this opportunity unprepared.”

“This is going to be really good for you, you know this. Professor McGregor again.”

Finally a smile breaks across his face, wide and always disarming. “Yes, well I’ll miss Scotland, that’s for sure. But change…I’m ready for it. I dare think it’s ready for me.”

Though we aren’t related by blood, we’re alike in so many ways. Like me, Brigs doesn’t like to dwell on things for too long, especially anything that requires you to dig deep. He brings up rugby, an easy subject for both of us to talk about.

But as he goes on, making fun of some of my plays, because that’s what he does, I can’t help but drift back to what Kayla had said yesterday about Christmas. How hard it’s going to be on her. It won’t be any easier for Brigs. And with all the alcohol around the holidays, the stress, plus having to deal with George, who, if I’m being honest here, can be a racist, judgemental prick at times, it looks like it’s shaping up to be one hell of a Christmas.

Just the thought of it all brings back the demons, slithering up through my veins like old friends. I order another coffee to combat it (caffeine has become my best friend in this battle), say goodbye to Brigs, and then head back to the flat and Kayla.

“How was Brigs?” she asks me as I come in the door and kick off my boots. Lionel jumps up at me, tongue lolling out of his wide mouth, before running back to the couch to cuddle with Jo.

I take off my beanie and jacket, hanging them up. “He’s great, actually.”

I tell her the news about his job in London.

“Oh my god,” she says, clapping her hands together and making a little squeeing sound that I find so bloody adorable. “That’s so exciting! He must be so happy! What’s he like when he’s happy?”

I chuckle and head into the kitchen to put on the kettle. “Well, he’s a bit on the fence about it. I don’t know why, really. He says he’s not a fan of London, which is odd because he used to love going there.”

“Maybe he’s just afraid of the change,” she says, leaning against the doorway, watching me. I glance at her while I fill the kettle. Her brows are knit together, thinking. “You know, in some ways it was really hard for me to come here. Not just in the whole moving countries thing, but…leaving San Francisco was like leaving her.” She swallows hard and I can practically see the grief washing over her. “I felt like the city was my last tie to her. But…it was time. I had to move on. I couldn’t stay there.” She looks up at me, tears in her eyes. “I couldn’t stand another minute without you.”

Jesus. There she goes, my beautiful world, breaking my heart into pieces.

I put the kettle down and stride over to her, scooping her up into my arms. She’s so fragile lately, like the finest crystal.

“Hey,” I whisper into her hair, holding her tight. “I’ve got you.”

She whimpers into me, breathing hard. “I just wish it would end. I feel so torn up inside. All the time. Every minute. I love you so much, Lachlan, I really do. And it makes me so fucking happy. But then I remember what I’ve lost, how much I miss my mother, and I just don’t know how to feel anymore. My heart has schizophrenia.”

“I think that’s normal,” I tell her gently. “And I wish it could just get easier right away, but these things take time. You’re going to feel great and then you’re going to backslide. But no matter what, I don’t want you to feel guilty for your happiness. That’s all your mother ever wanted for you. You need to own that.”

She sighs. “I know. I know.”

“Tell you what,” I say, pulling back and tipping her chin up with my fingers. Even with tears streaming down her face, she’s unbearably beautiful. “Tonight I’m going to take you to the Christmas fair on Princes Street. We’re going to eat a load of rubbish and go on all the rides until we’re sick. Sound good?”

Finally I see that smile. “That sounds both amazing and terrible. I’m down.”

“Good,” I say, brushing my thumbs over her cheeks and clearing away the tears. I kiss her softly on her lips until she relaxes into me.

I know I’ve made her feel safe again, if only for a short while.

***

The Edinburgh Christmas market is one of the most beautiful holiday markets in the world. Kayla and I had been by a few times during the day, but we were usually on our way to and from somewhere. At night it’s a completely different experience.

Picture this: the long straight line of Princes Street completely lit up in white, gold, green, and red. The towering shops with their twinkling and elaborate Christmas displays are on one side, while the Princes Street Gardens on the other are filled with market stalls, glittering rides such as the Christmas tree slide, the double carousel, the Star Flyer, the Big Wheel, and even Santa’s train. People are everywhere, bundled up, laughing—kids are running around, and it all smells of caramel corn, mulled wine, and pine needles. Christmas songs and carollers in all directions bring in the surround sound.

It’s pure Christmas bliss, if you’re into that kind of thing, and I think it’s exactly what Kayla needs to get into the spirit, to put a smile on her face.

“Oh my god,” Kayla says as we turn the corner and the whole sparkling world lights up before us. She’s so wide-eyed, like a little kid, that I can’t help but grin at her, squeezing her tight to me. “This looks so amazing!”

“I thought it might cheer you up,” I tell her. “It’s impossible to be in a bad mood here.”

“Yeah,” she says, looking around her at the crowds wandering to and fro. “Even though people are like my least favorite thing, at least here everyone looks happy.”

I’m not big on crowds or people either—probably one of the many reasons why the two of us work so well together—but here it just adds to the flavor of things. It’s amazing what you’re willing to forgive at this time of year.

