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“Wow, new trainers!” He looked stunned at the sight of the pair of Adidas, which had been pricier than Laurel had expected but worth it, because she’d seen Zac had a hole in the toe of his current pair, yet he insisted on wearing them just about every day. “Thanks, Aunt Laurel.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You go, Archie,” Zac said, and nudged a small box towards him.
Archie looked surprised. “I wasn’t expecting presents for myself…”
“We asked you for Christmas,” Laurel interjected. “Of course we got you presents.” Although she was as touched as Archie looked to be that Zac had bought something for Archie—a book of Scottish poetry, she saw, as Archie opened it.
“You mentioned you liked Robert Burns,” Zac said in a half-mumble, ducking his head.
“So I did, lad. So I did.” Archie flicked through the book, looking moved. “And my mum did, as well,” he said, and gave Zac a smile as well as another clap on the shoulder. “Thank you kindly, Zac.”
“Now you, Aunt Laurel.” Zac reached for a present Laurel didn’t recognise and handed it to her. She read the tag—To Laurel, From Archie, and her heart flip-flopped.
“You shouldn’t have…” she murmured.
“Enough of that, all right?” Zac interjected. “We all got each other presents. End of.”
“All right,” Laurel said with a laugh, and opened the present. It was a copy of Pride and Prejudice—a special, limited edition with illustrative plates and a biography of Jane Austen at the end. “Oh, Archie.” She felt a lump forming in her throat.
“You’ve probably read it, but I thought you might like it, although it doesn’t have Colin Firth,” he said with a smile.
“I don’t want Colin Firth.” Laurel knew how daft she sounded, but she meant it utterly. She didn’t want Colin Firth; she didn’t want the stupid dream she’d always known as a fantasy, nothing more. Even so, how could she not have seen it before? She wanted this man right in front of her, with his crinkly eyes and messy hair and holey jumper. Yes, she wanted him. Just him, exactly as he was. But what if it was too late?
She swallowed hard and looked down at the book, tracing the elegant, raised lettering with her fingers. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “This was very thoughtful.”
“It’s my turn again,” Zac said, breaking the moment if there had even been one, and then he was opening a pair of waterproof plus fours from Archie, which he proclaimed were “ace”, and then Archie was opening the cookbook she’d bought him, and already reading it avidly when Laurel opened a present from Zac.
“Archie helped me pick it out,” he said. “It’s from him, too.”
“Now I’m really curious.” Laurel opened the lumpy, wrapped object, and as she pulled away the paper, she saw what it was—a snow globe of the waterfront in Stromness—the hotel, the harbour, the Christmas tree. When she turned it upside down, glittery snowflakes filled the scene and then settled.
“Oh…”
“To remember Orkney,” Archie supplied quietly, and there was such a sadly wistful note to his voice that Laurel couldn’t speak.
“It’s lovely,” she said after a long moment. “Thank you, Zac. And Archie.” She couldn’t look at Archie, afraid she might start to cry or even seriously sob. Or maybe grab him by his collar a
nd kiss him, because she knew now that was what she really wanted to do, what she’d been wanting to do all along.
I made a mistake, she realised. I made a stupid, childish mistake, and I don’t know how to make it better. Of course, she could just tell Archie so, but the thought of being so vulnerable, laying it all out there for him to walk away from, made everything in her cringe and curl up in fear.
She couldn’t do that. She never did that, Laurel realised with a thrill of shocked comprehension. She surrounded herself with friends, and cats, and cosy crocheted throws, and called it a life because she was afraid—terrified—of the real deal. Loving someone. Letting them in. Letting them see her, with all her quirks and fears and scars.
Because loving someone meant they left—first her mother, then Abby. Even her dad, in a way, retreating after her mother’s death so their relationship had been based on a history of affection rather than the real thing, active and present.
No, she couldn’t do that again. The horror with which she contemplated such a thing made Laurel realise just why she’d loved her dream so much. Because it was just a dream, and as long as dreams stayed dreams, they were safe. They couldn’t leave. They couldn’t hurt her. That was why she’d stepped away from Archie after he’d kissed her; why her boyfriends had never made it past the fourth or fifth date. Why, at thirty-five, she was still alone.
Because loving someone was the scariest thing you could ever do.
“Laurel?” Archie’s voice was gentle. “You all right, lass?”
“Yes.” Laurel cleared her throat and put the snow globe carefully on the mantle. She still didn’t dare looking either of them in the eye. “Yes, I’m fine. Zac’s turn now.”
Zac opened a hoodie Laurel had bought him, with Orkney on the front, and exclaimed over it, and then Archie opened the jumper she’d bought him, exclaiming over it more than Zac had his hoodie, and Laurel blushed and mumbled something about all his jumpers having too many holes.
“But you should have another present,” Zac said. “You got two for me, and for Archie…”
