Daisy Haites: The Great Undoing: Book 4 (Magnolia Parks Universe)

Christmas morning is quiet and I don’t like it. It’s never quiet around here.

A lot of the boys went home for it, even Kekoa took a few days to fly home which he’s done, like, twice my whole entire life.

That’s a good sign though, that makes me feel like I must be safer than before, because he’d never leave if I wasn’t. Miguel’s also taken a well-deserved vacation to Spain for a few days, and Julian’s behaving like my shadow now that he’s my self-appointed security guy in-lieu.

I don’t mind it though, really — besides the house feeling too big for just us. We spend Christmas Eve in the kitchen. My brother is — and I cannot stress this enough — the worst fucking sous chef in the history of time. He eats all the ingredients, he thinks he knows techniques he doesn’t, he’s very cocky, he burns shit, always thinks adding more salt is always the answer — but still, he’s my favourite1 person to have in a kitchen.

Christmas Day, we watch Mickey’s Twice Upon a Christmas at 7am in our pyjamas like we always have since I was four. He even wears the matching pyjamas I left for him on his pillow but he said if I took a photo of us in them he’d break my phone.

Usually we’d go to the Bambrilla’s after church, but Dellina told me that Tavie was going to be there and even though she said we’re still welcome to come, I’d just rather not see it. Maybe that’s stupid and childish, maybe it’s even technically un-Christmassy of me. But it would feel like losing. Not just face, but losing in general. And I don’t want to lose anything on Christmas. Even if I miss my best friend and his mum and his dumb brother and his dad. I never miss Gia though, because she’s a bit too nutty for me. She lost her virginity to my brother and I only know that because she brings it up in every conversation humanly possibly, even the ones with me. It doesn’t matter how I stare at her,2 how perturbed my face may look3 whenever she recalls their first tryst4 that took place in the back of my brothers car5 — she still tells me.

Did I think it was weird Tiller and I aren’t spending Christmas together?6

Yes, maybe — but no weirder I suppose than when I know he’s doing something with his work friends and he doesn’t invite me.

He did invite me once. The ex-girlfriend7 was there and I wouldn’t say that I’m her favourite person.

Not that I give a shit — she reeks of regret and insecurity and I’m fifteen times hotter than her,8 but she is mean, and she went out of her way to make sure I knew I wasn’t really welcome and they were all just obliging Tills by meeting me.

His partner9 — Dyson10 — he’s nice enough, if you can get past the incessant chattering, which I’m not really sure I can. He’s never been unkind to me though.

I know Tiller gets drinks after work most nights at this bar by their building11 and I know it because I walked by there once with Jack, not because Tiller invited me.

“Is that Tills?” Jack did a double take.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh—” I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

“Should we go say hello?” Jack beamed.

“Err—” I hope my frown didn’t look like anything other than consternation. “No, let’s leave him be — it looks like he’s having a boys’ night.”

“There’s a girl there.” Jack told me with a frown.

But it wasn’t consternation; I didn’t want to say hi to him because Tiller told me he was working late, not getting drinks.

And things change, I get that — but then I wondered if he just thought it was better to not have me there — and do you know what, that’s totally fine. I don’t need us to live in one another’s pockets, I don’t need to be a part of his every waking moment, but I don’t like feeling like I’m being hidden.

And I know he’s in a tough position in the real world — it’s me who brings the precarious edge to what we are, it’s me who brings the baggage, but in my world, with my family, with my friends — Tiller is the problem. For me and my people, it’s Tiller who’s quite literally caused us many a grievance, and I don’t hide him. I’m still proud of him. And I don’t know for certain that that’s why we’re spending Christmas apart — but I know when he said he was going back to Massachusetts for a week over Christmas12 and I said I thought that probably I should stay here with my brother, he agreed very quickly.

“Yeah—” He swatted his hand through the air. “I know you two are just getting back to normal — probably better not to rock the boat.”

“Right.” I nodded, and I agreed. I didn’t want to not have Christmas with my brother; I love Christmas with my brother. But there was a relief and an eagerness that I’m sure I saw on Tiller that I don’t think I was projecting onto him myself.

