Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) (10 page)

But Kayla, dear, sweet, fucking amazing Kayla, had a way of easing the tension. She got up and even though everyone was full and lazy from the delicious roast that Jessica prepared, she put on ‘Jingle Bell Rock” and invited Donald to dance with her. That was a smart move. Brigs was too lost and aching to do it and George would have turned her down. And there’s nothing funny about dancing with me. But Donald, my quiet, nerdy adopted father? Dancing with my feisty girlfriend? Yes. Now that’s funny.

They ended up dancing for a few songs and then Jessica pulled me up and the four of us danced away Christmas Eve, feeling like idiots, but happy that the family has remained intact for at least another day.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Kayla

“Merry Christmas, love,” Lachlan murmurs in my ear.

I turn over in bed, practically rolling into him. While I’m completely lazy and maybe a bit sore from all the silly dancing we did last night, and tempted to keep sleeping, the fact that it’s Christmas hits me with a jolt. It’s the one day of the year where I actually can’t sleep in and spring out of bed like a livewire. Same goes for anytime I visit Disneyland.

This Christmas is no exception. I kiss Lachlan quickly and then get out of bed, sliding on my merry pajama pants and a fuzzy red sweater. Another great thing about Christmas: permission to stay in your pajamas until dinner.

At least, in most homes it’s like that. I look over at Lachlan as he pulls on his pair of thin black pajama pants and try not to drool over his bare torso.

“We don’t have to dress up for Christmas morning, do we?” I ask.

“Don’t be silly,” he says, slipping on a white t-shirt. “We better go check on Brigs and the puppy, though.”

Out in the hall, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and sounds of laughter waft up from downstairs, along with the smell of bacon and eggs. My stomach grumbles, despite the load of roast and Yorkshire pudding I had last night. You’d think I’d be too excited to eat, but I’m feeling ravenous about everything.

Lachlan knocks on Brigs’ door.

“Just a minute,” we hear him say.

“It’s me,” Lachlan says.

“Oh. Come in.”

He opens the door and we step inside to see Brigs lying on his stomach on the bed, his long frame half hanging off. The puppy is in front of him, rolling on his back and chewing on one of Brigs’ fingers.

Brigs looks up at us sheepishly. “He’s a monster this little one. Cried all night until finally I had to bring him up into the bed with me. Course I couldn’t sleep one bloody wink for fear of crushing the little bastard in the night.”

“Well you look like you’re suffering,” Lachlan remarks, folding his arms across his chest. He peers over the side of the bed. “Though things are going to get right stinky in here if you don’t clean that up.”

Brigs eyes him pleadingly. “I thought maybe you could help. They’ll be suspicious why I’m going outside.”

Lachlan shakes his head. “No way. Your dog. Your shit. Those are the rules.”

Brigs sighs and lays down his head, inviting the puppy to come pounce on it, paws first. It’s too cute for words but I can tell Lachlan wants out of there before Brigs convinces him otherwise.

Downstairs we find everyone gathered around the kitchen table. Contrary to what Lachlan said, they’re all dressed up. Okay, they’re still in pajamas, but Donald looks like he’s channeling Hugh Hefner and Jessica might as well be some old Hollywood star with her plush robe. George even looks dashing too, donning a striped, perfectly pressed set.

“You’re up, good,” Jessica says, gesturing to our place settings and pouring us juice. “Sit down. Where’s Brigs?”

“He’ll be down in a minute,” Lachlan says. “Says he thought he lost a glove outside in the snow.” Ah, such a good brother and so quick with the lies. And a few minutes later when we do see Brigs momentarily go outside with a plastic bag to go dispose of the newspapers somewhere in a snow bank (George is going to have a nice surprise when the snow melts – Merry Christmas old grump, here’s some shit), the cover-up is solid.

“So Kayla,” Donald says to me as Jessica dishes out the tattie scones, these wonderful triangles of potatoey goodness. “Are you ready to try haggis tonight?”

