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I can hear his laughter in my head, thinking back to that day when I was jumping up and down on the spot pleading for his help to unzip my snowsuit, so I could use the bathroom. I had been sledding all morning with my parents and by the time we got down the slopes and back to our cabin I was desperate. He had found it hilarious, my face a panic-stricken picture, but he said I looked cute in my frazzled state, teasing me for what had felt like forever before he kissed me softly on the lips and helped me get out of my suit. When I got back from the bathroom feeling relieved and a lot less moody, he had made us hot chocolate and got the fire going in our room.
What am I doing veering down memory lane? I scold myself as I wipe the sniffles from my nose with my woolly sleeve. That person is gone now. I’m here with Madi and my parents and I want to enjoy every minute of this Christmas to make up for the last one; the one that he left in tatters. I’ve been a mere shell of myself for twelve whole months.
Outside of the car the pine trees whizz by in a blur. The sky is a beautiful clear piercing blue and I am momentarily mesmerized by its calmness. I can’t miss this. I won’t let life simply pass me by or have Scott take up any more of my brain.
I feel Madi grab my hand and squeeze it tight. We always spend Christmas together. Even after Scott and I got married, Madi was always a fixture on Christmas Day along with the mince pies with brandy sauce and the pantomime on the telly. I haven’t had a Christmas without Madi since we were ten. It suited her parents for us to have her; it saved them the hassle of an excitable child harping on about Santa Claus.
Madi’s parents attempted the parent thing but I don’t believe they quite got what they were after. If they could have flicked through a child catalogue, they would have gone for something simple: quiet, elegant, girly, a yes-girl who did whatever they asked and never ever put a foot out of line and never had her neat tied-up-with-a-bow hair out of place. What they got was a bold, adventurous, colourful, cheeky and curious child they had no clue what to do with.
‘It’s so good to be here,’ Madi pipes up. ‘Harper and I have more than enough time on our hands to enjoy all the Christmas festivities, after Harper finishes her script that is,’ she adds, giving me an encouraging glare. ‘We haven’t missed the Santa race, have we?’ Madi asks about my mum’s favourite holiday tradition: the Breckenridge Race of the Santas. You would think my mum has lived in Breckenridge all her life with how much she dotes on the place. She and my dad fit in seemingly as soon as they moved here, and I’ve never seen them happier. The whole town comes together to raise money for a charity each year and it is quite the spectacle to witness thousands of Santas running, jogging and walking down the main street of Breckenridge. Mum was quick to lend a helping hand and runs her own tea and cookie station for the Santas as they pass. She gets a thrill out of it and starts baking cookies in the middle of November to prepare.
‘Oh, honey, I’m afraid you missed it. You’ll have to come a little earlier next year if you want to be a part of it. Let me know and I can register you for the race or you can help me at the station,’ my mum says chirpily, already getting ahead of herself and planning next year. My stomach does a triple backflip at the thought of next year, next Christmas. What will I be doing then?
There is a gentle snow flurry falling outside now and in between the giant pine trees are little cabins that look like gingerbread houses. Honest to goodness, my eyes dart around in search of Hansel and Gretel. The multi-coloured lights that twinkle from the rooftops look like jelly tots. The dustings of snow settled on the window ledges could be icing sugar and the blow-up Santas and gingerbread men look like, well, Santa and gingerbread men, but they could almost be edible, made from cookie dough as they sparkle in the distance. I like where my mum and dad live. I had enjoyed my previous visit and understood why they wanted to move to a town that was home to less than five thousand people and had all the outdoor activities that two hippies would ever need, but this was something else.
I feel like I’m in another world as we pull up to my mum and dad’s log cabin that they call home. I almost don’t recognize it, it is covered in so many Christmas lights. There’s even a giant Santa outside wearing sunglasses and a tie-dyed T-shirt. I’m pretty sure my dad had something to do with that one.
The place could be a backdrop for a holiday movie and my mind is starting to whirl with ideas that make my newly appointed task of editing my own original script seem less daunting – which I need considering my inspiration on the plane lasted all of two pages before I resorted to watching comedy movies with Madi. The mush got too much and the only person my brain thought to derive inspiration from was Scott. Needless to say, he didn’t scream joy to the world or happily ever after. I’m hoping my mum and dad’s place will. Madi jumps out of the car behind me as I am staring open-mouthed at my parents’ Christmas grotto. She hugs me from behind.
