Page 23 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“It’s like a mince pie, I guess, without the crust? Baked in a loaf pan with ketchup on top.”

“Sounds rubbish,” he says.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Maybe you can make it for me on one of our dates?”

“Oof, I don’t know, Jake. I don’t usually make meatloaf for someone until I’ve met their family. And anyway, I thought the goal here was to make me fall in love with Christmas? How would meatloaf move the festive needle?”

“Hm, you’ve figured me out.” He sips his drink and watches my tongue as I catch a stray crumb on my top lip.

“I’ll play along, though. Would today be our first date, then?”

Jake leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. “I’d argue that today is our third. The ghost tour was first, ice skating was second.”

“I think we might have different ideas of what makes a date.”

“Fascinating. Tell me yours.”

“Fond glances, I guess? Handholding. A kiss at the end, maybe?”

“Feels a bit prescriptive, that.” Thoughtful, Jake pushes out his lip, squints his eyes. “You know, since we’re already three dates in, maybe we should just make an Advent thing of it? Twelve dates to fall in love.”

“… with Christmas,” I add.

“Of course.”

“… and London.”

“Oh, of course. We need to keep the scope realistic.”

Even though I’ve only known Jake Frost for a few days, he feels like someone I remember. When I’m with him, my body receives information from frequencies I don’t have names for. Like my heart and my subconscious recognize him as the one I’ve always wanted.

* * *

When we get back to Covent Garden, it’s snowing in the piazza. I hold out my hand to let the meandering flakes land on my glove. “So strange. I heard it doesn’t actually snow much in December in London, but this is the third or fourth time I’ve seen it. But it never lasts long.”

Jake pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looks like he’s been rolled in sugar. “Ah … I don’t recommend catching those flakes on your tongue.” He nods with his chin towards the roof of the patisserie. “It’s not real snow. I think they use soap.”

A closer look at the flakes on my gloves makes it obvious they aren’t real snowflakes, even though they evaporate before my eyes like they’re made of ice. A flash mob of people dressed as Santa Claus suddenly fills the piazza, dancing to an EDM version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” I barely avoid an elbow to the head from a would-be influencer monologuing to his phone with the dancers in the background. “Legit chaos for sure,” the guy says into a lavalier mic clipped to his collar, “but overall a festive slay that will for sure heal your inner child.” He’s barely older than a child himself.

Nearly everyone else around me either records the falling flakes with their phone or takes a selfie at a strategic angle. They’re more concerned with capturing the moment than experiencing it. But then it occurs to me—here, being present isn’t the point. This isn’t snow you can catch on your tongue or feel melting against warm cheeks when you lift your face to the sky.

A piece of fake snow lands in my mouth and I awkwardly try to blow it out, but it’s already melted on my tongue. The faint taste of soap lingers. “See? This is why I don’t like Christmas. It’s all, like, performance art.”

“You enjoyed it five seconds ago,” Jake says.

“Yeah? Because I thought it was real.”

Jake moves closer. His hands are still in his pockets, but the gravity of his gaze pins me in place like I’ve sprouted a taproot.

“I’d argue—” he begins.

“You say that a lot,” I laugh.

Jake pauses with an indulgent smile before starting again. “I’d argue that the beauty you found in it is real. Those feelings were real, regardless of what made you feel them.”

“You’re insufferable.” Laughing, I take a few steps backwards. “Goodnight, Jake.”