CHAPTER THREE
Fourteen days until Christmas
Covent Garden’s open central piazza feels Italian-inspired, with shops of brick and stone, and colonnaded porticos around the perimeter.
The market itself is a semi-open space covered with a soaring glass and iron roof that reminds me of a greenhouse.
At the western end of the square, a fifty-foot spruce sparkles like thousands of tiny fireworks frozen mid-pop.
I spend a few hours wandering the piazza, browsing shops and kiosks and little pop-up chalets serving a range of snacks from roasted chestnuts to deep-fried Brie.
A woman in a long burgundy gown sings an upbeat solo rendition of “Holly Jolly Christmas,” and snow begins to fall.
The flurry doesn’t last long, but children run around catching the flakes in their gloved hands.
I miss that kind of simple, uncomplicated joy.
Their laughter makes me feel it second-hand, and it makes me smile.
I’d hoped to grab a few grocery items for the little kitchenette at the flat, but it’s soon very clear to me that the Covent Garden market isn’t the sort of market that sells the basics.
I find a small supermarket nearby and buy a carton of milk, yogurt, butter, and a weighty block of aged Gouda that would probably last someone else several weeks.
If I’m honest with myself, it will probably be gone within a few days.
I also pick up a few apples, bananas, and a box of Nespresso pods.
At a bakery, I grab a loaf of hearty bread and a pack of pastries called Chelsea buns that look a lot like cinnamon rolls.
With a canvas bag over each shoulder as I walk back to Paperwhite, I feel an unexpected sense of contentment.
It’s tiny and fragile, but it’s something.
Paperwhite is down a side street lined by eclectic boutiques and art galleries, with zigzags of string lights dangling between the buildings above.
It’s tiny inside, with watercolor paintings of paperwhites and other daffodils on the walls, and a jewel-green loveseat that evokes springtime.
On the side table, there’s a rectangular vase with plant bulbs nestled in pebbles.
They’re just beginning to push out new shoots.
Paperwhites, I assume. I wonder if they’ll bloom before I leave.
Beside the paperwhites, there’s a small chalkboard propped on an easel with a note from the host that reads “Welcome Madison & Evangeline!” with a bowl of chalk beside it. I erase the welcome and write a number in its place. A countdown of how many days before I go home.
The kitchenette has a leaky sink and the tiniest washing machine I’ve ever seen.
As I put away my grocery haul, I prop my phone against a sleek electric kettle on the countertop and call Maddie.
When she answers, she’s in the exact spot I saw her in when we spoke yesterday.
Her sweater of choice today is a mewing Santa and the words “BIG NICK ENERGY.”
By way of greeting, I say, “I’m starting to feel like you’re objectifying Santa Claus.”
Maddie dips her chin to glance down at her chest. “He’s the ideal man, Evie. Generous. Loves animals. And the stamina he must have? Faithful to the same woman for centuries? Come on.” She looks back up. “How’s the flat?”
“I don’t know why they call them flats. The bedroom is up a flight of stairs that’s so narrow and steep I felt like I needed a nap after bringing up my luggage. And remember how the listing said there was a second sleeping space? It’s actually more of a, like … crevice? With a pull out loveseat.”
“Ew. Don’t say that.” She shudders theatrically.
“What, pull out?”
Maddie gives me a bland glare. “Crevice. Worst word ever.”
I tuck the cold stuff into the fridge. “You’d love it here. It’s gorgeous. I just don’t know how fun this will be on my own.”
Maddie’s expression softens. “You can do this, Ev.”
Can I, though?
I’m not automatically confident and daring just because I live in New York City.
I’ve cultivated an intentionally small and mostly anonymous life in a place that happens to be huge.
I’ve lived with Maddie in the same apartment for almost four years now, and our elderly neighbor still thinks my name is Stevie.
I could go to my local bodega wearing a wizard robe and a luchador mask, and nobody would glance at me sideways.
Impulsively, I say, “I met a guy.” It’s like I need to mention Jake Frost out loud, so he doesn’t only exist inside my head.
“Shut up.” Maddie melodramatically bites a knuckle. “You met a guy? Like, intimately?”
“You know I don’t do hookups, babe.”
“Yet. The best men are like good coffee, Ev. Hot, strong, gone before nine a.m.”
I can imagine Maddie’s reaction if we’d arrived here together and she saw how little privacy there is.