‘I can see it now,’ she says. ‘Next Christmas on the Pegasus channel, prepare for a Very Hippie Holiday.’ Madi chuckles. She’s gesturing with her arms as though the words are in front of her. ‘I love it.,’ she adds.
‘Me too,’ I say a little breathlessly. And I really do. I admit that I’ve been terrified to spend Christmas with my parents. Normally, their off-the-beaten-path natures and positive energy is contagious and leaves me feeling beyond blessed to call them my parents, but with everything I have been going through with Scott and work, I hadn’t quite felt up to entering the land of the free spirit and ‘love is all you need’. However, standing here in front of my parents’ house, that love – their love – is suddenly making me feel a whole lot stronger and more myself than I have felt in a long time.
‘Come on, honeybee, let’s get you something warm,’ my mum shouts from the wraparound deck. Suddenly, the nerves I felt about next Christmas and looking into the future at the Christmases after that don’t seem so prominent or scary. In fact, the idea that I have no idea of what the future holds tickles me with excitement over the possibilities. I smile up at Mum and nod at the Santa Claus that’s flashing up a peace sign as I walk towards the house. I need to find some of that peace within myself and trust what the universe is offering me. I think I’ve come to just the right place.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_70d2cf2f-2753-50e5-b66f-94a586a0bb6c)
I can hear the low hum of The Grateful Dead playing through the house as I stretch out my legs in my bed, enjoying the soft caress of the blue velvety blanket between my toes. I feel like I’ve gone back in time to when I was sixteen years old, to when it was the norm to wake up to the voices of Jim Morrison and Bob Dylan. I smile at the memories of relaxing with my dad on a Sunday, listening to his music and learning about the bands he grew up with. I miss the days where arguing with him over which Grateful Dead song was their hidden gem was my only care in the world. Ahh the voice of Jerry Garcia could soothe anyone’s soul.
Except I’m not in my teenage bedroom. I’m in a large room with wooden beams and flower garlands draped around a stunning log fireplace. There are potted tall green plants either side of the double king-size bed and black and white photographs of mountains and trees hung up on the log walls. It’s gorgeous. Through the sheer navy and gold star print curtains I can see that it is snowing and my heart flutters back to my sixteen-year-old self once more. Why Scott had insisted we stay in a hotel when we visited my parents escapes me; this room is a dream.
Maybe I could go back in time for the day, before I became an adult, before I met Scott, to when it was just me, my parents and Madi. The Grateful Dead was already playing. I could search out my dad and finish where we left off fifteen years ago in our Grateful Dead debate and spend the rest of the day frolicking in the snow. I am just about to make good on my plan when Madi bursts into my room carrying a tray of something that smells incredible, and my laptop bag. My stomach simultaneously growls in excitement and drops with dread.
‘Right, this should be enough French toast and coffee to keep you fuelled and strong. You will not leave this bedroom until that manuscript is polished and sent and then the festivities can get underway,’ Madi announces, placing the tray and my laptop bag on my bed.
I slowly start to sit up and tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ears. I feel like the princess from The Princess and the Pea in this giant bed. I want to protest but Madi moves closer. I am now sitting upright, and I see the giant stack of French toast with what can only be my mum’s diary-free whipped cream, fresh berries and agave syrup. I don’t want to say anything that will jeopardize Madi putting it in front of me.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a small smile as Madi sets the tray on the bed in front of me, trying to make sure nothing spills.
‘I know you have a lot going on, but once this script is sent, we can see what Breckenridge has to offer in terms of festive fun and make our own traditions,’ Madi says, moving away from the tray, satisfied that it isn’t going to topple over and spill its contents. I begin to pour myself a cup of coffee from the cafetière when Madi kisses me on the head. ‘Harper Hayes, work your magic and get it done,’ she adds, dropping another kiss on my forehead and turning to leave. Though I’m not technically divorced yet, Madi has recently reverted to calling me by my maiden name and it makes me feel a little more like I’m taking charge and in control.
I take a sip of coffee and smile as the smooth flavour hits my taste buds. Guilt washes over me when I take in Madi’s excitement for being here and her desire to take in as much holiday fun as we can. She didn’t exactly have a Holly Jolly Holiday last year, what with being cooped up with me and trying to mend the pieces of my broken heart. She’d never hold that against me, but I can’t put her through the same thing this year. ‘Thank you, Mads, and thank you for being here,’ I manage. Madi stops walking and turns to face me.
