Page 42 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

I meant it to be tongue-in-cheek, but he actually looks embarrassed. Quietly, he says, “There’s more to me than a fancy car and who my friends are.”

Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. “Fair.”

He stares at me for what feels like minutes. At one point, he even opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he closes it again before he does. Then, with a determined nod, he says, “Right. Let’s get out of here. We’re going out to do something real.”

* * *

We brave the rain again so Jake can take me to a spot he calls a “chippy.” I smell the place well before I see it. Hot oil, frying potatoes, succulent battered fish. As we get closer, I catch the tang of salt and malt vinegar, too. A long strip of illuminated signage comes into view, reflecting across the wet pavement like afternoon sunshine on a stream. Jake takes the umbrella and ushers me inside, getting drenched while he shakes off as much water as he can before following me in.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s tidy and bustling, with a brightly lit interior and tiled walls. It reminds me of a no-frills Manhattan greasy spoon. We wait twenty minutes for a table. By the time we’re seated, I’m shivering. My jeans are soaked to my knees from the slanting rain and splash-up from the pavement. Jake is even wetter than I am, but if he’s cold, he doesn’t show it.

As much as I love an icy draft beer to complement the richness of fried fish, the weather calls for hot tea instead. Chamomile for me, English Breakfast for Jake. The steam from the tea lifts and curls in the air in front of my face, and I greedily breathe it in. Thankfully, our food comes fast. For me, cod and chips—the fat kind with a crisp crust on the outside and soft potato perfection inside. For Jake, massive fried prawns, chips, a few bowls of different sauces, and something that looks like pureed baby food.

“What’s the green stuff?”

Jake laughs. “Mushy peas. Try them.”

“I can’t think of a thing I’d rather do less.”

Jake gets a bit of the pea purée on the end of his fork and extends it across the table. “Trust me.”

Reluctantly, I accept the bite. And it’s delicious.

“OK, I stand corrected. That might be the best-tasting thing with the worst name.”

“Just wait until you try spotted dick.”

“Spotted what, now?”

We laugh.

I learn that Jake’s only real food aversion is mayonnaise, and he tells me he thinks the person who first invented it should be charged with a hate crime. He likes pineapple on pizza, but only if it’s fresh, not from a can. Jake offers me a prawn, and I decline. I tell him my two main food hang-ups—eggs are almost always a no for me, and prawns are out because I hate the thought of eating a creature’s entire body. He thinks this is hilarious and laughs so hard he almost chokes on the bite of prawn he has in his mouth. “See?” I say. “They’ll getcha.”

“But you ate oysters at Borough,” he says, tapping his chest with his fist.

“Thanks for the reminder, I hate myself now,” I laugh. Around a mouthful of fried potato, I say, “I’m calling this chiplarking.”

“I like it.” He’s hoarse from coughing. “Add it to the Evie-Jake lexicon.”

“Oh, we have an Evie-Jake lexicon?” I say, arching an eyebrow.

“Don’t all good relationships?”

“But this isn’t a relationship. It has to be … I don’t know. Limerence.”

“Limerence is only when it’s one-sided. I don’t think that’s the case between us.”

I laugh. “How do you know the definition of limerence?”

“Why would you use a word you weren’t sure I knew the definition of? Are you gatekeeping mental health literacy, love?” He sips his tea. “I go to therapy too, you know.”

It might be the sexiest thing he’s said to me since we met.

“Fine.” I pop a chip in my mouth and mumble, “A temporary crush.”

“Right, then. I’ll play along. Tell me, clever clogs, how does one test whether something is temporary, or lasting?” When I take a sip of tea instead of responding, he says, “I’ll wait.”

“God, you are so insufferable when you say that.”