Chapter 32 Lonely Christmas
Chapter thirty-two
Lonely Christmas
Jasper
The carpet smells faintly of pine needles and whatever festive candle Ivy’s been trying to convert the air into since mid-November—something with cloves and orange peel and possibly witchcraft.
Lucy’s nestled against my side, one bare foot resting on my thigh like she’s claimed it, eyes wide as I try not to butcher the last page of The Dinosaur Who Stole Christmas.
I give the T-Rex a terrible growl and she giggles, exactly on cue. Job done.
Around us, the room is warm and slightly too full—wrapping paper stuffed into bags, coffee cups balancing on the arm of the sofa, someone’s half-eaten mince pie abandoned on a napkin. The tree lights blink slowly, like they’ve also had too much food.
It’s been a good Boxing Day. Too many roast potatoes. Too many terrible cracker jokes. Geoff phoning in from the States just long enough to show off the size of his hotel breakfast. Ivy fussing, Theo pretending not to enjoy it.
It’s what Christmas is supposed to be.
And still.
There’s a weight sitting just behind my ribs, refusing to shift. I check my phone again, subtly, like maybe I missed it.
Nothing.
No message. No “thanks for the gift.” No photo of her feet in unicorn slippers. No emoji. Not even a Merry Christmas.
And I know what that means.
I close the book and set it gently beside Lucy’s cushion. She yawns, then reaches for my hand.
“Can we read it again tomorrow?”
“When I am back next time,” I say, brushing her hair off her face.
She closes her eyes. I stay a moment longer, pretending not to listen to the quiet disappointment humming in my chest.
Miranda didn’t like it. Or worse—she liked it, and it only made things harder.
And she’s probably with him. Sim-Sim. Perfect bloody timing Sim-Sim. What a ridiculous name for a grown man.
I push myself up off the floor, joints creaking like someone twice my age, and head to the kitchen to say goodbye and head home. There is some whisky waiting for me in my kitchen.
I find Ivy at the sink, elbow-deep in soapy water, sleeves rolled up, her reindeer apron declaring Sleigh All Day in glittery letters like it’s an actual life philosophy. She’s humming something jazzy and very much not carol-related.
“Thanks for everything,” I say, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “The food was incredible.”
She grins handing over a Tupperware container. “Thank your brother. The only thing I contributed was positive thoughts.”
“Pretty sure I won’t need to eat again until January,” I try to object to the food offering that does look delicious.
“You say that now. Wait till you’re elbow-deep in cold pigs in blankets at midnight,” Ivy winks.
“Guilty,” I admit. “Very on brand.”
Theo appears in the doorway, mug in hand, watching me like I’ve just said I’m emigrating. He looks comfortable. Settled. The kind of settled I used to find a bit smug and now… I want it too.
“You sure you have to go?” he says. “Stay a bit longer. We’ve got that bottle of Brandy we didn’t open yet and there’s leftover trifle Lucy thinks she’ll eat all on her own.”
“She threatened me with a fork over it,” Ivy calls out, without turning around.
I smile. “Tempting. But I think I need some time to myself.”
Theo steps forward, brows knitting. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t worry.”
He studies me for a beat, then gives a reluctant nod. “Text when you get in.”
“Always.”
I head for the hallway, pausing to glance back once. Lucy’s still passed out on the floor under a fleecy throw, one of her slippers dangling from her toes. It's the kind of scene you wish you could bottle. I love my family. So, shouldn’t that be enough?
I pull the door closed behind me, stepping out into the stillness.
The air’s cold, fresh. My breath puffs in little clouds. I walk slowly to my car, hands in pockets, heading back to my own empty house where a bottle of whisky and a whole lot of me time is waiting.
When I get back at four, the house greets me like it always does. Quiet. A bit too tidy. The heating’s kicked in, just enough to stop the chill from biting.
I head straight to the kitchen, still half in my coat. I place the little Tupperware tub Ivy handed me on the way out on the counter, the sticky label reading Eat me. Or regret it.
I pop the lid, and the smell hits me straight away—roasted, salty, deeply festive. I fish out a pig in a blanket, still cold but glorious, and eat it standing there like some sort of kitchen goblin. No regrets.
Then I reach for the whisky. No ice, no faffing. Just a good solid pour into the nearest clean glass.
I carry it through to the living room and drop onto the sofa with a sigh that belongs to someone older than me.
I raise my glass to no one in particular.
“Merry bloody Christmas.”
There’s a ring at the door just as I take my first sip.
Because of course there is.
I drag myself off the sofa, glass still warm in my hand, and head to the door. When I open it, Callum’s standing there in his parka, cheeks pink from the cold and holding—naturally—a bottle of whisky like a festive peace treaty. Perfect, that should keep me going until the new year.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, lifting it slightly.
“You’re either the Ghost of Poor Decisions or a very welcome hallucination.”
He grins. “Just me. Thought I’d swing by, make sure you haven’t curled up in a ball of heartbreak and Quality Street wrappers.”
I take the bottle from him and glance at the label. Good stuff. He always brings good stuff. “Tempting. Come in?”