Kayla wants to go on the Big Wheel, so we head on down to it.

“I thought you were afraid of heights,” I say, craning my neck back to look at the giant Ferris wheel with the enclosed pods. Shadows of people lean against them, staring at what must be an astounding view.

“I am,” she admits. “But I think this whole embracing your fears thing is rubbing off on me.”

But when we get near the line we hear the wait is at least an hour. So we stroll over to the market stalls instead. We both get cups of steaming hot mulled wine. I get the non-alcoholic version and so does Kayla. I’ve told her a few times that just because I don’t drink anymore doesn’t mean she has to, but she always dismisses it. Her support in just the most subtle of ways undoes me sometimes.

“Hey, help me pick out something for your family,” she says, taking my hand and pulling me toward some of the vendors.

I look over everything, most things geared toward Christmas, tapping my fingers against my lips. “Jessica and Donald are both easy and hard to shop for,” I tell her. “I know that doesn’t bloody help much, but it’s true. They have everything they could want, but what they always love is something personal. Something that made you think of them, that you could see in their house.”

“That helps,” she says, looking at me hopefully. “Want to go in on a present with me?”

I smile at her. “Of course I do. But you’re picking it out.”

She gives me an exaggerated pout before turning her attention back to the rows of goods. “Fine. But if you think they’ll hate it, you have to tell me.”

“Deal.”

It’s funny watching Kayla as she tries to find just the right gift. She goes from stall to stall, asking the vendors questions, examining every item like she’s an appraiser at an auction. Finally she settles on a plastic box of delicate glass Christmas ornaments that look about a hundred years old.

“They’re vintage,” she tells me, reading the tag. “Jessica has such an eye for design, especially antiques. At least that’s what I could tell from their house.” She hands it to me. “Look close at the pattern. There are miniature Edinburgh landmarks inside the glass, done up like frost.”

I peer at it and spot Edinburgh Castle in one, the cathedral in another, blending seamlessly inside the glass balls like a miniature, snow-covered world. It’s very beautiful and I think Jessica would think it’s absolutely brilliant. Donald would just be happy with whatever makes his wife happy.

“Done,” I say, fishing out some notes and handing it over to the vendor who takes it happily.

“Now on to Brigs,” she says, grasping the bag to her chest.

“He’s easy,” I tell her. “Highball glasses for his Scotch. He collects them.”

She raises her eyebrow. “That’s a little too easy. Let me guess, you’ve been giving him that gift for years now.”

I shrug. “We’re both pretty low maintenance in the gift department. And that’s a hint from me to you. Meaning, don’t get me anything.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she says, even though I know she will. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get her a gift. I’ve been stewing over it all week, and I still can’t come up with anything. There’s really nothing on the planet that could possibly express what she means to me.

“Brigs teaches film, right?” she asks as we get ourselves hot roasted chestnuts. “I mean, even though he teaches it, he’s obviously a film buff.”

I nod. “Aye,” I say, before inhaling the smell of the chestnuts. That always solidifies Christmas for me. Even when I was a young lad and didn’t have a proper Christmas, my birth mother always bought some for me every December. It’s one of the few good memories I have from growing up. In some ways, those rarities made it harder in the coming years.

“So,” she says as we walk by a stall where a caricature artist is presently sketching a squirming little girl. “We could get one of this guy’s prints.” She nods at the art lining the wall of the tent, some of random people, others celebrities, from Audrey Hepburn to Kanye West. “Or,” she goes on, “you have a picture of him on your phone, right? We could get a caricature of him drawn as whatever film dude he likes.”

“Film dude?” I repeat, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

She rolls her eyes, slapping my arm. “You know what I mean.”

I sigh, folding my arms across my chest and peering at the range of drawings. It would be utterly ridiculous to get Brigs something like this, but at the same time, I think he’s the type to appreciate it for just how ridiculous it is. Maybe Kayla is right. The same old thing does get boring after a while, and it’s always the thought that counts.

“Well, he’s always been a big Buster Keaton fan,” I tell her. “See if you can make that happen.” I bring out my phone, flipping to a photo of Brigs and me together. We’re both smiling, and he has his blindingly white, straight teeth on show. It’s going to be real easy for the artist to make fun of that.

She snatches the phone out of my hand, peers at it closely, and then waits until the artist is done drawing the little girl before she explains what we want.

The man shrugs, as if he draws Brigs as Buster Keaton every day, and we agree on a price before he starts working.

“You know what I think Brigs needs?” Kayla says to me as the man draws, working a lot quicker than I thought he would. “A dog. You should convince him to adopt one of your shelter dogs.”

I give her a wry smile, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Believe me, I’ve tried. After he lost Miranda and Hamish, I thought a dog could help him overcome the grief. But he hasn’t been interested. Too wrapped up in his own world, which I get. And he loves dogs too—he always talks about Lionel and how one day he’ll adopt. But I don’t push it. I think dogs come to you when you need them just as much as when they need you.”