‘That’s because some of us are maybe more mature than others,’ he mumbles into my hair. ‘Hey, want to see something cool?’
‘Yeah?’
I groan when he breaks the embrace and disappears into his room. He returns with an envelope in his hands.
‘It was meant to be a Christmas gift, but I think now is a good time.’
He hands it over. Clueless as what to expect, I priseit open. Out comes a single glossy sheet of paper. In the photograph, Dad looks back at me, in his usual white tee, leaning against the coffee counter in the shop. Despite the directness of his gaze into the camera, I sense his shyness. It’s a great picture, one that captures his introverted but steady nature. But why would he give it to me?
‘I let Jacob take my portrait,’ he explains. ‘For his series. He developed it and gave me a copy, and said I could show you. The exhibition will go up in the spring. I was thinking of inviting your grandparents.’
I’m a bit of a wreck after that revelation. I almost burst into tears again, but I don’t want to get the portrait wet and I manage to pull myself together. We’ve had a rocky few weeks, Dad and I, but he always shows up for me.
‘I kind of feel like I should throw you a coming-out party,’ I say with sniff.
‘If you do that –’ Dad plants a kiss on my head – ‘I will disown you.’
When I unlock the door to the cafe at 11 a.m., Jacob shuffles in, his face hidden by a scarf. He peels himself out of a coat and reveals a camera bag slung around his torso. Dad’s portrait is done, but today it’s my turn.
‘Let’s get you warmed up,’ I tell a shivering Jacob and lead him to the kitchen. ‘You might want to put your camera away, because this will get messy.’
As he sets it on a high shelf, his knitted jumper rides up and reveals a slice of milk-white skin. I avert my gaze and quickly pull ingredients from the cupboards.
‘What are we making?’ he asks. He should become anaudiobook narrator, with a voice so deep.
‘Since you’ve never experienced the joy of tasting a jammy dodger, we’ll start there and see where we get.’
When I found out that Jacob’s never made Christmas cookies, I saw it as my duty to fix the gaping hole in his life experience. For the next couple of hours, we mix, whisk and knead; we cut stars and circles and fill the cafe with the scent of cinnamon, hot jam and icing sugar. By the time Jacob pulls the first batch from the oven, his cheeks are flushed with warmth. Sunlight filters through the window, making the sweat on Jacob’s temples glisten. Particles of flour hang in the air.
‘Wait, this is perfect,’ Jacob says, and steps out of the kitchen to set up the camera. I stiffen, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.
‘Is this what you always do on Christmas morning?’ he asks, fiddling with the settings.
‘Yeah, it’s a tradition that started with my mum, and she made us keep it even after she left. She’d call, and we’d bake, together but on different continents. Only this year she’s busy hatching kiwi chicks.’ I try to keep the resentment out of my voice. I’m proud of her, I really am, but when I have to give up the few precious moments we get together because her work is more important, I can’t help my feelings. ‘What about you? Do you have any holiday traditions?’ I ask, to distract myself.
Jacob shakes his head. ‘We’re not that kind of family. Dad believes Christmas is a capitalist stunt, Mum’s side of the family is Jewish, but secular. Besides, they’re getting a divorce.’ I don’t know if I should pry, but Jacob is alreadymoving on. ‘My ex’s family always threw a huge Christmas party, but I was never invited. He was scared of their reaction if they found out he was gay.’
I want to ask more about this ex, want to know what it’s like having a boyfriend. But Jacob’s face is hidden behind the camera, and I get the feeling it’s not his favourite subject.
‘Remind me to take you to Fountainbridge next December. It’s this small town only a short drive from here, with a month-long Christmas festival. It’s bonkers but fun.’
‘Bonkers,’ Jacob repeats, and rises to his full height, a grin tugging at his dimples. ‘I’d like that. Anyway, I think we have the picture.’
‘Really?’
‘It took a minute to make you forget about the camera, but we got there.’
‘You’re good at this. Getting people talking.’
He shrugs. ‘Listening is easy. It’s the talking part I struggle with.’
‘Talking is a lot easier when you get to clean off cookie icing.’
He accepts a whisk covered in sugary cinnamon foam and hums approvingly, a sound from deep in his throat. I start washing up plates so I don’t have to watch him lick it.
‘My dad’s divorcing my mum, because he’s convinced that she cheated on him,’ Jacob says after a couple minutes of comfortable silence. ‘So to punish him, she took me and moved us back to her home town. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Ouch,’ I say, and wonder if she did cheat, but knowing that I’m too nosey for my own good, I stay quiet.