“I’ll try anything once,” I say just as Brigs sits down beside me.

“I’m sure you do,” he says with a smirk and I kick him with my foot under the table. I have to admit, it’s kind of nice to have this comradery with Brigs now, makes me feel more like I’ve been accepted into this family, especially on a day like today.

“Donald is in charge of the haggis,” George says, taking a sip of his tea with shaky hands. “Best haggis in town.”

“Ah,” Donald says, looking bashful. He clears his throat. “Well, thank you, dad.”

“Of course this town is full of sheep farmers and inbreds, so that’s not saying much, now is it?”

Donald laughs and I jump to his defense. “I’m sure it will be great,” I say.

“You say that now,” Lachlan says. “You do know what it is and how it’s made, aye? Puts black pudding to shame.”

“Yes, I know what it’s made of and I don’t need a reminder.”

“Well just so you know, I’ve made a vegetarian option as well,” Jessica speaks up, sitting down and spreading her napkin on her lap. “It’s very similar to the stuffing you Americans put in turkey on Thanksgiving.”

“Sounds delicious, both of them.” Wow. I should totally win points for diplomacy. I don’t think I’ve ever been so agreeable at this time of the morning before.

When we’re done with breakfast, we move out to the drawing room, taking our usual places.

“Kayla,” Jessica says, holding out a Santa hat, “you’re the youngest here, so we are passing on the McGregor family tradition for you to hand out all the presents.”

“Ha,” Lachlan laughs. “Sucker.”

I glare at him but politely take the hat and put it on. It would be so much easier to just sit back and open presents but now I have a job to do. The funny thing is, my own family had this same tradition and growing up I was also the one who handed out the gifts.

I end up telling them all this as I search for presents under the massive tree. “We even celebrated Christmas until January 6
th
, which was great for getting rid of those post-Christmas blues.”

“Why was that?” Donald asks.

I peer at a present that happens to be for him. “My father was Icelandic and that’s just the tradition over there. Naturally me and my brothers wanted the extended Christmas festivities, even if we had more of the Japanese culture in our house.”

I hand him the present. “For you.” Then I move about to the next ones, purposely leaving my presents till the very end, as well as the ones I bought for people.

Everyone tears into everything. Well, Brigs and Lachlan do, while Jessica and Donald open theirs neatly. My mother used to do that too, saving the wrapping paper in a big pile. Every single year. And then when Christmas rolled around again, she’d forget and go out and buy more wrapping paper. When my brothers and I started going through all the stuff in the house a few months ago after her death, I found boxes and boxes of the used and so gently folded wrapping paper in the closet.

The thought of that causes my heart to contract painfully and I have to take in a sharp breath. But as I watch the McGregors holding up socks and dishware and candles and even underwear and thanking each other with big smiles on their faces, I have to remember that even though the memories of my family, my past, will hurt for a long time, I can still smile through the pain. I shouldn’t be afraid to remember the good times, or the bad. I shouldn’t be afraid to hurt because the pain only means that whatever I had with my parents was so very beautiful. I’m gutted, scooped out by the loss of my mother and yet somehow filled that she was such a wonderful driving force in my life. She made me who I am. She’s the reason I’m here to begin with.

And now, now this is a family I may one day call my own. Even for just today, even though the grandfather is a crotchety old fart with no filter, I do feel accepted. I at least feel loved – beyond loved – by the man with the tattoos, the troubled man with the giant, endless heart. And that feeling is enough to carry me on through the day and onto all the next ones.

“Kayla, you haven’t opened any of yours,” Jessica says. She points at a large one wrapped in shiny silver paper. “Here, open that. That’s from me, George, and Donald.”

I sit down at the base of the tree and start unwrapping, putting on my game face in the event that it’s something horrible and I still have to pretend to like it.

But it’s not horrible at all. It’s a bit generic, the kind of gift you probably would give the girlfriend of your son that you don’t quite know all that well yet, but nice nonetheless. A fancy bath set with Scottish oatmeal soaps, loofahs, that sort of thing, along with a silk red robe and fluffy slippers.

