Chapter 29 Good King Wenceslas Ordered Chips （and Whisky）
Chapter twenty-nine
Good King Wenceslas Ordered Chips (and Whisky)
Jasper
The house is still when I get back from the corner shop. Proper still. Not peaceful, just... empty.
I shoulder the door closed and set the shopping bag on the kitchen counter. It contains a few questionable microwave meals, a multipack of beer that was on offer, and a bottle of single malt whisky I didn’t technically need but wasn’t about to leave behind.
The heating's on, but the place still feels cold. Or maybe that’s just in my head.
I flick the kitchen light on. The bulb does its usual reluctant flicker before flooding the room with a glare that feels unnecessarily clinical.
I shove the beers and microwave meals in the fridge. The whisky stays on the counter. It’s a decent one—picked it up more out of defiance than celebration. Something to make the place feel less bleak, maybe. Or maybe just something to toast the end of a weird year with.
I lean against the counter and glance around the kitchen.
Right then. This calls for company.
I reach for my phone and scroll to Geoff’s number. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, little brother. If you are calling to moan about your non existing love life again, I’ll tell you now, I’m not in the mood for once.”
“Charming. When are you off to the rich wanker Christmas?”
“Tomorrow. Crack of dawn. I’m already regretting every decision that led me to this.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Come over. Early Christmas. I’ve got beer and a bottle of whisky too good to drink on my own.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Be there in an hour. Don’t open the bottle until I’m there.”
He hangs up before I can reply.
Pity Party for two coming up.
We’ve nearly finished the whole bottle of whisky, and I’m pretty sure I’ve absorbed half a kilo of melted cheddar through my bloodstream.
Geoff brought over two massive portions of cheesy chips—still warm when he arrived—and now the tray is littered with congealed leftovers and a fork stuck at a tragic angle like a shipwrecked sailor.
He’s half collapsed in the armchair, legs sprawled, glass in hand. I’m on the sofa, stomach full, brain foggy, whisky glass resting on my jumper.
“She’s gone to Cornwall,” I say, for probably the third time.
Geoff raises an eyebrow. “You mentioned.”
“With him.”
“Still the ex, yeah?”
“Thought I’d remind you. In case the trauma wasn’t properly set in.”
He grunts, lifts his glass slightly. “Merry bloody Christmas.”
We clink, barely. The sound is pathetic.
“She didn’t want to string me along,” I say, and the words come out all flat and familiar now. “Didn’t think it was fair. Said she had to see what was what.”
Geoff reaches over and pinches the last chip with any actual cheese left on it. “Very noble. Honest. Responsible. Still dumped you though, didn’t she?”
“Appreciate the reminder.”
He chews like it’s a performance. “You think she’ll come back?”
I stare at the ceiling. “I haven’t got a clue.”
“Fair.”
We sit there for a bit, the kind of silence that only really happens between brothers or blokes too pissed to pretend anymore.
“I get it,” I mutter eventually. “She’s got SJ. She’s got history. But…”
“But?”
I glance at him. “It still hurts like hell.”
Geoff nods. “There it is.”
I pick up the whisky bottle. It’s got maybe a double left, if we’re generous. I pour it into my glass and raise it in mock toast.
“To being the backup plan.”
“To cheesy chips and poor decisions,” Geoff replies.
We drink.
That’s when the front door opens.
We both freeze like we’ve been caught doing something illegal. Technically, we haven’t. Unless murdering a bottle of whisky counts.
Theo walks in, shutting the door behind him with the weary air of someone who knows exactly what sort of nonsense he’s walking into and still hates it.
“Oi, oi!” Geoff calls, lifting his empty glass. “Look who’s decided to slum it with the riff-raff!”
I grin. “The responsible sibling has arrived. We’re saved.”
Theo stares at us. “You’re both drunk.”
“Well observed,” I say. “Detective Inspector Corbin, back on the case.”
Geoff squints at him. “You’re not even meant to be here. What time is your posh twat flight?”
“That would be your posh twat flight,” Theo replies, pointing at Geoff. “I’m not flying anywhere.”
“Tragic,” Geoff mutters. “No wonder you’re so grumpy.”
Theo ignores him and heads straight for the kitchen, shaking his head as he passes.
“I got two texts,” he calls over his shoulder. “One just said ‘chips’ with no context. The other was Jasper saying something about love being a slow death and asking what whisky monks would drink if monks drank whisky.”
I grin into my glass. “Solid philosophical inquiry, that.”
Theo reappears with two mugs in hand. “Ivy took one look and told me to go babysit my idiot brothers before one of them ends up in A&E and the other forgets he has a flight.”
Geoff looks vaguely offended. “I’d never forget a flight.”
“You literally just thought it was my flight. And can I remind you of the one time when you booked a city break to Vienna and went to Venice by accident.”