‘I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,’ she says before sauntering out the door in her pink and white polka dot dress that she has layered with a long-sleeved grey top. Talking about going back in time, Madi wouldn’t be out of place in the Fifties. She embodies the word pin-up. She is sexy mixed with elegance and modesty and absolute perfection in my eyes.
We draw quite the eye whenever we venture out of our writing caves and brave the real world, together. Madi in her bright colours, bleach blonde hair, kitten heels and tattoos occasionally on show and me with my Rapunzel locks and a hippie dress sense that I never grew out of. I had flowers in my eyes as a kid and wanted to wear everything my mum wore. The long skirts, wool cardigans and lace everything. I adore lace. Just like when I was a kid, everything is either oversized or cropped and the more lace the better.
I prop up some pillows behind me and polish off two slices of French toast dripping with agave syrup, before I switch on my laptop.
I can do this, I say to myself. I can polish up and edit this script. The characters are in love; I know what it’s like to be in love. I sigh and take another huge bite of French toast, making sure to cover it in whipped cream.
Jerry Garcia croons through my dad’s old stereo. The lyrics from ‘Sugar Magnolia’ reach my eardrums. I smile. That would also be the name of my mum and dad’s shop. They sell organic and natural, homemade, well, everything really, straight from their workshop. Soaps, candles, teas and baked goods; all beautiful and delicious. I can’t wait to test out their new products while I’m here. That was my most favourite job growing up.
I close my eyes, savouring the sweet flavours lingering on my tongue. I push any negative thoughts away and allow the happy memories to take over my brain, trying to envision Jerry Garcia singing the soulful melody to his love. Despite my not quite feeling the love myself, the music does make me feel more in tune with my creative self. I start typing.
It can’t be more than an hour later and I’m lying on the side of the bed, my hair dangling over the edge and I’m swishing it side to side, a part of me hoping that my mum dusted the floor before my arrival. I have been hit with a sudden surge of writer’s block.
My leading man is in a room with his ex. They are just talking when the ex makes her move, planting a kiss on his lips just as his fiancée walks in. I need the leading lady to believe it’s not what it seems, but I’m stuck. Why should she trust her fiancé?
I sit up, the blood rushing to my head not helping matters. Come on, back to work. I try to rally myself. Viewers want to be whisked away in this beautiful fairy tale. Who says fairy tales aren’t true? You must open your heart to love. Love is everywhere, and my job is to fill everyone’s heart with love. I choke on the sweet taste of syrup that is lingering on my tongue. I didn’t fill Scott’s heart with love. Now that is someone else’s job.
I push the laptop away at the unpleasant thought and climb out of the bed, tiptoeing to save my feet from the chilly wooden floorboards. I pick up a few logs from the wicker basket at the side of the fireplace and place them in the grate. With the matches I find on the mantel, I light the fire and sit cross-legged on the deep purple rug in front of it.
I can’t keep doing this to myself. I don’t want to think about Scott and his girlfriend. I want the nightmares of seeing them kiss to go away. But why can’t my brain let go of him? I really need to finish this script. Lara has shown interest in my first original screenplay and has given me one more chance to prove myself as a romance writer; I can’t mess this up.
I take a deep breath in and watch as each log in the fireplace ignites. I get lost in the rising flames and fiddle with the fluff of the purple rug. Affairs aren’t exactly unheard of. It’s just that I never in a million years saw Scott as someone who could do that. I would have done anything to make him happy, to work on the problem, if he would have just let me in on it.
I brush my thumb over the tiny heart tattoo on my left wrist. I had gotten it shortly after Scott and I got back from our honeymoon, seven years ago now. I had been in a state of newlywed bliss and on the spur of the moment, while I was with Madi when she was getting the rose on her shoulder, I decided to get one to symbolize my love for Scott and to remind myself that when things got tough to never forget the love we had for each other. Now he has simply moved on with his life. I know I must do this too, but I can’t seem to find the switch inside me to flick it to ‘stop thinking about Scott’.
I return to my spot on the bed and nibble on a now cold, but still delicious, slice of French toast and pour myself a lukewarm coffee and get back to the task at hand.
*
By 7 p.m., I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my screenplay is not going to be finished today. I make my way into the living room where I am greeted with a glow from the orange and yellow flames that sway in the fireplace, the light glaring from the TV and the multi-coloured lights that flicker from the tree in a corner of the room.
