How the Light Gets In (Cracks Duet #2)(48)
The way he felt for me, how honest and truthful and kind he was, he deserved to be cherished. He deserved someone who could love him just as much as he loved them. I wanted to be that person so badly, but I questioned my ability to love as openly as he did. To give all of myself, because life and loss had hardened me.
I was still completely immersed in this thought spiral when the door opened and shut. Yvonne was home, a cheerful smile on her face.
“Happy Christmas Eve!” she sing-songed and came over to give me a hug. Her joy was infectious, and I smiled despite myself.
“You’re in a good mood.”
“I’m off work for the next three days and we’re going to stay in a big fancy townhouse. How could I not be full of seasonal cheer?”
I chuckled. “Do you need time to pack?”
“Nope. Already took care of it last night. So, tell me, how did the meeting go this morning?”
My smile grew bigger. “It went great. They loved the scent.”
“I can’t wait to see how it all turns out. I bet Dylan’s planning something extra special.”
“You mean for when it releases?”
“Yes, that ad he put in the newspaper for his last perfume was stunning.”
I chewed on my lip. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I’m just so glad we managed to come up with something together. I’m really starting to feel . . .” I trailed off, my heart squeezing.
“Happy?” Yvonne finished.
I blinked a few times, overcome with emotion, then nodded. “Yes, happy.”
It was such a simple concept, but it was something I’d been striving for, yet hadn’t truly known. There was always something bringing me down, always something to make me feel like happiness was an illusion. Then I moved here and I just…I just found it as if by accident.
“Well, there’s no need to be so upset.”
“These are wedding tears, not funeral tears.”
Yvonne laughed softly. “Glad to hear it.”
*
There was a big festive wreath on Dylan’s front door when we arrived. I wondered who put it there, because he didn’t strike me as the decorating type. I soon discovered that Conor turned into Mr Christmas on December 24th. We knocked on the door and he threw it open, wearing the most ridiculous knitted jumper I’d ever seen.
It showed Darth Vader sipping mulled wine next to a roaring fire.
“Yvonne! Ev! You’re here,” he exclaimed, and I thought old Darth wasn’t the only one sipping wine. I couldn’t smell alcohol though, so maybe he was drunk on festive cheer.
“Hello,” Yvonne greeted and he pulled her into a hug. I noticed he held on a moment longer than typical before letting go and my aunt’s cheeks flushed bright red. Man, I was going to burst if they didn’t figure their shit out soon.
“I’m trying to decide if your jumper is awful or inspired,” I commented, and he grinned wide.
“Well, there’s one in your size wrapped and under the tree, so I hope it’s the latter,” he shot back with a wink.
“You better be joking,” I warned. “Or there’ll be a Christmas morning tantrum courtesy of yours truly.”
They both laughed. Conor led us inside and the house had been transformed. There were garlands twisted along the staircase, fairy lights on the bookshelves and mistletoe hanging over the doorway. There was even a giant tree in one corner of the living room donned with gold and red baubles.
“Did you do all this yourself?” I asked, impressed.
He nodded. “Yep. Christmas is my favourite time of year.”
“You’re such a big kid.”
“Stop trying to bring me down, or I’ll call you Ebenezer for the next two days.”
I folded my arms and smiled. “Fine. But only because your cheerfulness is adorable.”
Conor scowled playfully, just as his parents emerged from the kitchen, alongside his sister. Bethany was a few years younger than Conor, her hair in a long braid down her back. I knew them all from the Villas, and we used to say hi when we ran into each other, so they weren’t complete strangers. We exchanged greetings just as Dylan’s dad, Tommy, and his girlfriend, Bridget, came down the stairs.
I couldn’t believe how well Tommy looked, and Bridget seemed lovely. She had short brown hair and kind eyes, and I guessed her to be in her late fifties. I was admittedly glad I lost that bet on her being a pretty young twenty-something who favoured older gentlemen.
“Evelyn! I can’t believe how long it’s been. And Yvonne, you look great,” Tommy said as he came and gave us both hugs.
I felt a little emotional just to see him, because he was clearly in a much better place now. Life away from the Villas had been good for him, and it wasn’t so much the setting as it was the memories. I couldn’t imagine how hard it must be to move on when you still lived in the same flat you shared with your dead wife. It had certainly been hell for me to live in a building where my best friend’s memory was so engrained.
Maybe that’s why I felt lighter here in New York, where everything was new and there weren’t reminders constantly bringing me down.
“This is my friend, Bridget,” Tommy went on. “She’s a chef.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I replied and shook her hand. “You aren’t by any chance cooking the turkey for tomorrow? I’m dubious about letting Conor and Dylan loose in the kitchen.”