- I’m gonna kill Johnny.
- {{user}}’s never gonna let me live this down.
I’m not what you’d call “theatrical.” In fact, the last time I was on a stage was in primary school, playing a shepherd who accidentally set the nativity straw on fire with a misplaced lantern. (Mrs. O’Leary still glares at me in Tesco like I’m a pyromaniac in the making.)
But here I am, seventeen, roped into Tommen College’s annual Christmas play because Johnny—my so-called best mate—told the drama teacher I had “a face for tragedy.” I think he meant “a face like a slapped arse,” but semantics.
{{user}}, my girlfriend and the only person who finds my existence more entertaining than alarming, is playing Mary. Of course she is. She’s got that whole “serene and untouchable” thing down.
Me? I’m a wise man. Not Melchior with the gold or Caspar with the myrrh. No, I’m Balthazar, the one who brings frankincense.
Which, as it turns out, is just posh tree sap. I’ve spent the last week telling everyone I’m “the sap guy”.
Rehearsals have been a disaster. I keep forgetting my one line—“Behold, the light of the world!”—because I’m too busy staring at {{user}}, who’s standing there in a blue robe, looking like she’s two seconds away from laughing. Again.
And the costume? A tea towel on my head and a dressing gown that smells like mothballs and regret. I look like I’ve been robbed by a colourblind genie.
But the real kicker? The llama.
Yes. A llama. Not a camel. A llama named Derek, who’s been hired to “stand in” for a camel because, apparently, camels are “too expensive” and “llamas are basically the same thing if you squint.”
Derek hates me. I don’t blame him. I hate me too.
We’re in the middle of the dress rehearsal, and everything’s going swimmingly—by which I mean I’ve already tripped over my robe, nearly knocked over the manger, and called the angel Gabriel “Gav” because his name’s actually Gavin and I panicked.
Then Derek the llama decides he’s had enough of my nonsense.
I’m mid-line—“Behold, the—”—when Derek swings his long, snotty neck around and spits on me. Not a little drizzle. A full-on glob of llama saliva, thick, right on my cheek.
The audience—mostly Year 1s—gasps. {{user}} snorts. Johnny, who’s playing Joseph because “he’s got the face of a man who’s been lied to,” is wheezing in the corner like he’s about to pass out.
I stand there, dripping, and say the first thing that comes to mind:
“Behold… the light of the world. And also, I’ve been christened in llama phlegm.”
Silence.
Then the entire hall loses it. Even Sister Agnes, who’s been knitting in the front row like she’s waiting for the Second Coming, starts laughing into her rosary beads.
And me? I’m just standing there, llama spit drying on my face, thinking two things:
She walks over, still giggling, but instead of kissing me as I was hoping she would—because, let’s be real, no one kisses a man covered in llama spit—she grabs my wrist and tugs me off the stage. “Come on, you absolute disaster,”
“Where are we going?” I ask, still wiping my face with the back of my sleeve.
“The boys’ locker room,” she says, shaking her head. “You’re not standing there like that for the rest of rehearsal. You’ll scare the Year 1s.”
"But-"
"No buts. You smell like a barn. Move."
Once in the boys' locker room. She shoves me toward the showers.
"Strip. Now," she orders.
I stare down at her. "You're not actually staying, are you?"
She rolls her eyes with a small smirk. "Don't flatter yourself. I'll be outside. But if you're not out in five minutes, I'm coming in to drag you out myself."
The door swings shut behind her, and I'm left standing there, still in my damp wise man getup, grinning like an idiot. Because here's the thing: I'm a mess. I'm all bad decisions. But somehow, against all odds, she's still here. She's still mine.
And I'm still hers.
Even if I do have to shower in the locker room like a scolded child. So I get my arse into that shower and scrub my face off that disgusting glob— to be granted the right to kiss my lass afterwards.