I tell them all that I love it but then Jessica says there is something at the bottom. I look through the tissue and my fingers clench over something hard and worn. I pull it out to find a leatherbound notebook in my hands.

I look at her expectantly and she just smiles. “It’s for your thoughts and your dreams. The journal has been in my family forever, never used, just always present. I fancied one day that someone would take a pen to it and write the next great novel, create a whole new world on the pages. I hope that someone can be you.”

Honestly, my black soul swells like a sweet red balloon. A tear spills down my cheek as I look over at Lachlan who nods, smiling softly, as if telling me it’s true, it’s real, it’s okay. I get up and go over and hug her, thanking her profusely for such a thoughtful gift. The bath stuff is great, but this came from the heart and I’m suddenly worried that my present won’t measure up in the way I wanted it to.

And Lachlan gets up, picking up our joint gift and giving it to them. He then hands a present to George – one that I said I would go with Lachlan on, and then the framed picture to Brigs.

They open them in order. Jessica and Donald fawn over the Christmas ornaments while George gives an appreciative grunt to the set of Cuban cigars we picked up for him. But Brigs’ reaction is the best. The minute he tears open the paper, his eyes widen and he bursts into loud, unabashed laughter.

“Where the hell did you get this?” Brigs asks between laughs, passing the picture around to Jessica and Donald.

“It was Kayla’s idea,” Lachlan says, nudging me.

I shrug. “I thought you could hang it up in your bathroom or something.”

He grins at me, taking the picture back from his parents and staring it over, him in Buster Keaton form. “I would be honored to have a Buster Keaton version of myself staring at me while I take a shit.”

“Brigs!” Jessica chastises him, but she’s still laughing.

“All right, my turn, then Lachlan,” Brigs says. “Of course Lachlan will naturally outdo me, the wanker.” He gestures to a thin, square box under the tree.

I open it to find a rugby calendar from years ago with a half-naked man on the cover. Actually, the half-naked man is Thierry. I nearly jump out of my skin. There’s the Frenchman, posing in a shower, with the photo barely cutting out his goods. I never thought I’d see Thierry like this but,
damn
.

“Oh my god, Brigs,” Lachlan moans, covering up his face with his hands and falling back into the sofa.

My mouth drops as I slowly open it. “Is the infamous nude rugby calendar?”

“I’m so glad I can’t see properly,” George mutters to himself.

“Look at Mr. September,” Brigs says happily while Lachlan lets out another embarrassed groan.

Making sure I don’t flash his family with this calendar of cock and muscle, I carefully flip through the months until I come to September. Sure enough there is a side view of Lachlan on the rugby pitch, his firm ass on display, those giant quads of his looking extra menacing in the shadowy, grainy photograph.

Shit. And to think this is the man I love, the man I get to screw every day. I give myself an internal high five, like I have many times over the past few weeks.

“Wow,” I say, closing it before things get weird. “I think I’ll hang this in our bathroom too.”

“Please don’t,” Lachlan whimpers, eventually taking his fingers away from his face. I think the man is blushing for a change.

“So, Lachlan," Brigs says, slapping his thighs. “Let’s see what you can come up with.”

We are the only two who haven’t opened our presents from each other. For a moment my heart flutters, especially when I see his present under the tree, the only one left beside mine. It’s a small box. Like, small enough for a ring. And of course that gets me thinking, both in fear and excitement. It can’t be what I think it can…can it? So soon? Here? Now?

“Uh, why don’t you open mine first,” I tell Lachlan, throwing my package his way. It’s light and he catches it with ease.

I had no clue what to get him so I figured the easiest thing would be to get something for the dogs. For better or for worse, he loves those dogs more than he loves himself. So I went out and had three dog sweaters made with their names on them. I’ve heard him say a few times that they could use them when it’s snowing like it is and it just stuck in my head. Plus, how cute would they all look, walking together in matching outfits? No one could be scared of them then, even with muzzles.