Page 49 of Break the Ice

‘You too, Americano.’ I lean over and give him a kiss on the cheek and a flashback of last night comes into view. He doesn’t blush this time, he closes his eyes like he did last night like he wants to savour and keep the affection. He opens his eyes, grinning, looking like he wants to say something. Until a light comes on upstairs in the farmhouse. We both swivel around and hear the sound of a window opening and a child’s voice. ‘I swear I heard Santa outside. I heard footsteps. Can we check if it’s him?’

We turn to each other and tiptoe back to the car. Yep, it’s time to go.

TWENTY-FOUR

JOSHUA

I lied. I didn’t have one strong coffee this morning. I actually had three strong coffees and a box of Maltesers, which is why I’m wired. There was one of those cute coffee makers you could put on the wood-burning stove, I was cold, it was Christmas Day, I’d just had sex with Phoebe but also my ex had sent me a text while I was standing in a field in England, waiting for a dog to pee, counting the infinite number of stars. And it threw me. Avery’s emotional manipulation, the coincidence of her text arriving in such a calm twinkly moment, the s’mores… So I drank a gallon of coffee, I cleaned, I packed and now I’m driving along this British A road, which is clear yet icy, feeling extremely alert, wired, amped for Christmas.

Phoebe is less amped. There was a point when I thought she might be sleepwalking. That girl really loves and needs her rest, it would seem, and so Steve and I have enjoyed her light purring as she sleeps and occasionally makes this snuffling sound like a very happy piglet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sleep so comfortably in a car, like a well-wrapped burrito. Maybe it was the snowman-building. Maybe it was the sex. We had sex. I look at her again and smile, remembering it. Who are you? I’m learning you aren’t the best person in a crisis but you do ease the tension with humour, with light, and, even though you drag your feet, you get your hands dirty, you join in. I like that about you. She’s also a fan of the cheek kiss, but what I like most about her is that she’s upfront with her emotions, she holds nothing back. It’s the opposite of what I was led to believe the English were like; reserved, stiff upper lip and all that.

I wonder if I could tell her about the text. She could be one of the best people I could talk to about Avery. I feel I would get an honest opinion from her.

‘Hey, you up?’ I whisper. She replies with one of her happy snuffles. I’ll take that as a no. ‘You wanna hear a story?’ I should have told her this one yesterday when we were trying to get to sleep. It’s about a boy and a girl who get together in their senior year at school. They go to colleges one hour away from each other and they make it work for three years, running up thousands of miles, and just as many in minutes chatting, messaging, sending photos. We exchange cards and gifts and promises and we are so familiar with each other. I know her favourite colour is purple and that she likes her tea with the bag out. She needs a pillow nearby to watch a horror movie, she can’t wash her hair at night and eats crunchy peanut butter, only crunchy. There was plenty in common. I knew the names of every one of her cousins, even Phil, the one no one spoke about because he was a bad children’s magician, had a mullet and kept snakes. I knew the location of every one of her freckles. It was an everything relationship. She knew everything about me. And it made sense to give her everything. To ask her to marry me. She was everything. Until she wasn’t. And I didn’t see any of it coming.

One day we went to a bakery to try wedding cake and after we went for a walk and she said it was too soon, too fast. I argued that we’d been dating for years, too fast is two people meeting in a bar and running off to Vegas. We’d told people to save a date and we’d auditioned a cellist. The cellist made me tear up she was so good. We didn’t get the deposit back for the cellist. Or the flowers, or the dress. It was the wedding that never happened. To a girl I loved completely. And I never found out why. Maybe because I deal with very concrete and defined data. You either love someone or you don’t. There can be no grey area. Everything she told me on that fateful walk and after was laced with cliché. It’s me, not you. I think I’ll always love you. Just not like that. And every sentence was wounding. It negated years of trust, companionship and respect.

And worse was how she lingered in my life. She would come to mind when I was shopping for peanut butter. She’d send me a text on Christmas Eve so, just as I’m ready and moving on with my life, I go into some sort of reverse state. I hover over the thought of what if. What if she’s changing her mind? What if she’s returned to the idea of love? A love with me? What if she’s just stringing me along? I hate thinking about her at Christmas, today of all days. I should be thinking about turkey, Santa, candy canes. I wish I could break the habit of her. ‘I hate that she has that power over me, I really do.’ I don’t know why I say that out loud, it’s like the stream of consciousness seeping out. I moved away from her to give myself a chance to recover. But I’ve done this in a very lonely space where I usually keep a lot of things to myself, with no friends around to share these thoughts with.

Steve whimpers in the back seat. He knows. She owns me, doesn’t she, Steve? His head pops up and I smile at him through the rear-view mirror.

‘You good, Steve?’

‘I’m good, thank you, Joshua. Can I have a biscuit?’ a voice mutters, pretending to be the dog.

I don’t know why the dog is cockney with a low gravelly voice like Barry White, but I look over at Phoebe and smile. Did she hear what I said before? I hope not, otherwise she might think I’m a little strange. ‘You’re up then?’

‘I wasn’t sleeping, I was just resting my eyes,’ she says, smacking her gums together.

‘You were kinda snoring,’ I inform her.

‘I don’t snore. I don’t know why you tell such lies,’ she says, stretching, looking out the window to see where we are. ‘What’s the deal with this music?’ she asks, wiping her eyes.

‘Oh, I was browsing. Stevie Wonder has a Christmas album so I downloaded it. I’m keeping it seasonal.’

‘Aww, it’s like you bought Steve a gift. Aren’t you a lucky pooch face?’

‘Yes, I am, Aunty Phoebe,’ I say, in my dog voice.

‘What the fuck was that?’ she says. ‘You’ve made him sound like a posh politician. Steve is a dog of the people.’

I laugh. ‘He is, is he?’

‘Of course,’ she says, her feet curled into her body, those cat handwarmers in her palms. ‘Did you say something before? As I was waking up. About power?’

I pause. Crap. ‘The power of love. How it’s a curious thing. But I was also explaining to the dog how there are three songs with the same title and we were debating which is the most famous.’ Because now she won’t think I’m strange at all, having music debates with the dog.

She turns to face me, laughing. ‘I think Jennifer Rush wins over Huey Lewis, but the Frankie Goes to Hollywood one is festive and appropriate for the season.’

I smile at the fact that she knew exactly what three songs I had in my head, and at how she can join the debate so easily even when she’s dopey and just woken up. Does she sing now, though? Of course she does. Steve tips his head to one side, clearly wondering where that noise came from. She leans over and reaches in her bag, gets out some chocolate and offers me a piece. ‘It’s Christmas, chocolate for breakfast. C’mon…’

I take a square as she wipes the condensation off her window and looks out on to the roads. They’re still bleak and icy. It’s only six, so the sky still sits dark and starry. A few cars zip past but it’s a peaceful drive, the fields glowing in the distance with the snow, the roads cleared as best as they can be. These roads aren’t like the big wide highways of the States, they’re smaller and occasionally winding and require my full attention.

Phoebe looks at my phone in its cradle, at the Maps app telling us where we are. ‘Ooh, make a pit stop here. Exeter Services,’ she says, pointing out the road sign.

‘Will it be open?’ I ask her.

‘Well, if they’re not, I’m going to whizz in a bush.’