My mum’s tree has always been beautiful, but out here against the rustic décor, the wooden ceiling beams and stone fireplace the lights, the flower ornaments and homemade wooden Santas and sleighs are something else.
Madi is curled up under a turquoise throw on one side of the L-shaped couch and my parents are snuggled up together on the other side. I make myself known and sit down near Madi, so I can pinch some of her blanket.
‘What are we watching?’ I ask, as my mum gets up and walks into the open kitchen that’s part of the spacious living room area. Madi looks over at me.
‘Oh, just a Pegasus Christmas classic that had a bunch of input from an incredible writer I know,’ Madi answers, giving me a wink and pulling her long legs towards her so that I can get more of the blanket.
‘It’s one of yours then?’ I say, genuinely smiling and returning Madi a wink of my own.
‘So, did you get it finished?’ Madi asks, sitting up straighter. My dad looks over.
I stretch my arms above my head, loosening the knots in my neck, as my brain stumbles over the word ‘no.’ With all eyes on me a wave of panic swoops in, catching me off guard. Reluctant to disappoint Madi and wanting to get the festive fun underway, I have no control over the words that spill from my mouth next.
‘Yes, I did, I sent it all off too.’ Inside, I’m cringing. I’ve just lied to Madi, but I can’t bring myself to be the reason she doesn’t get to celebrate Christmas for the second year in a row.
‘Atta girl,’ Madi says, offering me a high five. I grin and clap my hand against hers. Madi’s eyes linger on mine a touch longer than needed and I quickly turn my attention to the TV, not wanting her to see the truth in my eyes.
‘That’s fantastic, sweetheart,’ Mum says, coming up behind us with her own concoction of mulled wine. It’s a blend of herbal teas, no alcohol needed, and I haven’t had it since my parents moved out here. The cinnamon hits my nostrils and I immediately sink back into the soft couch, momentarily allowing my worries to melt away with each warm sip. But with the Pegasus Entertainment adverts buzzing in the background, my moment of bliss is short-lived. Not only do I have to put my past aside to write the best screenplay of my career, I now have to figure out how to do it in three days without my best friend knowing.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_14903b9e-a445-5011-adbb-8d04e9ea9e6d)
The next day I make my way down to the kitchen with the hope that Madi might have decided to treat herself to a lie-in, so that I can grab some coffee and sneak in an hour or two of editing before she wakes. But the minute I enter the kitchen I’m greeted by my one and only, who informs me that my parents are out and that the day is ours for the taking. She’s wearing her signature turquoise headscarf and her blonde hair is pinned up in a bun, with mint Converse and a white tee under a thin strap denim playsuit. She looks perky and bright making me yearn for a dose of what I would really prefer right now: a day with my favourite person. All thoughts of writing dissipate.
In comparison to Madi, I haven’t parted with my oversized olive cardigan since we got off the plane, my hair is a tangled and knotted mess, and the black leggings I’m sporting could do with a wash. I have yet to put any make-up on my face. I stare at Madi’s bold pink lips and envy them a touch. I catch her looking me up and down and I can see her brain ticking. My ensemble represents my frazzled state. I can’t actually remember the last time I felt one hundred per cent myself, but looking at Madi I feel motivated to channel my usual vigour when it comes to choosing outfits every day.
I look up from my comforting mug of liquid gold in time to see Madi curiously give me a once-over, and then she smiles. I smile back, an idea coming to my mind.
‘Mads, will you do my make-up today?’ I ask, feeling a spark of happiness ignite in my stomach. I love it when Madi does my make-up. If she wasn’t so brilliant at writing screenplays and if I didn’t love working with her so much, I’d suggest she become a make-up artist. Madi responds by shooting up off her chair, grabbing her mug of coffee and hooking my elbow.
‘Absolutely, Harp. It would be my pleasure. Then I thought we could go to the Handmade Holiday Market. Everywhere is within walking distance around here and Jerry was telling me whichever way we walk we will find something to do or see,’ she says, marching in the direction of my room, taking me with her.
