Lucy Knott - Wishes Under a Starlit Sky

I swallow down my waffle. My salty tears mix with the sweet syrup on my lips. My whole body has stiffened except for my hands that are trembling.

I must look like a right sight to the shoppers milling about the square.

Madi puts down her knife and fork and leans over to me, grapping my wrists. I’m chewing and sobbing simultaneously.

‘Oh, no, no no, sweetheart,’ Madi says, dabbing at my face with a napkin. ‘Sweetheart, you have been my best friend since we were three. You know I tell you how it is. Harper, you are the nicest person. Do you drive me mad sometimes? Yes. Does your ability to talk for hours on end about a script you’re working on sometimes make me crazy? Hell yes. Do I like pulling hairballs out of my drain every time you stay over? Heck no. Do I enjoy when you get hangry or when you are stubborn and won’t let me choose the movie on a Friday night? Not really. But all those things do not make you a bad person. Scott choosing to lie to you and cheat and disrespect your marriage does not make you a bad person. We all have things to work on, either together in a relationship or on our own. We can always better ourselves and our relationships; no one is perfect, including you, Harp. But that doesn’t mean what he did was anything short of selfish, cowardly and cruel. This is on him, Harper, not you.’

Madi is leaning over the table, propped up on her elbows, looking me straight in the eyes and catching my tears with her tissue.

‘Why does it hurt so bad, Mads?’ I stutter. Madi brushes the hair from my eyes and wipes some more tears away.

‘Because you loved him with all you had, and you shared a part of you with him that no one else got to see. Besides yours truly being your number-one best friend forever, he was your best friend. It’s OK to miss him. It’s natural to miss him. But don’t ever let his actions make you feel guilty. What goes on in a marriage is discussed within a marriage by the two people in it. He should have respected you enough to communicate with you, to give you the chance to figure it out together and to look after each other the way you always have, and he didn’t. I don’t care if you made him listen to that Beach Boys song you love and he hates, on repeat every day, he should have talked to you about it and that’s on him.’

I take a shuddery breath, grateful for the heat lamp that is keeping me warm despite my insides feeling frozen. I feel a mixture of pathetic and thankful, wondering what on earth I would do without Madi. She has been on this crazy roller-coaster ride with for the past year and has yet to try and jump off. I appreciate her for allowing me to voice my pain, as the minute I get my thoughts out in the open I feel freed.

‘Thank you,’ I whisper, picking up a tissue and seeing to my own probably very smudged make-up face, and dabbing the tears away. Allowing Madi to sit back on the bench, being propped up on her elbows couldn’t have been the comfiest.

Just then Colt comes over and puts what looks to be a milkshake with two straws in front of us. He smiles, his warm and awkward smile. ‘It’s a Rocky Mountain hot chocolate. It makes all your troubles go away. I say that, but I can’t guarantee it as you two are my guinea pigs – it’s a new concoction. I was feeling inspired.’ He glances sweetly at us both.

Colt nods and walks away after we thank him, and I notice Madi’s lips already on her straw. As I see the creamy chocolate slowly shrinking further down the glass thanks to Madi devouring its contents, I quickly take a sip. I don’t want to miss out. Not only does it look incredible, but it tastes it too.

With one sip I am transported to toasted marshmallow and creamy chocolate heaven. It’s like a campfire in my mouth, in a good way. We devour the shake, which I’m certain had medicinal properties – maybe it’s the cacao they use – before we walk past the hut to inform Colt that he must add his inspired concoction to the menu. Then we thank him for a scrumptious brunch before we go on our merry way for a mooch around the stalls.

I have enough sugar in my system giving me a high that I hope will keep me afloat for the rest of the day.

The Handmade market is everything I thought it would be and more. The stall owners are friendly and eager to talk to us about their crafts. I feel inspired to pick up my pen and write about it all. I manage to pick up something special for my mum and dad and my heart is warm with the anticipation of being able to give them their Christmas present in person this year.

I don’t think about Scott for the entire afternoon as I take in every stall. Colt’s milkshake worked wonders. Unfortunately, it worked too well as by the time we venture back to the house, my good intentions of turning on my laptop and looking over my edits have disappeared faster than our plate of pancakes and waffles, and I feel like I could fall asleep standing up the minute I lay eyes on my bed.

It’s five in the morning and two days before Christmas Eve and I can’t contain my curiosity about the forest any longer. I put on my brown snow boots, throw my hair in a loose braid and scarf, and tell my laptop that I will be back in no more than an hour to see to finally finishing off my script. Then I wrap myself up in my wool cardigan and olive-green puffer jacket with my well-worn leggings and sneak out of the sleeping house.

The fresh-fallen snow crunches as I step onto the deck; the air is cool but pleasant. I can hear an owl hooting in between the trees. I take that as my guide and follow his calls. The moon and the stars are enough to light my way and, somehow, I don’t feel scared being out here alone. My parents’ house lies in darkness. I believe the Christmas lights are on a timer to conserve energy. I walk past the hippie Santa and towards the towering pines. As I walk closer, the grandeur of the trees hits me and I’m immediately enchanted.

I trace my hands over the bark. Shavings of snow have settled in the ridges and cracks giving it a frosty tint. If I look closely enough, I can see the fuzzy outline of each snowflake that is hugging the trunk. I peel my eyes away from the first pine and follow a straight path past the other, not wanting to weave in and out of the trees too much in case I get lost. I’m not as familiar with the forest as I’d like to be. Scott wasn’t much of an outdoors man. The one time we ventured out here to visit my parents, he’d opt to stay indoors or visit the local bars and restaurants over getting up close and personal with nature.