Page 82 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

“I’ve been Jameson’s favorite little project for a while. I met him first as sort of an envoy for merger discussions. I assume he thinks of me as who he’d hoped Jake would turn out to be. He thinks I share his worldview. I haven’t bothered to correct him.”

Juno Wilding-Wood is ruthless. And a little terrifying.

I like her.

“Evie, I truly don’t know how Jameson knew Jake would be at The Shard, but I have no doubt his little ambush was premeditated. The man’s connections are astonishing. And he used me as a prop.” She primly sets her espresso cup aside. “I don’t like being used as a prop.”

“What was it like having dinner with a real-life Bond villain?” When I smile, the curves of my cheeks finally tip tears loose.

Juno laughs and walks to the door. “I like you. I think we would’ve been friends in a different lifetime.”

I sniff hard and wipe my eyes with the heels of my palms. “Me, too.”

Just before she leaves, Juno says, “You can’t outrun feelings, Evie. They’re way faster than you. And they can cross oceans.”

* * *

Cherry and Quinn drop off my bag later in the afternoon. They didn’t even have to go to Jake’s place to get it—he brought it to Grey Earl’s shortly after they opened this morning. They bring me a coffee and a box of my favorite pastries, too. I’m fully committed to eating every single one before I leave for the airport tomorrow morning.

Before they leave, Cherry hands me something from her coat pocket. It chimes as it lands in my hand. It’s the little jingle bell from over the door at Grey Earl’s.

My eyes well with hot tears. “Oh.”

“Now don’t get all misty on us,” Cherry says. “I’ve got another. This one is permanently retired now.”

“Hang it on your door at home,” says Quinn. “It’ll tell you when someone lovely is about to come into your life.”

“I’m going to miss you two. Terribly,” I say.

“We’d better take a photo, then, eh?” says Quinn. They press their cheek to mine, and Cherry comes in from the other side, and we snap a picture with my phone.

“It never has to be goodbye, love.” Cherry squeezes my shoulder. “Let’s call it—‘until later.’”

* * *

I didn’t really cry until I tried to pack my bag to go home.

Now, I’m hemorrhaging tears.

I’ve been here so long, there are touches of me and Jake everywhere. A bunch of bananas has turned black on the counter, but even if I were home in Queens, I’d never make the time to bake them into bread. The small piece of meat pie from the Lamb and Flag is in the fridge, hard as a stone at this point. I wish I’d just enjoyed it while I’d had the chance. I slice cheese into chunks and use them to scoop chutney, and I eat licorice until my tongue goes numb.

I’ve acquired more things than could possibly fit in my luggage, and I briefly consider buying another bag to take everything home.

But I don’t. I have to leave it all in London.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Four days after Christmas

The morning of my flight home, the paperwhites are in bloom.

I know it before I even open my eyes. Their fragrance floats up the stairs, so potent I can almost imagine a visible wisp of scent, like in a cartoon.

When I finally get out of bed and go downstairs, I take each step slowly, savoring the musical creak of each one. The tiny easel on the side table sits empty, and the chalkboard still lies face-down where I put it earlier in the month. I stand it back up. What would I do with my time if I still had this many days left?

I did build a little life here, even though it was brief. Even though it’s ending. We live so many different lives within a single lifetime, don’t we?

In the watery morning light, the clustered blooms of the paperwhites seem to glow ghostly white. In a glass vessel, in just an inch of pebbles and water, they bloom months before they’re meant to. Nourished by cold light through a windowpane instead of the drenching shine of a springtime sun. And they’re still beautifully, perfectly complete. They’re still paperwhites. And when all that’s left are the bulbs sleeping beneath the soil—they’ll still be paperwhites.