Page 57 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“And?”

“This is your real.” I meet his gaze, tucking my hands into my lap. “But it’s still been one of the loveliest days of my life.”

Jake withdraws. It’s barely noticeable, but I see it. His chin dips, his eyes cast downwards, he cracks the knuckles of his left hand. And he nods almost imperceptibly, like he’s affirming something inside his own mind. His voice is quiet when he says, “I believe this is what you Americans call ‘moving the goalposts.’”

Gently, I say, “What is the goal, Jake?”

“Maybe … I don’t know.” He hesitates. “Maybe I just want to find a way for your definition of real to align with mine.”

That warmth blossoms inside me again, sunshine through a cold window in winter. But I don’t know how to respond. Realities are realities, aren’t they? How can one be changed to mesh with another?

Hours later, in the dark, Jake’s bare belly slowly rises and falls against my back. There’s something so intimate in feeling someone else breathe. His heartbeat has become my favorite lullaby. As I start to drift off, I hear him whisper, “I never saw you coming. But god, I hope I never have to watch you go.”

* * *

Two days to Christmas

The morning we’re due to leave for the Cotswolds, Jake isn’t here when I open my eyes. There’s a note on the bedside table that reads, Gone to Earl’s. Text me when you get up, in his immaculate print.

I hop to my feet and scurry to the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth first. Once I’m back in bed, I lie back and text that I’m awake.

I hear the elevator within ten minutes of sending the text. Jake is already smiling as the doors slide open. Today, he sports a five o’clock shadow, and his hair is loose around his ears. He’s shed his typical old-money countryside aesthetic for whiskered raw denim and a faded Oxford University crew with a frayed neckline. There’s a new sort of lightness about him. His posture is looser, the tiny muscles at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth seem softer. I think he’s excited to see his family.

There’s a cardboard box with the Grey Earl’s logo on it and a takeout coffee cup in his hand. I still haven’t gotten around to buying a reusable travel mug, and the thought makes me irrationally sad. At this point, it’s so late in the trip, I might as well not bother.

“Good morning,” Jake says.

“What’s this?” I scoot to the edge of the bed and sit with my legs crossed under me. “I didn’t know you offered a breakfast service.”

He chuckles and passes me the cup. I cradle it against my chest with both hands, hunching over it like a goblin.

“You have a five-thousand-dollar espresso machine built into your kitchen worktop,” I say.

“Ah, that. That monstrosity was here when I bought the place. How do you know it cost five thousand dollars?”

“I looked it up on the internet. I was curious.”

“Of course you were.” The mattress dips a bit with Jake’s weight as he sits beside me, and I tip towards him.

“So, you never use it?”

“It scares the hell out of me. Have you seen the way they shoot steam? Why do you think I’m at Earl’s every morning?”

This is one of those seemingly inconsequential choices we’ve made in parallel. If Jake had his morning coffee here, or if I’d bothered to use the Nespresso pods I bought when I arrived, our second chance encounter after baggage claim at Heathrow would probably have been the last time we ever saw each other.

My first sip of coffee is sublime. “What’s in the box?”

He gives me one of his tilted smiles. “Didn’t know what you preferred, so I grabbed one of everything I’ve seen you order. Cherry and Quinn helped fill in the rest.”

A peek into the box reveals all of my favorites, each of them individually nestled in a piece of parchment paper folded into an origami-like cup. A chocolate croissant, a pear and pistachio Danish, a few Earl Grey madeleines. Banana bread, of course. I’ve been at Earl’s often enough that I’ve watched Quinn and Cherry make these takeaway assortment boxes for others, but I’ve never seen it done with quite so much care as this.

“They say hi, by the way.” Jake traces a fingertip along my bare knee. “They’re quite fond of you.”

“They’re darlings.” I reach back to grab my phone from the side table, firing off a quick thank-you in my group chat with Cherry and Quinn. I get a response back immediately in the form of a selfie, both of them blowing a kiss at the camera. “Did I tell you Maddie got to meet them on a video call? Afterwards, she told me it was the first time she regretted not coming.”

Jake nudges my chin up with a bent knuckle. “I rather like having you all to myself.”

I set my coffee and pastries aside and lift a leg over his lap to straddle him. Pushing him back against the mattress, I pin him down and murmur against his lips, “I rather like being had.”