The spark in my belly is now a full-on flame; warmth takes over my body. The Handmade Holiday Market sounds perfectly idyllic and wonderful. Madi knows me so well. Plus, looking through the glass double doors and the large windows that surround my parents’ house, I can’t hide the patter of excitement that awakens in my stomach when I see the high mounds of snow and forest that they look out on to. I can see why my parents love it here. The trees are magnificent, towering over the house with their thick trunks and spindly branches with deep green thistles and a coating of icing-sugar snow. You could get lost pointing out every intricate detail that made each one so unique despite their shared name. In fact, I am getting lost in them and momentarily forget that Madi is waiting for my response.
‘That sounds lovely, Mads; maybe I can pick up something for Mum and Dad,’ I say. It’s been ages since I got my parents anything truly thoughtful and the guilt hits my gut as I remember yet another gift card that I sent them in the post last year. Living so far away, it became the most practical option. It wasn’t like it was entirely thoughtless. I love gift cards and think they’re the perfect gift for people to treat themselves to something they ordinarily might not allow themselves to. I often used to get so busy at this time of year, what with Scott’s family living long-distance too and him having a brother and sister and nieces and nephews to accommodate, gift cards were the easiest options all round, even though I hate to admit it.
‘Ooh and we can find a cute brunch spot while we’re out too. I wonder if the markets are like back home.’ Madi cocks an eyebrow at me. We love finding local family-run cafés whenever we visit a new place. Even back in London we like to make it a fortnightly affair to visit a place we haven’t eaten at before and go for a coffee or have a change of scenery while we’re writing. And at Christmas, Nutella crepes from London’s Winter Wonderland are a must. The guilt is stacking up this morning as I think of all the things I have neglected and brushed to the wayside over the past year.
‘Brunch out sounds perfect,’ I say as we enter my room. I rummage through my suitcase and pull out knits, leggings and floaty dresses while Madi sees to collecting my make-up. In the bathroom I throw some water on my face and with one look at my hair, decide that I’ll let Madi see to it; she’s been brushing my hair since we were three and always manages to detangle it without causing me too much pain. I go to hang up my dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door when I hear the sound of Elton John’s ‘I’m Still Standing’.
For a moment I don’t know what to do. I haven’t listened to break-up songs, because it feels like I don’t deserve them. My fear over not being stronger since Scott left and the fact that I’ve allowed my situation to get me down, made me feel like a fraud. And forget about the sad ones – knowing I wasn’t the only one in Scott’s life, that I wasn’t enough? Well, those sad songs rendered me crushed and humiliated.
I pause at the bathroom door at the sound of Elton’s voice, mixed with the softer melodies of Madi’s voice, and catch her wielding a hairbrush, twirling around the room singing along. Without warning, laughter bursts out of me as I watch her swinging hips. The beat of the song reverberates off the walls. She spots me and throws me the can of hairspray. The chorus kicks in at the same time as my adrenaline takes over. Memories of dancing with my parents when I was a kid at all the festivals come flooding back, loosening my limbs. Gripping on to my make-believe microphone I join in Madi’s impromptu karaoke and let Elton’s words revive my spirit.
*
My dad was right. We’ve walked a stone’s throw from the house and are currently contemplating which direction to take. One way looks to be nothing but forest, the most glorious trees that made visions of Snow White dance in my brain; the animals that we might come across, the trees that told stories in their bark. To the left stands gingerbread house after gingerbread house. If we go that way, I feel we will be gone for days exploring every minute detail of each garland and decoration that adorned each house. The path straight ahead bears no immediate destination, just a road that gleams with slippery snow and ice. In the distance, through the misty fog, there is a faint outline of mountains.
The cold air hits my face and I wave my arms out to the sides of my puffer coat. I feel like I am the leading lady in one of my holiday rom-coms, the world in front of me for the taking. A choice awaits me. For a moment I feel a shot of adrenaline course through me. There is beauty everywhere I look, and I want to run in all the directions, but I don’t quite feel courageous enough and fear takes over the adrenaline abruptly. I look over to Madi, whose blue eyes are gazing somewhere far away. We tend to share the same dazed look when stories and plots are zipping through our minds. She’s grinning broadly with her hands on her hips. I try to dispel my fear to appreciate this moment with her and take it all in.
‘Which way?’ I shout. My lips are buried behind my woolly purple scarf.
‘I have no idea,’ Madi shouts back, then she takes my hand and laughs. ‘How about we take the path that looks to lead to the unknown? It seems like the more adventurous and dangerous option.’ She wiggles her eyebrows at me, then hooks her arm through mine as we begin to walk up the treacherous path straight ahead.
