The Misunderstanding of Fate

Chapter 22 - Festive Happiness

Dad worked and drunk while barely looking at me. I know he's avoiding me because, somewhere, somehow, he's filled with guilt. He knows what he's doing to himself and what he's doing to me. The thought makes his actions even more bitter. He's not addicted to the drink, no, that's not the reason why he keeps returning to it. He could stop tomorrow, next week, next month, yesterday, last week, last month. Dad continues to spiral because it's something he can control, it's a decision only he can make, and it makes him forget.

By now, I'm used to not seeing him daily or speaking to him every other hour. Without him, I have one real, constant person in my life who I know I can rely on. And who can rely on me. George. I spend a lot of time thinking about how far we've come as a duo. Whenever I spend the night alone, I see a theoretical future where I sleep alone every night because I've pushed him away. It's enough motivation to hold onto our unusual friendship.

The greatest paradox occurs when I spend the night on Christmas Eve. A strong, overwhelming happiness consumes me as he watches my favourite old, classic movies and eats crap food that I bought this morning at the supermarket. While the warmth is overwhelming, the ignored sadness is a constant ache. My father informed me that he was 'working' tonight, even though the companies' website says it's shut for the holiday, so George and I both know that's not really where he is. I imagine my sweet, lonely father sitting in a pub somewhere surrounded by likeminded men and women who are just searching for company. A distraction.

"I haven't spent Christmas with someone for a good few years," George mumbles. Questions and questions fill my brain at his revelation. Warm hands slide over my stomach, reaching around my waist, to pull my body towards his. Absentmindedly, I run a hand up and down his arm while maintaining eye contact. Without saying anything, George tugs my arms again making my body move on its own accord. In a second, I go from sitting next to my friend to straddling him. My knees rest either side of his hips as I relax into the couch and new position. His hands, which are warm and contrast my rising goosebumps, travel up the back of my thighs to pull me even closer (if possible). From here, I look down at that boyish smirk as he stares cheekily up at me in our closeness.

"We should make this one special."

Cheeky. So, so cheeky. "Is that an innuendo?"

Those warm hands run from my thighs, up onto my waist with his fingers skimming under my top. It's weird. It's weird that it doesn't feel weird. I don't feel uncomfortable and his touch definitely doesn't feel bad or unwanted. Although I know I'm not the most knowledgable, I am sure this isn't what friends do. Not the normal, platonic ones anyway. Questions and more questions race through my mind... Were we crossing some kind of invisible line? An invisible string that we were leant harshly against, almost causing it to snap?

My hands remain planted on his arms, running soothingly up and down, until resting on his shoulders. I could relax and sit on his lap, I think I'd be more comfortable, but seeing him lower than me creates the fallacy that I have the upper hand somehow in this situation. It's a lie but it keeps me calm... calmer.

Instead of answering, George whispers, "I know what I want for Christmas." It's as though he's breathing the words out but the rough tone remains, making my stomach flip.

Stupidly, I question, "What's that?"

"For you," he emphasises, "to model every single one of your skirts."

I can't stop the laughter as a huge smile makes its way onto his face. If he was attempting to make me feel better about my dad, he was successful. It's not something I can just forget about but being here with George has made the problem more manageable.

Those hands that were just skimming up my top now rest on my sides as he watches me, the look in his eyes questioning and perplexed like I'm a science project he doesn't quite understand.