We’d have both been unwilling auditory participants in whatever sexual shenanigans the other got up to.
These walls are thin, and the tiny bedroom upstairs doesn’t even have a door.
There’s just a heavy damask curtain that couldn’t hide the noise of a moderate fart.
I’m done stowing the groceries, so I move to the loveseat and pull one of the pillows into my lap. “It’s weird that I can’t stop thinking about a complete stranger.”
“A stranger? I’m sorry, are we ten years old? Do you need an adult?”
“You’re kind of a bitch.”
Maddie grins. “How did you meet him?”
“I ran into him on the plane, then later at Heathrow, and then again at the coffee shop down the street from Paperwhite.”
“Sounds a bit stalker-adjacent.”
“Thank you. That’s what I said.”
“To who?”
“To him. And the people at the coffee shop. Quinn and Cherry, they’re lovely.”
“Aww, making friends already. What’s his name?”
“Jake Frost.”
“Shut up. Any relation to the prince of winter himself, Jack Frost?”
“Again, thank you. I made that same joke, but he didn’t think it was funny. I tried to look him up online. Couldn’t find anything. There’s a bunch of Jake Frosts. None are him.”
“Maybe his name is Jacob?” Maddie says.
“Tried that. It doesn’t matter, though. This man is way too hot and too well-dressed to not already have someone.” I lean forward on my elbows. “He even smells incredible. And the size of his hands, my god—”
“If you see him again, it’s a sign. It’s time for your mess era. This isn’t Hallmark. It’s the opening montage of a Hoemark story, and you’re the star, baby.” Maddie’s smile is diabolical.
Since Calvin and I ended, Maddie’s been recommending a palate cleanser of hedonistic hookups.
But that’s her thing, not mine. She loves people, and she loves loving people.
She’s mastered the art of what she calls “gratitude through impermanence.” She’s like the human manifestation of don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened, but make it horny.
Me? I’m at a point in my life where I’d rather set fire to everything to keep myself from getting burned.
I know this is a sign of emotional immaturity.
But that’s another one of the beautiful things about being alone.
I don’t have to burden someone else with my flaws while I’m figuring out how to fix them.
“Get to know him,’ Maddie says. “It would make me feel less bad for abandoning you.”
“OK, so you do admit that you abandoned me.”
“I never said I didn’t. But Claudia is family—”
“I’m family. Claudia is a cryptid.” I can hear the cat in Maddie’s lap. It’s the rumbly purr of an idling chainsaw, ready to rip, tear, and destroy. “She’s a gargoyle come to life.”
“Speaking of gargoyles,” Maddie’s tone is chipper now, like she’s proud of herself for solving a big problem for me instead of creating one, “I forwarded you the info about the ghost tour tomorrow night.”
“What do gargoyles have to do with ghosts?”
“They’re both creepy,” she says. “Don’t overthink it.”
Originally, Maddie wanted to do a Jack the Ripper tour to “get to know London,” but I convinced her that immersing ourselves in serial-killer lore as two young women traveling alone wasn’t the vibe.
She probably didn’t want to overload me with Christmas cheer while I was still jet-lagged, either, so she booked the ghost tour as a compromise.
Nibbling my thumbnail, I say, “I might skip it.”
One of the main motivations for this trip was for me to reclaim my sense of adventure and autonomy.
But this path to reclamation was supposed to be paved with fun cafés and sightseeing by day, and by night, boozy pubs and maybe the occasional makeout with a stranger on a dance floor.
With Maddie as my emotional support extrovert.
And no, the irony isn’t lost on me that I was perfectly content to let another person plan the rediscovery of my independence and joie de vivre.
Nor am I ashamed to admit that I intended to lean heavily into my codependent relationship with my best friend in order to get over my codependent relationship with my ex.
“Call the guy,” Maddie says. “Ask him to go with you on the tour.”
“I don’t have his number.”
“Don’t be a quitter, Evie. A few minutes ago, you told me you keep running into him. You’ll see Jake Frost again. If you can’t find him, put yourself somewhere that he can find you.”
* * *
Thirteen days until Christmas
The only thing I like more than coffee is coffee I didn’t have to make myself.
So, I ignore the pods I bought yesterday, and just before ten o’clock, I find myself heading to Grey Earl’s.
This time, with a book and the unrealistic hope that I’ll see Jake Frost again.
I’m not ready to actively look for him, but there’s no harm in being somewhere he might find me, right?