Page 101 of Shipwrecked

I turn off the electric shower and step out of it in a plume of steam. I grab my towel as the next series of knocks at the front door echoes faintly through the house.

“Again, Mathieu?” I ask. I sling the towel around my neck and pad through the house. Red and green decorations adorn the living room—Jules wanted to do silver and gold, but Mathieu insisted otherwise—and a large Christmas tree stands in the corner of the room. I eye the parcels nestled beneath its branches. They’ll be opened in the morning. Nerves flutter through my stomach.

There’s another knock at the door.

“Would taping the keys to your—whoops”—I snatch the towel from my neck and thrust it down, hiding my—“sorry.”

Seán has already turned his back and covered his eyes. He groans as if he’s been in a shipwreck and injured his shoulder.

“I thought it was Mathieu.”

“I hate you,” Seán says. “I never, never wanted to ever see—”

“Come in, I’ll change.”

The open door lets in chilly air and winter mist, causing my skin to break out in goosebumps. The sky is that mid-winter grey that hangs around for an hour at three before giving way to darkness at four.

“Mary and Charles are parking. I’m going to stay facing this way until you’re gone.”

I snort and retreat to my room. By the time I’m back and dressed, the three are in and laying out food and drinks on the kitchen counters. The mulled wine has a bright green label with gaudy gold script and tinsel lining its edges. I realise Seán is watching me try to read the percentage and wave him off.

“Do you always answer your front door naked?” Seán asks.

Mary’s and Charles’s brows raise.

“I thought it was Mathieu.”

“Does Mathieu have to knock to be let into his own house?” Seán asks.

“Given that he forgets his keys everywhere… at least once a week.” Mathieu suggested leaving the door unlocked since we live so remotely, and though I grew up in a home where the front door was never locked, I vetoed that suggestion. I don’t like the idea of someone having uncontested access to Jules and Mathieu. Mathieu had given up his argument after seeing my expression. Both had questioned the necessity of the security cameras I installed too, but they hadn’t argued about it.

Charles hugs Mary from behind and pecks her cheek. “Darling,” he starts.

Mary reaches back and strokes his cheek with affection. “The answer is no.”

“You could answer the bedroom door naked at least.”

“To my cousin?” Mary asks.

I stare at Seán, blaming him. Seán grins.

“Speaking of cousins, where are my in-laws?” Seán glances at the closed bedroom doors.

I twitch, but don’t react to the term otherwise. Since our visit to Seán’s parents over the summer he’s been referring to Jules and Mathieu that way. He caught me staring through a jewellery store window. I hadn’t even realised Seán was there until he’d sidled up and asked which rings I was picking out.

My gaze slides to the tree. The little boxes under it make me itchy.

“Have they wrapped themselves up as presents for you?”

“Have you hit your head?” I ask. Seán does his fair share of ribbing, but not usually to this extent. When I fix him with a critical stare, he smiles. “What?” I press. “Something good has happened to you.”

“I’m spending Christmas Eve with my brother. That’s ‘good’, isn’t it?”

“Spit it out.”

Seán’s smile widens.

“I’m evicting you if you don’t stop this behaviour.”