And it’s not like we both don’t know what we are.

We can pretend — easier to do so after the other night, but we both know. Just neither of us are ready.

Do I dress for church on Christmas morning thinking that I might see Christian Hemmes? I might do.13

Do I see him?

Yes, but I barely let myself look at him. I focus on the Christ-child and the terrible set-up that was his short, little life. Dead at thirty-three? That’s Jules in two years. Jesus was born to die. The cruelty of it is astounding. And here we all are, Sunday best to celebrate his slow-burn demise.

Julian says I’ve missed the point, but I think he has. Jesus died for us, is what my brother says. Which… fine, sure, that’s grand, it’s not my point though. My point is that he shouldn’t have had to.

After, Christian walks over towards us and it’s a bit of a bashful walk, almost like he’s nervous. He and my brother hug and he looks at me, eyebrows up, asking without asking.

“Merry Christmas.” He opens his arms for me and I step into them. He wraps me up and I sink into him, and it’s bad for me — I forgot what it was like to be held by him. I put it out of my mind that it’s my favourite feeling on the planet, that there are no arms, not even those of my boyfriend — who I’ll remind you that I do love — there are no arms that feel like Christian’s arms. Like he’s just pulled a curtain closed around me and blocked out all the bad, and I have this screaming revelation of all I’ve lost to gain my normal life and what normal life?

I don’t say anything, I don’t want to fracture the moment. If I don’t say ‘Merry Christmas’ back, I can pretend for a second that we’re just hugging for no reason at all, that he’s just holding me for kicks the way he used to a year ago for that brief moment in time we had where we were working.

He doesn’t let go — he holds on to me for a beat longer than I think either of us could argue is normal, and he breathes in. I look up at him, sort of wide eyed, sort of confused, and he gives me this half-smile, and then he lets me go.

“What are you two doing today?” Jonah asks as a man I’ve never seen before stands wordlessly behind him. I think it might be their dad?

“Oh.” I shrug. “No real plans… most of the boys are off—”

“And away,” nods my brother. “Just a quiet one—” He looks over at me. “We’ll probably watch Iron Man 3? Maybe Die Hard.”

“And I’m going a cook a ham.” I give them a smile.

“For the two of you?” their mother asks. She bustles between her sons to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Come with us,” Christian says, staring over at me.

“Oh, no—” I shake my head. “We couldn’t impose.”

Julian gives me a little peek, asking without asking. I barely move my eyebrows but still he knows it’s a yes.

“Of course you could!” Jonah chirps brightly, tossing an arm around me. “Your brother imposes himself on us all the times. At least this way we get a ham out of it.”

The boys ride with us to show us the way. Jonah in the front with my brother, Christian in the back with me. Julian gave me a lot of things for Christmas, including the Centenary Egg from Fabergé, but the best thing he gave me was when he gruffly told me to sit in the back and up front is for the oldest. Then he gave me a little wink, which means he knows I still love Christian, which isn’t necessarily the best thing in general but I was grateful for it in the moment.

I’ve never been to Christian’s house, not the one he grew up in. Obviously I’ve been to his one in Knightsbridge, but he never took me ‘home’ home.

Just that one time we had lunch with his mum and brother at the Berkley, otherwise I wasn’t much included in the family events with him either. I don’t know if that’s because he was embarrassed of me, though… I think he’s maybe a bit embarrassed of them — I’m not sure. He’s weird about his dad.

The house though, it makes things make sense to me. The house makes Christian make more sense somehow.

It’s in the St George’s Hill estate, and it’s massive. A huge, old manor. Kind of dark, but definitely beautiful, a bit like him.

His face goes instantly stoic as soon as we’re inside, it’s strange. The house rests on his brow all heavy, and he’s so handsome when he goes like this, worried about things he won’t say, but all I want to do is lift it off him and hold his hand, but his worries are invisible and too high up for me to reach and his hand isn’t mine anymore. I don’t know if it ever really was.

