Ryan. We’ve had enough of you.”
“Oh, you’ve had enough of me!” Ryan retorts at once, with another scornful laugh.
“Yes,” says Jake steadfastly. “We have.”
In silence, Ryan looks from Jake’s face to mine and back again. I’ve never felt such solidarity with my brother. Ryan’s eyes flicker uncertainly as he surveys us, and just for an instant I feel sorry for him. Just an instant.
“Well, fuck off, then,” he snarls at last, then turns and strides away.
“Merry Christmas!” Jake calls after him. “I hope Santa’s good to you!”
“Santa will not be good to him,” I say, and I start giggling uncontrollably, letting out some of my painful tension. “Are you kidding? Santa will give him a turnip and a lump of coal.”
“He doesn’t even deserve a turnip. Remember one year Dad put a turnip in my stocking?” Jake suddenly adds reminiscently. “When I was about eleven. He thought I needed a fright. The toys were in the corner of the room and I didn’t see them at first—so I thought that was it. A turnip.”
“I don’t remember that.” I stare at him incredulously. “Did you get a fright?”
“Oh yeah.” Jake grins. “I nearly had a heart attack. Dad thought it’d make me calm down a bit.” He pauses, then adds with a kind of rueful glint in his eye, “Guess a turnip wasn’t enough. I was still a little bastard.”
“You weren’t so bad,” I say easily.
“Oh, I was. I was a toe-rag. That day I laid into you about your skating? That was pretty low.” He hesitates. “But, I mean, you were about to give up anyway, weren’t you?”
I’m so stunned I can’t respond at once. I was about to give up? Is that how he’s rationalized it all this time? Does he have any idea…? My chest is burning with all the things I could say, all the accusations I could hurl at him.
But then…why would I? It’s done. It happened. What are we going to do, start a tally of who did what when?
“Oh well,” I manage. “Think how much worse you could have been.” And Jake smiles at me in the way he often does these days—as though he’s consciously trying to get on with his family, he only needs a bit of practice. Then he turns to look down the street, where Ryan is still just about visible.
“He’s an arse,” he says matter-of-factly, and I nod.
“You got rid of him, anyway.”
There’s silence as we both watch Ryan finally disappear from view. Ryan, who blinded both of us with his dazzle, who led us both astray. I’m sure both of us are rewinding our lives and thinking how they might have been different with no Ryan Chalker in them.
But what can you do about mistakes except think, Won’t do that again, and move forward?
“I wonder what Dad would think of us,” says Jake, breaking the silence. “Now. If he could see us.”
His voice is casual, but his eyes seem to have a genuine question in them. As if it matters.
Well, of course it matters. Jake always cared desperately what Dad thought of him, even when he was yelling. We all did.
“I hope he’d realize we’re doing our best,” I say, after a moment’s thought. On a whim I look up at the sky and call out softly, “Dad, we’re doing our best, OK?”
“He says, ‘No you’re not, the stock room’s a mess, and what’s happened to the licorice allsorts?’ ” shoots back Jake, deadpan, and I burst into a giggle.
“I have to go,” I say. “The stock room is a mess.”
“Hannah’s in there, by the way,” says Jake, jerking his head toward the shop. “Christmas shopping.”
I feel a sudden swell of love for Hannah. She’s the most loyal friend in the world. All her family must be sick to death of Farrs stock, but she supports us every year. She even schedules a Farrs shopping session on her calendar.
“Thanks,” I say, and squeeze him on the arm. “Don’t get too cold out here.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” says Jake, and brandishes his stack of flyers. “Come on in!” he resumes shouting, winking at me. “Gingerbread houses at Farrs! Christmas decorations at Farrs! Ho ho ho!”
Inside the shop, I find Hannah loading up her basket with ceramic rolling pins decorated with gingerbread men.
“I’m on the waiting list for one of those mixing bowls,” she greets me without any preamble. “Morag says they’ll be in tomorrow?”
She looks radiant these days, even though she’s not pregnant yet (I’ll be first to