He shakes his head, pulling his scarf tighter. “Can’t stay. Stella’s daughter’s coming round in a bit. We’re about to have a full-blown Christmas dinner.”
“Ah yes. Nothing says seasonal bonding like stuffed turkey.”
Callum smirks. “It’s only the third one in the last four days. I’m starting to feel like a stuffed turkey myself.”
I laugh, for real this time. It feels strange. Lighter than I expected.
He nods at the bottle. “I thought you might need that. You know, being brutally dumped just before Christmas and all.”
“I wasn’t dumped.”
Callum raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I concede. “Softly sidelined. Possibly benched.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And nothing says ‘I’m processing this like a grown-up’ quite like a nice helping of whisky.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
He grins. “Merry Christmas, mate. You know where I am if you need someone to listen or mock you relentlessly. Both services available at no charge.”
“I appreciate that.”
He claps my shoulder, then heads off down the path, disappearing into the cold.
I turn to go back inside, bottle in hand—
“Jasper?”
The voice is quiet. Hesitant. But I’d know it anywhere.
I freeze.
Then turn slowly toward the annexe, heart doing something uncomfortable in my chest.
She’s there. Leggings. Oversized hoodie. Hair slightly windswept. And on her feet—I swear I blink twice to make sure I’m not imagining it—are the bloody unicorn slippers.
Miranda steps forward a little, like she’s not entirely sure she’s allowed to be here.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, almost accusatory. “I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.”
She shuffles forward, golden unicorn horns bobbing slightly with each step. Somehow, the ridiculousness of them just makes her look more like herself.
“I wasn’t supposed to be,” she says. “But I… made a decision. And I thought I should tell you in person.”
My throat tightens.
“Alright,” I manage. “Come in.”
She follows me through the front door and into the warmth of the house. In the kitchen, we both gravitate to the island—it feels like a safe space. I set Callum’s bottle on the counter, find two clean glasses, and pour.
We sit. The silence is steady, not strained.
I slide one glass across to her. She takes it, fingers brushing mine. Holds it for a moment without drinking.
Then she looks up at me, serious and steady.
No smile. No sparkle in her eyes. Not even the usual flicker of mischief.
And just like that, my stomach drops.
This is it. The final version. The “Let’s be mature about this” conversation. No wonder she came in person—it’s the clean break up talk, tied up with a bow and a dram of whisky.
I clear my throat and take a sip to brace myself. It burns a little going down. Appropriate.
She reaches across and lays her hand gently on my arm. Warm. Steady.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For the slippers.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak just yet.
“They helped me make a decision.”
Ah. There it is. I look down at the glass in my hand, then back at her.
“They weren’t supposed to be emotional blackmail,” I say, too quickly. “They were just—”
“I know.” She cuts in gently, fingers still resting on my sleeve. “I know. What I meant was…” She lets out a slow breath. “They made me realise something. About what you see when you look at me. And what Sim-Sim sees.”
My heart doesn’t know which way to go—up or down, hope or dread.
I stay silent.
She doesn’t move her hand from my arm. Just looks at me; not hesitant, not rehearsed. Just honest.
“Sim-Sim gave me a necklace,” she says. “Expensive. Sparkly. Clearly designed to impress.”
I say nothing. Not because I don’t have things to say (I’ve got plenty), but because I can tell this isn’t the bit where I speak.
“It felt like… like he was trying to buy me,” she continues. “Or… I don’t know. Win me. I don’t think that’s what he meant. Not really. He gave me what he thought I’d like. What he thought I should like.”
She gives me this small, almost sorry sort of smile.
“And that’s when it hit me. After all this time, after everything we’ve been through… he doesn’t actually know me. Not properly. Maybe he never did. And maybe that’s on me. Because I never showed him. Not all of me. I never felt like I could.”
Her fingers tighten slightly on my sleeve.
“But with you…” she exhales. “With you, I’ve been nothing but chaos. Half-together, half-unravelled, running late, forgetting things, having kittens as an accessory—”
“You make it look good,” I mutter, mostly to stop myself from blurting something much more ridiculous.
She smiles, but it’s still laced with something serious. “I’ve been myself, Jasper. Fully myself. And you never flinched. You never tried to change it or neaten it or hide it.”
She glances down at the slippers, the pastel manes just visible below the kitchen island.
“You gave me the best present I’ve ever been given,” she says, voice low now. “Because you saw me. And you wanted me to have something that made me feel like me.”
She pauses, then adds, “When Sim-Sim saw them last night—when I went to talk to him, to tell him… he just said, ‘Oh, must you wear those childish shoes?’”
Something tightens behind my ribs.
Miranda looks up again, gaze steady.
“That was when I knew,” she says. “Really knew.”
And I forget to breathe.
She slips off the bar stool without another word.
And then she’s in front of me—close—stepping between my knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She cups my face. “Merry Christmas,” she whispers.
And then she kisses me.
Deep. Certain. No hesitation, no half-measures. Just her, warm and real and entirely, impossibly her.
My hands find her waist without thinking, anchoring her to me like maybe I’m scared she’ll vanish again if I let go.
But she doesn’t.
She’s here. With me.
In unicorn slippers. And chaos.
And she chose me.