“Where’s the kitchen?” I ask, nodding at the ham he’s holding for me. “We should get this going.”

There’s this funny clash of old and new, modern and ancient.

Tapestries on the wall, fireplaces in every room, even a suit of armour in the foyer, but then the kitchen looks like something from a Swedish Architectural Digest.

“Up to your standard?” he asks playfully.

“An Aga!” I coo, dashing over to it. I love them but Julian won’t let me get one. He says it makes the house too hot. It makes sense for a house in the country, though. And they’re so beautiful. “Put that down over there—” I tell him, pointing at the bench and he does, then leans back, arms folded, smiling a bit.

“What?” I look at him over my shoulder as I get acquainted in the kitchen.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head but he’s still smiling. “Just, Christmas—”

For some reason my cheeks go pink so I turn around quickly and open three cupboards to find a chopping board, except that I can’t.

He walks up behind me and slides open a drawer, pulling one out and handing it to me even though I didn’t ask for it.

Our eyes catch and I swallow heavy — think of my boyfriend and that beautiful face of his, how he was there for me when no one else was, how he gave me normal—

“Did you get any good presents?” I ask, trying to keep it feeling light.

“Yep.” He nods.

“Favourite?” I ask, without turning to him.

“My best friend in my kitchen at my mum’s house,” he says without missing a beat.

I look back. Our eyes catch. There’s that noon-sun poking through the window above the sink and right into his eyes — he squints with one eye to block it a little but still he doesn’t look away and it brings my inhibitions to their knees, and thank God we’re around other people, his family and my brother, because I have a boyfriend and I’m not like this — but something about how the low winter light catches him and warms his face, it jolts me back in time and I remember with full force how badly I loved him, and in an instant, I’m pining for what we were — and I hate it. I hate how out of control loving him feels, I hate that I’m with someone else and so is he, I hate that that doesn’t seem to matter because it does matter to me even though it doesn’t. I hate that I got used to being without him and then it’s not even a month back home with him just hanging around the house with my brother to undo something I spent the last year trying to box up and leave behind. Never mind that I love someone else now too, never mind how Christian hurt me, never mind that I spent months in twisted-heart agony trying and failing to get over loving him, because here I am, a year to the day where I stood on the steps of a church daring him to touch me again so my brother might have a reason to fight him, and right now I have my face pushed against the past peering back at what we were.

I clear my throat, trying not to let it show on my face how dizzy I feel with all our history and the ways I love him lapping at the edge of my concentration.

“How is this the kitchen you grew up with and you didn’t even have a vegetable spiralizer?”

He rolls his eyes.

“His mum doesn’t cook—” says a voice I don’t recognise.

I turn around and it’s the man who was behind Jonah.

Definitely their dad, their eyebrows are the same. Christian’s hair is blonder and this man’s skin is a bit browner, but you can tell.

Christian stiffens up in his presence in a way that makes me want to stand in front of him.

“Oh,” I say, because what else could I?

“Dad,” Christian almost sighs. “This is Daisy.”

“Julian’s sister.”

I nod with a smile. “That is my God-given name, yes.”

Christian chuckles but the dad just turns and leaves.

I wait a few seconds and let out a low whistle. “Dads usually like me.” I pull a face.

“That tracks,” Christian shrugs. “He’s not much of a dad anyway.”

It takes a few hours to get the lunch ready, and I tell my brain not to feel the longing it does for this to be my new normal, moving around the kitchen, Christian on the counter,14 drinking wine, talking about nothing how we used to, his mum coming and leaning back next to him — I love cooking for people I love, and the ones here that I do, they all gravitate to the kitchen. Julian teaches Barnesy how to juggle with oranges, Jonah uses a spoon to sing Christmas songs and Christian stands closer to me than he needs to. It’s my favourite Christmas in years.

When we finally sit down to eat, I somehow manage to sit between my brother and my ex-boyfriend, which I guess makes me about the luckiest girl in the world.

I’m also glad for it because their uncle is here. Not the one Christian likes,15 but the other one. Callum Barnes. The youngest of the three16 Barnes children.

