Inferno

thirty two | the darned merriment

Christmas is here. "Mom, I'm not a trophy wife, hell I'm not even anyone's wife yet. Can you please put Dad on?" Which translates to me having to explain what's going on in my life to my mother over a stipulated two minutes where she has little scope to berate me over my relationships and lack of tinsel decorations.

She knows about Chase now and somehow googled him in the little while, her gasps shaking the whole house in all probability. "All I'm saying is it won't hurt you to bake some cookies. You don't forget traditions over a hotshot millionaire," she says as a parting note, and once I heartily fake laugh over the suggestion, I do consider going through with it after all. It'd be a nice gift to bring to Joel's Christmas party, and my hotshot millionaire seems to be working till five, so I have quite some time to spare with me.

Recipe up on iPad, I'm all prepped with a checks apron and ingredients out on the table, but it takes no time to lose the reality chef aura and find my fingers lathered in sticky in dough and puffs of flour in places the apron or my hands just don't reach. It's a miracle I get something on tray, about to chuck the weird little chocolate elves in the oven when the bell rings. Humming to Last Christmas, I forget I don't look all that great, only realising when out there with a whisk in hand.

"Don't you look nice," he steps in with a smile brighter than the lights he's decked the tree in his house with. Or rather Diana did, from when I ran into her in the elevator, watching her balance her phone and a bag of decorations in other. "Merry Christmas," he tries handing me a box wrapped in red glazed paper, but decides better and sets it down on the table after a glance. "I didn't realise this was the Pillsbury factory."

"Ha ha, how humorous," I pass him a grudging look whilst he's the least bit fazed, watching me run around trying to clean up, all the while the oven mitt gets stuck to my hand. I break a sweat attempting to pull it off and all it takes is a slight twist and Harvey standing inches behind me to lose the edge and realise what I'm really fretting over.

"See, came out do easily," he takes the mitt off, as unbothered as one can be, looking at me the same he did that night without giving it an ounce of thought more. About how it can and has seared on my mind, blatantly messing with me. "So you're coming to Joel's party, right?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't talk to you for days and you come in as if nothing ever happened and like you don't even care," I'm detouring off the issue, but it's either almond flour puffs or everything that's been happening, that I don't care. I just don't.

"I thought you were busy, I know you've been pushing deadlines at the office. Plus I've been a little caught up with Diana, so—"

"Save it, Harvey. I don't know what this is, but I'm not falling for it. I don't buy that you have no qualms about the fact that I've been avoiding you since over a week, that you've been caught up and whatever."

"You've been avoiding me? Why?" So innocent, he thinks I'll eventually spill and he'll explain and it will be all nice and bright again, this facade goes on longer, but I'm prepared.

"Figure it out, smarty pants," I pull the apron off, tossing it behind me while I leave vexed in the assumption that he'd follow me. Except he's gone when I look back and now I'm not even sure what'd I wanted to achieve out of this debacle. Sighing, I pick up the gift with my name on in silver writing, ruthless with the perfectly folded corners and more when I get an idea of what's it exactly. The maroon of it is as bright as ever, only the stitches a little loose over where his name is. I thought I'd lost this.

Fighting tears back, I try it on and it fits better than it did then, the feel of it warm against the goosebumps on my arms. I can't believe Mitch's jersey was with Harvey. Although, who'd else would it be with in possession of, if not with the one who'd been there to raise him through the crowd after a winning shot in a ball game and catch him at his worst, alike.