‘You forgot to add terrifying?’ I say, raising my eyebrows at her, catching the double meaning behind her choice of words: the unknown path and the adventure. I know that, good or bad, what lies before me is going to be an adventure. I grew up with parents who believed the universe had plans for us and that we just had to trust it. I just hadn’t accounted for those plans to include divorce and my heart feeling like it was in a million pieces.
Quite frankly, I am petrified of what is lurking in the unknown. But the less I think about that now, the better. I put one foot in front of the other and focus on the golden sun reflecting off the snow, causing rainbows to dance in the trodden-down snow that has turned to ice. If I don’t quite trust the universe yet, one thing I know is that I trust Madi. I follow her lead and we walk in a calm and comfortable silence for what I feel is coming up to a mile.
I’m taking in as much of the surroundings as I can, but my head is down much of the time as I shield my face from the frosty breeze and do my best not to fall.
When I do look up, I feel as though I have walked through a portal that has transported us to The North Pole. Then I remember how my mother described Main Street at this time of year. It is like London’s Winter Wonderland but the decorations, the atmosphere and the aromatic smells are multiplied by a thousand. The old-town-USA-style shops resemble nothing short of Santa’s grotto. Each one bears unique tinsel, ornaments and magical window displays. The streetlamps are wearing candy cane stripes and the further we walk into the square, the more stalls we see selling everything from homemade fudge and chocolates, to homemade soaps and jewellery. Off to one side they have a Santa station and right before my eyes …
‘Are those real reindeer?’ Madi gasps. Her mouth opens wide.
‘I’m going to say yes,’ I reply, unable to take my eyes off Santa’s pack animals. They are beautiful; their fur is shining as they make soft grunting sounds as the children put their palms out to feed them.
‘This place is amazing,’ Madi gushes as we begin to move again. I can sense Madi is walking towards the smell of whatever is floating up in the air that is making me drool. I can smell fried potatoes and tomatoes and hear sizzling coming from a giant pan. Then cinnamon hits me in a wave of sweet pleasure. I will be happy if the only decision I must make today is savoury or sweet or, more realistically, which to eat first.
The stalls are catching my gaze, but my stomach is following Madi, letting my brain know that food will be sourced and eaten first and then it can divulge in its creative need.
We find a stall that is serving pancakes and I can see Madi’s eyes bulge as she stops before it, her eyes wandering over the menu. I know full well that she wants to order everything. I surprise myself having already made my decision that I want the pancakes with fried peaches. They smell heavenly. I watch Madi and then turn my attention to the man behind the counter. I give him a small smile to apologize for the hold-up, but he seems happy to study Madi and give her all the time she needs. He has a kind face when he nods at me to acknowledge my smile. His hair is blonde, his eyes are hazel, and his features are warm. He returns to preparing food.
Madi’s thorough read of the menu is something I’m used to so patience isn’t a problem as I am enjoying observing the scenes around me. I am fascinated by people-watching and have been from a young age. My parents always had the most interesting people round to our house when I was growing up from doctors, to gardeners, to struggling artists and teachers. I loved watching them interact with one another. My parents welcome everyone. It’s not surprising really that I started writing stories and scripts in my head, imagining the exotic lives that these people led. But it was the love and passion that burned in the eyes of my parents and all those who visited that captivated me most, be it the love they had for each other or the love they had for their work and the world around them. It’s no wonder I became a fan of Pegasus Entertainment.
The man finishes serving a lady in front of us and then leans casually against the wooden wall frame. He catches me watching him and gives me a confident nod. Madi looks over at me and follows my line of vision to the man and chuckles.
‘I am so so sorry,’ she says, waving her hands around. ‘Sorry for holding you up, everything just sounds so good. Right, I know what I’m having,’ she says, standing tall and pushing her shoulders back. Her cheeks are flushed red from our cold walk and her red lips are glistening with the morning dew. She looks beautiful. I step forward and wrap my arms around her shoulders. I love Madi and I love her confidence.
‘No need for apologies, what can I get you …?’ The man sticks out his hand and raises his eyebrows, searching for our names. His cheeks are flushed pink and my heart tugs a little at his kindness.
‘I’m Madi and this is Harper,’ Madi says, reaching out to shake his hand.
‘I’m Colt, it’s nice to meet you both.’