Now, I have known many men — many. Our family’s line of work has afforded me to meet the worst of the worst and the lowest of the lows, and there are markers normally for why I won’t like a person. They’ll be rude to servers, they’ll have guns at the dinner table, they’ll look at parts of my body that aren’t on display for them, they’ll shake my hand and hold it for longer than what anyone would deem normal or okay — but this man… He’s handsome, he seems laid back and casual. He’s well dressed. He’s not too much. We’ve never spoken at any of the Borough meetings I’ve seen him at. He’s never been too friendly, his eyes have never lingered longer than they should have. He doesn’t seem annoyed that we’re here, which is nice enough, I suppose?

He is, by all accounts, perfectly acceptable and completely normal — likeable even — and yet, I don’t like him at all. He makes me feel uneasy. I don’t know why.

He sits at one end of the table, their dad at the other, and I don’t think it’s in my imagination that they’re glaring at each other.

Still, this doesn’t bother me. It makes me feel almost like I’m in a movie, heightened family drama at Christmas. We’ve not had any since our parents died, not since the Christmas my mother refused to sit next to me at the dinner table when I was six and Julian got so angry at her for it that he picked me up and put me in his car and drove me to McDonald’s for our own Christmas lunch. When we got back, she told me I ruined Christmas and then Dad started yelling and so did my brother, and Kekoa took me into the laundry room and put the coins in the dryer.

“So,” Barnsey says eventually, setting her cutlery down, “you’re dating someone new?”

My cheeks flush. I set my fork down. “Yes.”

Christian glances at me.

“A police officer,” she says. It’s not a question.

“What?” Uncle Callum sputters his wine.

“Actually,” I look between them, “he’s a detective with the NCA.”

“Much better.” Jonah winks.

The dad leans in, fascinated.

“You’re joking, right?” Callum says, frowning.

“I wish—” snorts my brother and I give him a little glare. He swats his hand, dismissively. “No, he’s a good guy—”

“He’s a cop,” says Callum.

I give him a stern look. “He can be both.”

He shakes his head. “Not in my house, he can’t.”

“Lucky we’re not in your house then, ey?” Christian eyes him.

“What’s your deal, then?” the dad asks gruffly from the other end.

“Jud,” their mother sighs.

Jud Hemmes. I like that name.

“No deal—” Christian shakes his head.

“You two sleeping together?”

My brother’s head pulls back, staring over at him, eyebrows up and daring — Jonah shakes his head, jaw jutted out, staring at the table.

Barnsey takes a sip of wine and Christian’s tensed up next to me, but dealing with parents who don’t like me is my grace zone.

“We used to date,” I tell him, gaze unflinching.

“You dated?” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Christian nods.

“But not anymore.” The dad squints.

“No.” I give him a curt smile.

He nods his chin at me. “Why?”

This throws me, actually. “Pardon?” I blink.

“Why’d you break up?” he asks, eyebrows up. “Did he fuck up, then?”

I frown over at him, sort of stunned at the assumption. Offended on Christian’s behalf, hurt even. “No.” I shake my head sternly at the same time that Christian says, “Yes.”

And then we turn to face each other, and I don’t know what to say or do, and I feel stuck and a bit embarrassed and definitely nervous, because I wonder if maybe he loves me still? But then, I’ve thought he loved me before when he didn’t so I don’t trust my read on him.

“Actually,” my brother says loudly. “It’s my fault.”

I stare over at my brother, eyes wide and unsure where this is going to go.

“I did something last year that Daisy really struggled with, and so she decided to leave—” He gestures vaguely around himself. “—everything. Took a step back.” He glances at me; his eyes look sorry. “She took a step back from everything that had anything to do with this shit.”

“What shit?” Callum frowns.

Julian gives him an impatient smile. “Crime.”

It flashes over Uncle Callum’s face — he didn’t like that. Didn’t like that I’d leave it, didn’t like that my brother referred to it as ‘this shit’.

Christian’s dad sits back in his chair, staring over at me in a different way.

“Keep up, Cal, honestly—” Barnesy shakes her head.

