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“Don’t be sweet with me, Ryan Parker. You were supposed to be here two hours ago, and you’re nowhere to be seen. I swear to fuck, if you’re bailing on me for the second year in a row, I’m going to revoke bestie privileges.”
“First of all, you cannot revoke privileges. You’re stuck with me for life.”
“We’ll see about that—”
“And second,” I continue, ignoring her grumbling, “I’m stuck in traffic. God knows why everyone and their nan decided today was a good day to take a drive down the M1, but I’ve been more or less at a standstill for the last two hours.”
“You only have yourself to blame, you know.”
I hum, wondering where she’s going with this, considering she has no idea I didn’t leave on time this morning. “I’ll bite. How do you figure that?”
“Well, if you hadn’t moved away from home…”
Rolling my eyes, I chuckle softly as she picks up on her crusade of trying to get me to move back home—something she’s been trying to do for the last three years, since I packed up and moved to London.
Bailey and I met at sixteen, in college, and we became inseparable within days. She’s the sister I always wanted, and I’m the second sister she never needed.
We went to university together—studying songwriting and production at the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts—and lived together from ages eighteen to twenty-six. It’s only in the last two years we’ve been apart, thanks to me taking a producing job.
I could have worked from home, making the three-hour commute when needed, but getting away and living somewhere new felt exciting, so I jumped at the chance, much to the chagrin of my best friend.
With how she goes off, you wouldn’t believe we saw each other nearly every other weekend, but I get it. I miss her when I don’t see her for long periods, and I miss home … though that’s not something I’ll admit to for fear of getting a chorus ofI told you so’sfrom everyone I know.
“So, really, if you hadn’t moved away, you’d be sipping this cheap Barefoot with me and making a fool of yourself singing Mariah on karaoke already.”
Unbridled laughter falls from my throat. “When have I ever been near a karaoke machine long enough to make a fool of myself?”
“Christmas Eve 2021 … need I say more?”
“Please don’t.” I shiver at the reminder, though not because I sang a piss-poor rendition of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” That year, karaoke was my least foolish moment; what happened after took the cake. Bailey still doesn’t know about my error in judgement, and if I have it my way, she never will.
“Traffic seems to be moving now,” I say, diverting the topic before we can take a trip down memory lane. “I’m going to love you and leave you.”
“I’ll allow it, I guess.” She chuckles. “Call me when you’re ten minutes away, and I’ll make sure there’s a perfectly chilled glass waiting for you, and some Celebrations … if I can pry them out of Eli’s hands before he scoffs them all.”
“’Kay. Love you, Bails.”
“Love you too. Drive Safe.”
The Highland Hideaway is my favourite place to visit in the whole world. It’s got sprawling mountain scenery, forests of green that fill every inch of the periphery, and the quaintest cottage that—despite housing up to twenty guests—feels like home the moment you step inside.
My veins hum with excitement as I drive through the forest and onto the lengthy drive that leads straight to the cottage. I blow out a calming breath and smile widely as twinkling fairy lights guide my way through the trees.
Bailey waits on the porch, her caramel-blonde hair tied into two braids that frame the strong lines of her flushed cheeks. She wears tartan pyjamas, the green and black stark against her pale skin, and way-too-oversized fluffy Grinch slippers that seem to make her five-foot-six frame taller. She leans against the wooden fence, unaware of my arrival as she taps away feverishly at her phone.
I press down on the horn and laugh as she jolts at the intrusion, her phone slipping from her hand. It would have fallen to the ground if not for the embellished strap wrapped around her fingers. As promised, there’s a glass of rosé in her other hand—one she takes great pleasure in downing the moment she finds my gaze through the window as I pull up in front of the ratty wooden steps.
“You’re such a twat,” she shouts, hopping off the porch and making her way to my car. Resting her hand against my open window, she narrows her eyes, searching my face for something. “You look different.”
“I washed my hair.”
She laughs loudly. “Well, that’ll do it. There is normally a touch of hobo-chic about you.”
She jolts back as I step out of the car, then bump her shoulder with mine before throwing my arm around her and steering us towards the steps. “And you callmea twat. Also, I’m sure I was promised wine, and you just drank it… Let’s hydrate, please and thank you, before I die of thirst.”
“Remind me why you never went into performing arts. You’re certainly dramatic enough for it.”
“My terrible singing voice. Apparently, off-key and squeaky isn’t what the West End looks for when casting female leads. It’s really hard to talk about, actually,” I croak, faking a sob.