‘It’s nice to meet you too Colt,’ Madi says. His eyes linger on the both of us for a few minutes and I wonder what’s going through his head. Our accents give away that we are tourists, but maybe he knows my parents? My mum and I sometimes get mistaken for sisters. The thought makes me smile.
Madi reaches up to grab my hands that are dangling from around her shoulders.
‘Please can we get pancakes and peaches for me and, Mads, what are you having?’
Madi orders her peach-stuffed waffles and Colt gets to work informing us that we can take a seat and he will bring out his creations once they are ready. Madi and I fall in step to find a table. I release my arms from around her neck but tuck an arm into hers as we walk.
We take a seat at a wooden table with little log benches; a heat lamp is standing tall to the side of us and I must admit that between Madi’s and my impromptu dance party earlier this morning, the Colorado air, Colt’s kindness and the smell of cinnamon peaches toasting, my fragile heart feels full. Currently my biggest concern is if Madi will let me try some of her waffles.
‘Colt is sweet,’ Madi expresses, rubbing her hands together. ‘Everything on the menu looks so good, we might have to come back later,’ she adds, excitement in her tone.
‘This place is magical,’ I say, looking around. I breathe in a lungful of the crisp air just as Colt appears and places two plates of incredible-looking – and smelling – dishes in front of us.
I thank him through a smile and give Madi a wide-eyed grin. It’s hard not to smile genuinely when you’re looking at a plate of bright orange peaches that are covered in sweet cinnamon syrup, alongside a stack of golden-brown pancakes drizzled in dark chocolate and a heavy helping of vanilla whipped cream. I think I love Colt.
The flavours hit my taste buds and I relax into each bite as it warms my body. My shoulders uncurl from around my neck where they were trying to keep the icy bite at bay, and I have to admit it’s monumentality difficult to be unhappy with a mouthful of all the combinations that make up my pancake dish.
There’s a long silence while Madi and I consume half of the contents on our plates, then without saying a word we each pick up our plate and hand it to the other, swapping dishes and digging in once more. We barely stop for breath. Not to be outdone by the pancakes, the waffles are out-of-this-world delicious.
Without warning on my last bite of waffle, my chewing starts to slow, my hands begin to tremble, and my eyes have gone misty.
I feel an overwhelming sense of happiness to be here in this setting with my best friend, but the love is suddenly mixing with a cocktail of unwelcome feelings inside of me. I don’t deserve this happiness. I don’t deserve this delicious food. I don’t deserve for Colt to smile at me – he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know the person I am.
‘Am I a nice person?’ The question comes out of my mouth before I have time to stop it. I can’t quite figure out the inner workings of my brain. One minute it’s happy, the next I feel like my soul is suffocating. When will the intensity of emotions that came with learning of Scott’s affair and him walking away in such an unpleasant fashion leave me alone?
I didn’t have the slightest clue that I wasn’t satisfying him. Images of me wrapping my arms around him when he came home after work, smothering him with kisses and giddily talking about our future together are playing in black and white. How could I have been so selfish? What kind of wife was I?
I swallow down my waffle. My salty tears mix with the sweet syrup on my lips. My whole body has stiffened except for my hands that are trembling.
I must look like a right sight to the shoppers milling about the square.
Madi puts down her knife and fork and leans over to me, grapping my wrists. I’m chewing and sobbing simultaneously.
‘Oh, no, no no, sweetheart,’ Madi says, dabbing at my face with a napkin. ‘Sweetheart, you have been my best friend since we were three. You know I tell you how it is. Harper, you are the nicest person. Do you drive me mad sometimes? Yes. Does your ability to talk for hours on end about a script you’re working on sometimes make me crazy? Hell yes. Do I like pulling hairballs out of my drain every time you stay over? Heck no. Do I enjoy when you get hangry or when you are stubborn and won’t let me choose the movie on a Friday night? Not really. But all those things do not make you a bad person. Scott choosing to lie to you and cheat and disrespect your marriage does not make you a bad person. We all have things to work on, either together in a relationship or on our own. We can always better ourselves and our relationships; no one is perfect, including you, Harp. But that doesn’t mean what he did was anything short of selfish, cowardly and cruel. This is on him, Harper, not you.’
Madi is leaning over the table, propped up on her elbows, looking me straight in the eyes and catching my tears with her tissue.
‘Why does it hurt so bad, Mads?’ I stutter. Madi brushes the hair from my eyes and wipes some more tears away.