And then I feel self-conscious, like everyone’s staring at me for all these different reasons — his uncle, I’ve offended. His mum, I think, is sorry for me. Maybe for us? His dad, I don’t know why he’s staring at me but all of it make me feel nervous so I look over at Christian.

“Can I see your room?”

“Yep.” He pushes back from the table quickly.

“You’re not going to ask to be excused?” his dad calls after us.

“Why would I?” Christian stops in his tracks. “You didn’t when you excused yourself from our lives.”

He turns on his heel, grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs.

Its only half-way up he realises he’s holding it, but I’ve known he’s been holding it all along.

“Sorry—” He snatches it back.

I smile at him, shake my head but barely. “It’s fine.”

“So.” He keeps walking up the stairs slowly. “You tell Tiller about the other day?”

“What about it?” I play dumb.

He looks over his shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I did,” I say, keeping my voice upbeat.

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing much, it came out over text—”

“Oh.”

“But when he came home that night he said, ‘You aren’t spending Christmas with him, right?’”

Christian lets out a single laugh as he leads me down a hall. “What’d you say?”

I grimace. “‘Of course not.’” He laughs again and I shrug, helpless. “It was true at the time.”

He gives me a strained, half-smile. “I’m glad it wasn’t true in the end.”

Then he opens his bedroom door and I burst out laughing.

A Pussycat Dolls poster hangs above his bed.

My hand flies to my mouth to suppress it and he’s fighting off a smile, shaking his head. I walk in, still laughing, eyes wide.

It’s a child’s room, really. LEGO on the shelves. Model trains and cars. Every XBox game on the planet.

“I started boarding at Varley when I was eleven.” He glances around the room. “I never came back.”

“Oh,” I say and I feel sad. “And they just kept is as is all these years?”

He shakes his head, glancing around. “This whole house is a fucking mausoleum—”

“Is this the house your sister died in?”

He nods, not looking at me.

“Your family didn’t move after?” I tilt my head.

“I think my dad thought if we stayed here he’d be close to Rem still.”

“Oh.” I nod. “Did it work?”

Christian shrugs. “Maybe. Not close with anyone alive anymore, but…”

I touch his arm. I don’t know why, I just want to.

He looks down at it and then back to me. He swallows heavy.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and his eyes flicker to my mouth — is he about to kiss me? I think he’s about to kiss me — and I’m frozen because I want to kiss him back, of course I do! But — Tiller — and I died last time I let myself love Christian in an out loud way — and my breathing is going anyway and without my permission, I start leaning in towards him too and then my phone rings.

FaceTime.

I pull my phone from my pocket.

It’s Tiller.

Christian scoffs a laugh and takes a concerted step away from me right before I slide to answer.

“Hi!” I grin down at him. I wonder if I look weird — do I look weird?

“Merry Christmas!” he sings.

“Happy Christmas, Tills.” I smile at him.

He’s in a navy, knitted sweater with a collared shirt under it and it’s maybe the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him. He nods his chin at me.

“You look pretty in that colour—” he tells me.

I glance down, feeling self-conscious because I know full well I wore it not for him.

“Thanks—” I say quickly, ready to change that topic. “How’s your family? Where are they? Have you had a happy morning?”

“Yeah—” He grins. “It’s been great.” Then his face falters. “Where are you?”

“Oh—” I flash him a quick smile. “I — um. Well—” He frowns. “We bumped into the Hemmes family at Sunday morning mass—” My boyfriend is already frowning. “And then they invited us back for lunch.”

“It’s 7pm GMT.”

“Right, well—” I shake my head dismissively. “It took a minute for the lunch to cook and then we’ve just sort of stayed the day…”

His eyes pinch unhappily. “Right.”

“It’s not a big deal—” I shake my head. ”It was just going to me be and Julian — they were just being friendly—”

He shakes his head. “You told me you weren’t spending Christmas with him—”

I flick my eyes over at Christian and he’s standing there in his own room in his own house looking uncomfortable and maybe a bit sad. Though I suspect that it’s not the first time.

