Chapter 28 Driving Home for Another Try
Chapter twenty-eight
Driving Home for Another Try
Miranda
The kitchen tiles are freezing under my feet.
I flip the button on the kettle again. With Sim-Sim running late, there’s enough time for another cup of tea.
SJ is having a minor strop in his room that his dad is late, and frankly I’m pissed too.
We were supposed to leave in the morning, but now we’ll be lucky if we get to Cornwall by dinner time.
On the table, my phone is on speaker, mid-call with the usual group chaos.
“Wait, hang on,” Bri says, her voice tinny with poor signal. “You’re leaving today? Two days before Christmas?”
“Yes,” I say, throwing a handful of toiletries into a zip bag. “Sim-Sim’s picking us up in less than an hour. Please send sedatives.”
“Why today already?” Fi asks. “Is Cornwall moving further away?”
“His mother’s throwing one of her full-on Christmas Eve parties for the neighbours,” I mutter, rooting through the drying rack for anything not still vaguely damp. “Apparently I’m now her honorary event assistant.”
“Oh god,” Amelia breathes. “Are there checklists?”
“There was a colour-coded spreadsheet.”
A beat of silence.
“Right,” Lizzie says, “so you’re fleeing the village to play unpaid elf to your former mother-in-law. Absolutely normal behaviour.”
I sigh, wrestling SJ’s hoodie into the suitcase. “I know how it sounds.”
“And Sim-Sim’s collecting you?” Bri asks.
“I love Geraldine but she is not made to drive that far,” I mutter.
It’s easier to joke than to admit I haven’t slept properly since the decision was taken from me. That I’ve replayed the last thing I said to Jasper too many times to count. That I nearly knocked on his door last night with a tin of Quality Street and no plan whatsoever.
But I didn’t.
And now we’re leaving.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Amelia asks gently.
I pause, then zip the suitcase shut with a little too much force.
“I just need to get through the packing. And the trip. And the part where I smile at people who once gave me a tea towel with Mrs Sim-Sim embroidered on it.”
“Therapy,” Fi mutters.
“Wine,” Lizzie suggests.
“Or,” Bri adds, “a last-minute detour to a certain someone’s front door. A festive drop-in. Hot man, strong arms, unresolved feelings…”
“I don’t have time,” I say quickly, too quickly, reaching for my charger.
But it’s a lie. I do have time. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Just long enough to say Merry Christmas. Just long enough to see his face.
I glance at the phone. “You can say it, you know.”
“Say what?” Bri replies innocently.
“That you don’t think I should go with Sim-Sim.”
“Miranda,” Amelia says carefully, “we support you. Entirely. No matter what.”
“Absolutely,” Fi agrees. “Completely. Even if some of us… gently question your taste in Christmas transport arrangements.”
There’s a beat.
“I mean, you’re not marrying him,” Lizzie says finally. “It’s a trip. To Cornwall. With your son.”
“Exactly,” Amelia jumps in. “You’re doing this for SJ. And if nothing else, you’ll get some fresh air and overpriced fudge out of it.”
I shove a hoodie into the case. “I just wish I didn’t feel so—”
“Guilty?” Bri offers.
“Conflicted?” Fi adds.
“Both,” I say. “Plus chaotic. And mildly nauseous.”
“You’re a single mum packing for Christmas in Cornwall,” Lizzie says. “Mild nausea is standard.”
I collapse onto the edge of the bed, surrounded by half-zipped bags and emotional landmines.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Then just go,” Amelia says gently. “Go. Be with SJ. See how it feels.”
“And if it doesn’t feel right,” Fi adds, “you come home early and we’ll all pretend we never even had this conversation.”
“Exactly,” Bri says. “We’re excellent at—" The doorbell cuts of the last of Bri’s sentence.
“Oh, someone at the door. Sim-Sim might be early. Have a fab Christmas, you wonderful women! I’ll text and see you next week!” I say quickly, grabbing my phone and hitting end as I slide, sock-footed, down the hallway.
A chorus of “Love you!” and “Don’t die in Cornwall!” chimes out just before the call cuts.
I reach the door, still pulling my cardigan into place, and open it.
It’s not Sim-Sim.
It’s Jasper.
He stands on the step in a grey knitted jumper and tan cargo trousers, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a medium sized, neatly wrapped box. The kind of box that makes you want to open it immediately.
He looks like he’s stepped straight out of an outdoorsy winter catalogue, all casual handsomeness and light stubble. A complete clit-bait.
“Merry Christmas,” he says in his deep voice that has more than once invaded my dreams.
“Oh,” I breathe, surprised. “Merry Christmas. You look—” I stop myself before the word ridiculously good escapes. “—well.”
He smiles, just a little. “You’re all packed?”
“Mostly. Nearly. Ish.” I step aside. “Do you want to come in?”
He glances past me, into the hallway. Then shakes his head.
“I’m on my way to the shops,” he says. “Didn’t want to interrupt. I just wasn’t sure when you were leaving.”
His gaze flicks down, and he holds out the box.
“I wanted to give you this.”
I blink at it, stupidly.
“Oh. Jasper, I didn’t— I haven’t got you anything. I didn’t think—”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine. Really. It’s nothing big. I just saw it and thought of you. And I wanted you to have it.”
My hands curl around the wrapping paper almost reluctantly, like accepting it feels like a commitment to something I’m no longer sure I’m allowed to have.
“But,” he adds gently, “you’re not allowed to open it before Christmas Day. That’s non-negotiable.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite the weight in my chest. “I can probably manage that.”
“Good.” His hands slip back into his trouser pockets. “That’s all, really.”
For a second, neither of us says anything. The air smells faintly of pine and the cinnamon candle I lit earlier. It’s too quiet.
Then I manage, “Thank you.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they should. “You’re welcome.”
We stand there for another second, the silence stretching just enough to feel fragile.
“Have a lovely Christmas,” he says, and the tone of his voice gives me goosebumps.
“You too,” I reply. “Really.”
He nods once, then steps back off the mat, hands deep in his pockets again. I don’t know what else to say, and he doesn’t give me time to find it.
I close the door gently.
Lean against it for a second.
The gift is still in my hands, paper neat, corners folded just-so. I press it against my chest.
One tear slips down my cheek before I can blink it back.
Just the one. That’s all I allow myself.