Page 41 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“Jake, what kind of lawyer are you? I don’t know a lot about law, especially British law, but this place—” I face him, arms outstretched. “This isn’t the sort of place you buy on a salary doing nonprofit work. Lawyer or not.”

He approaches me slowly, hanging his head with a palm cupping the back of his neck. “Ah, my family has money.” He doesn’t look up when he says it.

I’m vaguely aware that he didn’t answer my question, but all things considered, it doesn’t even matter. Any fantasy I might’ve entertained where Jake and I continue beyond December completely evaporates. He’s beautiful, he’s rich, his world is bigger than I can ever comprehend.

I guess I’ve liked how it feels when you see … just me.

His words from last night land like a cannonball in my gut. I asked him to bring me here. I hurt my own feelings, and I’m blaming him for it. My throat clenches tight. “I … um—” I turn slowly, unsteadily, like a ballerina in a broken music box. “I should go.”

Silently, Jake follows me to the lift. The lift. In his home.

Tears spring up and spill down my cheeks, but I have enough pride left that I don’t make a sound. And Jake has enough respect for my agency that he doesn’t try to stop me when I grab my coat and step into my boots. They’re soaked.

I stand there like a fool. I have no idea how to call the damned lift. There’s no visible panel. I suppose it’s telling that I don’t feel trapped, despite the way my nervous system urges flight. Once again, my heart and my mind play tug-of-war with my body.

Behind me, Jake gently says, “What are we doing? What do you need right now?”

I have no idea what to do with this. He didn’t ask something generic like Can I do anything? that I could easily say no to or ignore outright. It’s not hollow and idle, like I’m sorry.

He’s de-escalating.

He’s present and he’s regulated.

I’ve been in therapy long enough that I know what this looks like for myself, but I’ve never experienced being in healthy conflict with anyone other than Maddie. I’ve always thought of it as some kind of enlightened, aspirational state that I shouldn’t expect other people to get to. But Jake just did.

And not only that—he got there before I did.

Jake reaches around me to press a flat button camouflaged in the frame of the lift. The door slides silently open in front of me. At my back, I feel his warmth, but I don’t hear him. I think he’s holding his breath.

Softly, he says, “I like you, Evie. Very much.”

“I like you, too. But you don’t really know me, Jake. You know vacation-me. You like vacation-me.”

“Well, that’s a treat, isn’t it? Rather boring if we knew everything about each other already.” I hear him shift, but there’s silence again a moment later. I imagine him reaching out to touch me but resisting. “You’re my advent calendar with thousands of lovely little doors.”

The door to the lift scrolls shut. I still haven’t moved.

Rain pummels the skylights overhead. Sniffling, I look down at my feet. “I bought these boots at Costco.”

Jake clears his throat. Hesitantly, he says, “OK. I don’t know what that—”

“Yes you do, Jake.” Slowly, I turn to face him.

He tips my chin up with a knuckle, smoothing away tears with his thumb. He stares at me for a long time.

“Your reality and mine aren’t compatible.”

He chuckles. “Christ, you’re litigious.”

I shoot him a fragile half-smile. “Is that your professional opinion?”

Jake’s eyes go wide. His laugh is abrupt and loud, echoing off the high ceiling. “I think you missed your calling, Miss McClane. You could argue the wheels off a bloody bike.” His tone is playful, but underlying frustration gives it an edge.

“Fine, then. Tell me something real. What’s the deal with the bed out here?” I say.

“I like the view.” Jake sends a rueful glance towards the windows. Rain still falls in a solid sheet. Zero visibility. “Usually.”

My answering laugh is small, but it’s something. “I sort of figured you were loaded when you picked me up in an Aston Martin for a date at your friend’s private man-cave museum mansion, Jake. But this is unreal.”