“I wasn’t—” I insist. “That was true when I said it—”

“Are you with him now?” Tiller asks, jaw tight.

Instinctively my eyes glance back over at Christian who’s shaking his head aggressively. ‘Say no,’ he mouths.

“Yes—” I say, because I don’t fancy myself a liar.

Tiller rolls his head backwards.

Christian trots over, glaring at me before he brightens his whole face and leans into frame. “Merry Christmas!”

“Yeah—” Tiller doesn’t smile back. “I kind of just want to speak to my girlfriend.”

Christian nods once and moves out of the frame.

“Is he still there?” Tiller asks with a frown and I breathe out through my nose and step out into the hall, but I keep Christian in my line of sight because I’m an old addict.

Tiller’s shaking his head. “I’m going to fly back early.”

“No — why?” I frown.

“Because at the rate you’re going, you’re going to kiss him on New Year’s Eve.”

Our eyes catch again, me in the hall, him in his room. I wonder if for a second it’s true — but of course it’s not. He’s with Vanna.

“That’s not fair—” I glare at my phone, act more offended by that than I really am.

Tiller’s head pulls back. “Isn’t it?”

My boyfriend’s jaw goes tight. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Then he hangs up.

I stare at my phone for a few seconds then look over at Christian who’s cringing.

“Well,” I sigh. “That’s not going to make his family like me more—” I say as I walk back into his room, perching on the edge of his childhood bed.

I look down at the quilt and then back up at him.

“Is your bedding the Millennium Falcon?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I squash a smile because I think that’s cuter than I should.

He sits down next to me. “They don’t like you?”

I purse my mouth and look at my hands. “His dad’s a retired cop, remember?”

“Ah.” He nods, then gives me a consolatory shrug. “His son’s into it?”

I sniff a laugh. “Skips a generation.”

He looks over at me.

“Sorry,” he tells me, and I think he means it.

“Yeah.” I nod and I feel the water on the boat I’m ignoring lapping around my knees. “Me too.”

Christian watches me for a few seconds, thinking, reading me. “Should I take you home…?” he offers.

He also swallows heavy as he offers it and I think about what it might be like, what could happen if he drove me home alone, if there was no one in our house but us and the security outside. What we could do, how we would have filled that time before, in every room, loudly because why not when no one’s around, as many times as we could — and I pinch my bottom lip, tense my stomach hoping to squash the butterflies that are going nuts inside of there and shake my head quickly — I know what will happen if he does.

I’m not like that.

I don’t want him to be like that either.

“Um—” I shake my head and shrug and pull a dismissive face and wrinkle my nose all at once. I basically just have a big stroke on the spot. “No—” I stick out my bottom lip awkwardly. “No. I — I mean we should be — my brother and I — you know — give you a minute of family time.”

He blinks twice as he watches me. “Don’t want a minute of family time, Dais.”

I take a shallow breath. “Even still.”

He breathes out slowly and I think he’s disappointed. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I sort of frown up at him, annoyed at myself, sorry to have made him sad. Sorry to have made myself sad, actually.

But Tiller. He’s cut his family trip short and is flying home three days early.

I can’t do that to him, even if I really, really want to.

44 7724 771 959
10:17pm

Hey

Are you out tonight?

Yeah. Club Haus.

Stay there.

Ok.

Why?

you made me a promise once.

1 *Second favourite.

2 Like she’s an idiot, is how.

3 It looks very.

4 Vomit.

5 Vomit again.

6 ‘Weird’ perhaps isn’t the right word.

7 Michelle.

8 A conservative estimate, honestly.

9 At the NCA, not romantically. I am romantically his partner.

10 Regrettably not immediately related to the vacuum dynasty.

11 The Lion’s Gate

12 And that he’d be back in time for New Year’s Eve.

13 Floral crystal-embellished mini dress (Oscar de la Renta); Aveline 100mm bow sandals (Jimmy Choo); Desire cropped jacket (Unreal Fur). I look pretty in it.

14 A worse sous chef than my brother, it turns out.

15 Harvey, who’s over in Australia.

16 Living.