“Different vibes, same vowel sounds,” Geoff mutters.
I take the coffee Theo hands me. It smells like salvation and regret. “Cheers. Always good to be guilt-tripped into caffeination.”
“You’re welcome.” He slumps down on the arm of the sofa. “I left a hot woman in my bed for this, by the way.”
Geoff raises his mug. “A moment of silence for Theo’s sex life, sacrificed on the altar of family dysfunction.”
Theo rolls his eyes and mutters into his coffee, “Two drunken sods. Absolutely pathetic.”
“Love you too,” I say.
He takes another sip, looks at me over the rim of the mug like a disapproving therapist. “Right. When one of you is sober enough to string a sentence together, you can tell me what brought on the pity party.”
Geoff points at me. “Him. He’s the one with the tragic love life. I’m just here for the chips.”
I groan and rub my hand over my face. “Fine. Short version.”
Theo raises his eyebrows. “Is there a short version?”
“I’m attempting emotional brevity,” I say, then nod toward the whisky bottle. “That was the warm-up act.”
He waits, expression unreadable.
“She’s gone to Cornwall,” I say, slower now. “With her ex. For Christmas. To see if there’s anything left worth salvaging, for SJ’s sake. She told me she didn’t want to keep seeing me while she was still figuring it out.”
Theo’s quiet for a moment before recapping my misery, “So… she ended things.”
I nod. “Just for now, apparently. Though what that even means, I’ve no idea. Could be a month. Could be forever. I just—”
I stop, shrug.
“I didn’t expect to care this much. Not this soon. But I do.”
Geoff lets out a soft, sympathetic noise and mumbles, “He’s a goner.”
Theo leans back, exhales. “Alright. Now it makes sense why you were quoting whisky monks.”
“I thought it was poetic,” I mutter.
“It wasn’t. It was deeply concerning.”
I lift the coffee mug and take a long sip. It’s hot and bitter and nowhere near strong enough to fix this.
Theo watches me for a moment longer. “And do you want her to come back?”
I look up. “Of course I do… but only if she wants to. Properly. Not just because it’s easy or I’m nearby. I don’t want to be the consolation prize.”
Theo raises an eyebrow. “Did you tell her that?”
I nod, slowly. “Yeah. I told her to take her time. That I get it. Even if it’s killing me. Said I’d rather she work it out properly than end up with me and always wonder what if.”
There’s a pause as both my brothers look at me like I’ve grown a second head.
Geoff blinks. “That’s… wildly mature of you.”
“Didn’t feel it,” I mutter into my coffee. “Felt like handing over a winning lottery ticket and saying, ‘No, no, you go ahead and double check if you want something else first.’”
Theo leans back and stretches, still annoyingly composed. “Well, if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.”
Geoff and I both groan in unison.
“Oh, come off it,” I say.
Geoff waves his mug in Theo’s direction. “You’ve got a hot girlfriend who actually answers your texts. You’re not allowed to go full Pinterest on us.”
Theo smirks. “It’s not Pinterest, it’s perspective.”
“It’s smug,” I reply.
Geoff points at him. “Exactly. He’s hit the smug phase. Next, he’ll be telling us everything happens for a reason and trying to make us do eat-pray-love shit.”
Theo raises an eyebrow. “Alright, Shakespeare—have you thought about actually fighting for her?”
I blink at him. “What, like galloping into Cornwall on a horse? Shirt billowing? Bit of Heathcliff on the wild moors?”
Geoff perks up. “Can I be the stable boy who yells ‘You’ll never make it, Sir!’ as you ride off into the mist?”
I ignore him and turn back to Theo. “This isn’t a bloody Victorian novel. I told her how I feel. I was honest. I didn’t play games. I’ve done the—” I wave vaguely, “—emotional transparency thing. Told her she mattered. Told her I wanted to be more than just a rebound.”
Geoff coughs. “And you gave her the good loving.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him. “Thank you. I gave her the good loving. Five stars. No complaints.”
Theo grimaces. “Jeez.”
“I’m just saying,” I go on, “I’m not about to turn up in Cornwall with a handwritten letter and a glint in my eye. That’s not romantic. That’s emotional blackmail disguised as a Hallmark plot.”
Geoff nods seriously. “Also, Cornwall’s a four-hour drive… minimum. No one’s that romantic.”
I down the rest of my coffee and set the mug on the table. “If she wants me—really wants me—she knows where I am. I’m not chasing someone who needs space. That’s not love. That’s pressure.”
Theo watches me for a second, then gives a slow nod. “Fair enough.”
“And anyway,” I add, flopping back onto the sofa, “if I ever do go full grand gesture, it’ll be at least partly for the dramatic coat moment.”
Geoff grins. “Can I come and hold the horse?”
“Absolutely not.”