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“I didn’t want you to leave, though.” He turns back to me. The snow’s still coming down and it’s beginning to settle, turning the ground the same colour as the sky, and making Jonathan look like he’s the only real thing in the whole place. “I was surprised. And at a work event. And not prepared for you to…to…”
“Be faking amnesia?” I asked. “To be fair, that’s not the sort of thing people are prepared for in general.”
His gaze is dark and unwavering. “To hurt me. To be able to hurt me.”
It’s kind of the worst thing someone can say to you. Because you can’t hurt someone unless they care. And you shouldn’t if they do. “I really am,” I say, “beyond fucking sorry.”
“I know.”
“And I wasn’t faking liking yez.”
“I know that too.” He swallows with a dry little click. “After all, you clearly have terrible taste.”
“Oi. I do not.”
“I’ve met your cat.”
“You love my cat.”
Jonathan clears his throat. “I suppose I do. And I suppose part of the reason I’m here is that, well, maybe I’d like your cat back in my life. Because I never meant to make your cat feel he had to leave.”
This is another one of them Jonathan Forest closest he can get deals. And you know what? I’m fine with it. “The cat was just really cut up about letting you down like,” I say. “And he’ll do a better job of trusting you in future.”
“I really do understand why he…” Jonathan blinks, as if he’s only just realised what he’s participating in. “This is silly. Why you acted the way you did. And while I’m not…thrilled about it, I don’t think I want to lose you over it.”
The fact he’d driven for six hours on Christmas morning should have probably tipped me off to the possibility that he might be willing to give me a second chance. But hearing him say it—especially when I was so convinced it was over—messes me up a bit. “Really?”
“Yes, Sam, really. And it’s very cold and I’m quite nervous and I’ve missed you more than I should in thirty-seven hours, so if I could have an answer that would be good.”
My answer is obviously yes. But my head’s all over the place and I’m scared of saying the word in case it breaks. So I kiss him instead. And straightaway he puts his arms around me, and it’s snowing, and it’s Christmas, and we’re in a fucking graveyard and I’m wearing a jacket that isn’t properly on because it’s just over my shoulders and my fingers are still freezing and—when we break apart I realise I’m crying, like, loads.
“Sorry,” I say. With, let’s be honest, very little clarity and absolutely no dignity. “I’m just a bit. It’s a lot.”
“Thinking about it, I should probably have waited until…” Jonathan brushes a small minority of the tears from my cheeks. I wonder if the day’ll come when I stop being surprised by how gentle he can be. “Until you weren’t in a cemetery?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m…glad you’re here.” And because there isn’t really a good way to introduce someone to your dead family, I take his hand and lead him over to the graves. “These are…I mean…part of why I…I know I should’ve been straight with you, but it wasn’t just the job, you know. It was…it was this. Like when you were asking what I had waiting for me, where my family were and that, it was so much easier to say I didn’t remember. Because then I didn’t have to.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just nods. His hand in mine is this little ball of warmth when all the world is cold.
“Car accident,” I explain. “A few years ago.”
We’re side by side now, standing in front of them, watching snow gathering on the headstones. “Do you want to tell me about them?” he asks.
And it turns out, at last, I do.
EPILOGUE
It’s christmas again.
“Why didn’t you cut crosses in them sprouts?” Nanny Barb is asking.
“Because you don’t have to,” Jonathan’s telling her. “BJ, for once in your life back me up on something. You don’t need to cut crosses in sprouts.”
“It disgusts me,” she says, “but he’s right.”
Things have been okay for the past year. It did, in the end, take us a bit to get completely past the whole faking amnesia thing—
“Who finished the gravy?” Granddad Del is staring at an empty gravy boat with a look of frankly disproportionate outrage. “I’ve not had mine yet.”
