Page 26 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Am I talking to Evie right now, or a journalist?”

I study him for a moment, nibbling the inside of my cheek. “Kind of an odd question.”

“Sorry.” Jake’s quiet chuckle is more air than sound. He passes a hand over his hair, then he clutches the back of his neck. “Ah … I do mostly community work, policy advocacy. Pollution disputes, historical preservation, that sort of thing. Some environmental work, too. I care about a lot of the same things you do. Most of the same things, actually. Maybe we were meant to meet.”

When the server comes by, I ask for a takeaway box for what’s left of my steak and ale pie.

“What are you doing?” Jake chuckles.

I look down at the bit of pie left on my plate. There are barely three bites left, but I’m not leaving here without it. “I don’t want to live in a world where I don’t have this to look forward to. I’m going to make this last until I leave London.”

“Just enjoy it now, Evie. You can get another one.”

“Can I, though? Maybe for the next few weeks. Then I have to go back to New York, a place tragically devoid of steak and ale pies.”

* * *

The Cross Keys is simultaneously the most British and the most Christmassy place I’ve seen since arriving in London. Its façade is eclectic and ornate, with low arches at the entryway and a crest of two cherubs holding keys overhead. Inside, it’s small, with glossy wooden walls packed tight with paintings and memorabilia. The copper pots and vintage brass instruments that hang from the ceiling reflect the light from festive bulbs, amplifying the sparkle in every direction.

We get two pints of Guinness at the bar. Jake steps away a moment before I do, and once his back is turned, the bartender says, “Ever had a proper Guinness before, love?”

I glance around to make sure he’s talking to me. “I’ve had Guinness in the US.”

“I reckon that will spoil you, then.” He glances at my chest. “You won’t want to go back.”

I have to laugh. “I’ll take my chances.”

From across the room, Jake watches me with a vague smile as I approach. “Making friends?”

The place is packed. Red leather seating runs the length of the room. We manage to snag a spot in the corner, where the cushioned banquette makes an L shape around a tiny table. I slide in first, and Jake’s legs are so long, his knees nestle against mine. It’s the same as when he took my hand earlier this evening. Automatic. And neither of us moves away.

“So … who do you have waiting for you back in New York?” Jake says.

I raise a brow and say, “Bold of you to assume I have anyone else.” I try to deliver it like a self-deprecating joke, but Jake watches me with those hooded hazel eyes. And I’m seen.

“Had someone else, then?” he says.

I swallow hard. It’s a valid question, but looking back on my relationship with Calvin means I have to revisit the person I was when I was with him. “His name was Calvin. He was a first officer on an airline. Driven, smart, a little intense. I thought he was everything. For a long time, it was good. Or at least, I thought it was.”

Jake scans my face like he’s trying to figure out where my fractures are, and how they might fit back together. Finally, he says, “Was it actually good? Or just good enough?”

“It was easy, I think? I was happy with him for two years. Secure happy. Like, the thank god I never have to brave the dating pool again sort of happy.”

It sounds so pathetic, saying these things out loud. I think most people focus on the anger or sadness that comes from being cheated on, but for me, the shame of it is what cuts the deepest.

“Obviously, pilots spend a lot of time away from home, and it was fine. I like my space. But after we’d been dating for a year or so, weird things started popping up. Keycards in his luggage from hotels I didn’t recognize the names of. A copy of a rental car contract with a woman’s name on it as an authorized driver.”

As I talk, Jake makes low sounds of agreement or understanding. Or maybe it’s just his way of saying: I’m still with you. I’ve been looking down at my drink, but I can tell he’s watching me. I could feel his eyes on me in a pitch-black room. His presence has a weight to it.

I wave both my hands in front of me dismissively and blow out a quick breath. “Long story short—he cheated on me with women in all the cities he had regular overnights in.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it.” Gently, he asks, “How did it end?”

I’ve always hated the term “dumped.” Dumping a thing implies a sort of quick, careless offloading. It doesn’t fully capture what it was like for me to end things with Calvin. It was slow. Almost surgical. Despite everything he’d done, I spent weeks doodling a pro–con list, and I’m ashamed to admit that my list of reasons to stay with him was almost as long as the reasons to leave. I had to methodically snip apart all the pieces of me that had tangled around his. I lost some bits of myself in the process, and I’m not sure they’ll ever grow back. And do I even want them to? Maybe those bits should stay on the cutting-room floor forever.

“Unpopular opinion—I think it’s actually harder to be the one who ends a relationship. Because not only do you have to deal with the heartbreak of losing it, you have to dwell on whether you made the right choice.” My laugh is brittle. “You’re the one who ended it, so it’s your fault you’re alone, you know?”

“Christ, Evie, it’s not. It’s your ex’s fault for being a cheating wanker.”