Finally, though, we’re forced to pull reluctantly apart, and, when we do, Elliot brushes the hair gently out of my eyes, and we grin stupidly up at each other, laughing at the sheer miracle of us having found our way back to each other again; which, when you really think about it, is the kind of thing that only really happens in stories.
Which I guess is appropriate for us.
Now we just have to figure out what happens next. As we step back outside the snow globe, though, and into a full-blown blizzard, Elliot stops and tilts my face up to his, ignoring the snowstorm as he leans down to drop another kiss on the very tip of my nose.
“It’s you,” he says, grinning down at me through the falling snow. “It’s always been you.”
32
It’s my first real Christmas in ten years.
It’s notcompletelyperfect.
I don’t have a Christmas tree here at the house, for one thing. There’s no food to eat, or crackers to pull, and I never did get around to that last-minute Christmas shopping I kept meaning to do either. So, as Christmases go, I don’t think this one would win any prizes.
But this morning I woke up with Elliot for the first time in a decade. The snow that started on Christmas Eve continued throughout the night, which meant we opened the blinds to what I think fully signed-up Christmas people would probably describe as ‘a winter wonderland’, and which even I have to admit is quite pretty, really.
If you like that kind of thing.
“Happy Christmas,” says Elliot, handing me a steaming mug of coffee as I lie in bed, looking out at the snow.
“Happy Christmas.”
We clink mugs in a toast, then he climbs back into bed and puts his arm around me as we lie there together, enjoying the tranquility of the scene in front of us. Later, we’ll walk over to Dad’s place on the other side of the village, where he’s announced that we’ll be abandoning ournow traditional takeaway in favor of a small turkey, cooking instructions for which he claims to have looked up on ‘the Google’.
Fortunately, I’ve got the takeaway’s number on speed dial, just in case.
“This is cause for celebration,” he said when I called him first thing this morning to ask if I could bring Elliot with me when I called around for dinner later. “I’m making the turkey and opening the good champagne. First, though, I have to call Levi and let him know he owes me £10: he bet me you two would never get your act together.”
“I didn’t think we would either, to be fair,” I laughed. “But here we are. It’s a Christmas miracle.”
And it honestly feels like it is.
“Seeing as we’re bringing partners this year,” says Dad, sounding uncharacteristically shy. “I, er, don’t suppose you’d mind if I invited Elsie Poole, would you? Not that she’s my partner, you understand, I just … well, I thought she might be lonely, that’s all, because Maisie’s spending the day with her daughter and —”
“It’s fine, Dad,” I interrupt, not quite knowing whether to laugh or cry at this news. “Invite her. I’ll see you later, okay? Oh, and happy Christmas!”
I put down the phone and sit staring at Elliot with my mouth open.
“I think my dad might be ‘courting’ Elsie Poole,” I manage at last. “And we’re going to be having dinner with her.”
“Wow. That’s one I didn’t see coming,” says Elliot, his eyebrows raised. “But, I mean, good for him, I guess. At least Elsie will be able to help cushion the blow if we decide to base ourselves in the States.”
“Don’t.” I wince at the thought of Elsie Poole ‘cushioning’ anything. “This is going to take a bit of getting used to. Quick, say something to distract me. Anything.”
“We could split our time between here and Florida,” says Elliot, continuing a conversation that started last night, and has continued intermittently ever since. “I know the paperwork would probably be a bit of a pain, but it’s not like either of us has a boss to answer to. We’re writers. We can work from anywhere we like.”
“I think the commute between England and America might be a bit much, don’t you?” I reply, snuggling into him and still trying not to think about Dad and Elsie. “Not to mention the visas we’d need. Is it even legal for me to work in America? Or for you to work here?”
“No idea,” he says, cheerfully. “We’ll add it to the list.”
He reaches over and picks up a notebook from the nightstand. Because, like he said, we’re writers: ofcoursethere’s an actual list — one we started last night, when we realized we had too many questions to be able to keep track of them all. We’ve called the list ‘Things We Need to Figure Out’, and item number one is where we’re going to live after Elliot’s visa runs out and we have to decide what happens next.
(Item number two is what we should name the dog we’re planning to get as soon as we’ve decided: so far we’re thinking Bark Twain for a boy and Virginia Woof for a girl, but we’re open to suggestions…)
(Oh, and item # 3 is what the title of theSnow Globesequel should be. We’re not going to be starting on that until I’ve finished writing the book I started as a ghostwriter, but will be finishing under my own name, though: my first real novel. And hopefully not the last.)
But there’s plenty of time for all of that.
