Page 55 of Ignition

“Happy holidays, Mia,” I said with a lopsided grin and a tone too soft to be anything else than tender.

A split-second later, my guts sharpened into painful ice shards.

Right. The holidays.

A week cooped up at home, with my family getting drunker and rowdier. A week of sharp words digging into flesh that had barely scabbed over from the last family meeting.

As I straightened up, I allowed myself a flicker of indulgence: my fingertips brushed her shoulder—a brief touch against the warm fabric of her sweater, grazing a lock of hair that was softer than I’d imagined.

It slipped through my fingers, kicking an entirely disproportionate jolt up my arm.

I forced my feet to carry on, but fuck, how I wanted to sit back down and pretend for a minute.

That she wasn’t a scholarship student and I wasn’t… me.

For a heart-stopping moment, I almost turned on my heel.

Chapter seventeen

Mia

The village slumbered under a thin blanket of snow that clung to the roofs and the proud trees lining the main street. The familiar smell of smoke, burnt wood, and crisp winter air hit me as the bus dropped me off.

Evening was descending on the 23rd of December, and the Christmas lights bedecking the little limestone houses blinked up at me as if in greeting.

A tall silhouette paced in front of the stone steps to my home, a bit hunched and wearing his thickest jacket.

“Dad, get inside, you’re blue in the face,” I scolded as I gave him a big hug, his signature smell of cheap aftershave and mint enveloping me like a blanket.

A familiar pair of kind, intelligent brown eyes peered down at me as we pulled back, and by the redness in his cheeks, he’d been waiting a while.

“It’s just the lights,” he joked, dismissing my worry with a casual flick of a calloused hand.

My lips tugged into a small smile—he’d hung the same string of multicoloured lights under the eaves since I was eight. Before I could say anything or usher him through the door, Blackey broke out of the house and nearly toppled me off my feet.

Obligatory ear scratches delivered to the whining blur of black fur, we were allowed passage into the little cottage, his tail thumping the hallway furniture as we waded inside.

The runner I recognised right away draped over creaking floorboards, leading us to the living room, where the flames crackled in the stone fireplace, and mom and grandma huddled underneath a thick blanket, watching some game show on the small TV.

One second, they were laughing as the contestants fell into the mud. The next, their faces split into identical beaming smiles, the television died, and a string of keening sounds only dogs could hear erupted.

A few warm, tight hugs later, we swapped tales over hastily put-together food and a large mug of mulled wine, the lovable mutt wading happily between the legs of our chairs and begging for a piece of sausage or ham.

Grandma spilled gossip about neighbours with a waggle of greying brows while mom filled me in on news about our family, the both of them not quite letting each other finish.

Dad watched us from under salt and pepper eyebrows, occasionally telling Blackey off for being a “peasant,” as he called him.

My phone buzzed in my pocket mid-gossip, and I surreptitiously peeked at it—a fact my mom’s slanted green eyes didn’t miss—only to see an unknown number texting me.

Probably a mistake.

I shoved it back inside and turned to regaling them with highly sweetened stories about the Academy and indignant tales of unnecessary luxury, the epitome of which were the mini chandeliers in the bathroom, though the cooler on the tennis pitch wasn’t far behind. They reacted with snorts and eye-rolls, drawing a small sigh out of me and making me feel a little better. A little more normal.

After we talked each other’s ears off, we settled in the living room, huddling together on comfortable—if somewhat worn—furniture to watch the silly survival show, a bit of a guilty pleasure of ours.

Grandma took her place on the rocking chair by the window to read, or more accurately, to peer at the neighbours’ driveways.

My dad sprawled in the armchair and fell asleep with his glasses on, shrugging off all suggestions he should retire for the night and insisting he was fine.