Page 2 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Ma’am, you really do have to sit down now,” the attendant says behind me. She has the audacity to smile apologetically over my shoulder at the man in the aisle.

I’m not getting off this plane. I’m really going to London alone.

When I return to my seat, the manspreader refuses to stand, so I have to squeeze myself past him, temporarily straddling his thigh with my ass in his face. As I grip the top of the seat in front of me to keep from falling into his lap, my fingers lock on to something slick and cold, and I don’t need to look to know that it’s a little gift from the snotty kid in front of me. Dostoevsky guy has his elbow propped on our shared armrest, so I have to sit in a sustained clench that would make my old Pilates instructor proud.

Holding back tears, I watch the man in the tweed coat turn around and give me an apologetic glance. The flight attendant ushers him towards first class. Of course.

Fifteen days until Christmas

I’ve never been able to sleep on flights, so after a connection, baggage reclaim, and immigration at Heathrow, I think I’ve been awake for at least a full day. I’m desperate to put my head on a pillow.

After customs, I pick a spot against the wall to call Maddie. She forwarded the lodging confirmation email several weeks ago, but a search brings up no results. Anxiety makes my throat tighten. She put this trip together in less than five months, and I spent so much time ignoring that it was happening that I left all of the planning to her.

I’m in the middle of a jaw-breaking yawn when she answers. “Hi from the future,” I mumble.

I’m surprised she’s answered. I expected her to be on the next flight on her way here, or at the very least, waiting in the terminal. Instead, she’s in our apartment in Queens, nestled on the sofa under a chunky knit blanket. She’s got gold gel under-eye patches on, and she’s wearing a sweatshirt appliquéd with a very muscular Santa Claus lifting a barbell. It reads “NORTH SWOLE.” The sky in the window behind her is that saturated glacial blue of sunny winter days in New York, and it hits me with a wallop of homesickness so intense it makes me nauseous. Here, it’s barely midafternoon, but the sky is already a watery grey over a weak, waning sun.

Maddie’s the extrovert in our duo. I’m the one whose natural habitat is a comfortable couch in front of a frost-filigreed window, a mug of something fragrant and steamy in hand. I’m not really an introvert, either—Maddie calls me an “Evievert.” I’m just selective about who I share my time with. I also really love staying home. Maddie will bring a bit of home with her when she gets here, though. I’m going to cling to that for now.

Maddie leans forward and squints at the screen, so close that her face goes blurry. “Oh my god, are you OK? What happened?”

“Nothing. Why?” In the tiny thumbnail in the bottom corner of my screen, the mulled-wine stain on my ivory cashmere looks alarmingly blood-adjacent. I lay my hand over it. “Oh. This. Finance bro collision at that wine bar at the airport. Wasn’t even my wine—”

“No, honey. Your eyes.”

After takeoff, I did cry. Just as a little treat. Now, my mascara has fanned out under my lower lashes. I look like I’m a week into a mysterious illness. The cashmere, the heeled boots, the dark high-waisted jeans, the makeup—all of it was in anticipation of being surrounded by chic travelers in Gabriela Hearst power suits and bougie vacationers in their Burberry athleisure wear. I wanted to look like I fit in. I should’ve known I’d fumble it.

“I got, uh … sweaty on the plane.” I swipe my finger under each eye. “What happened to you?”

“The kitty sitter broke her ankle and had to bail. I am so sorry.”

It’s always been hilarious to me that Maddie refers to her hateful goblin of a cat as a kitty. Claudia is a creature from a Guillermo del Toro fever dream. I wouldn’t be surprised if the sitter intentionally flung themselves down a short flight of stairs to get out of watching her.

“I hope they’re OK,” I say, scrolling my email. “What’s the name of the place we’re meant to be staying? I’ll get us checked in.”

“Paperwhite Holiday Home. Doesn’t it sound so festive?”

Truly, at this point, I wouldn’t complain if it was called Solo Traveler Murder Cottage, as long as they let me take a quick nap before they come at me with the zip ties.

“How are you spelling it?” I spell it out for her, and she says, “Paperwhite is one word, not two. It’s a flower. How do you not know that, nature girl? And it’s Home, not House.”

“Ah. Found it.”

Maddie hesitates. “You’ll have the whole place to yourself. You’re going to love it.”

“Wait. Why did you just say ‘you’ instead of ‘we’?”

When I swipe back to the call, Maddie blinks at me over the rim of her mug. “Claudia is nineteen years old, Evie.”

Shit. I narrow my eyes at the screen. “Madison Eleanor Barden—”

“I just kinda feel like this is a sign that I shouldn’t leave her for so long—”

“Don’t you dare bail on me—”

“And you need this. It’s serendipity. This trip was meant for you anyway—”

“I’m canceling and coming home.”