CHAPTER SIX #2
By the end of our Borough Market adventure, I have a bag full of treasures.
Mulled wine spices in pre-made packs, a two-pound bag of black licorice, a jar of orange-ginger chutney to have with cheese.
Before we head back to Covent Garden, we hop into a coffee shop near the market.
After standing all day, it’s blissful to sit.
With my flat white, I get a slice of banana bread topped with candied walnuts tossed in grainy salt to contrast with the sweetness.
I hold up a forkful and say, “Why do we call this bread, anyway?”
Jake turns his mug slowly in his hands. “Ah, one of the critical questions of our time.”
“It’s basically a big loaf-shaped muffin. You know?”
He makes an academic-sounding hum in the back of his throat. “Loaf-shaped equals bread, no?”
“So, we define it based on its outside appearance instead of what it’s made of?”
“Ah, so you’re a bread existentialist.” Jake rubs his chin.
“Well, a few people have told me I look like a brunette Anya Taylor-Joy, but I’m not exactly in high demand by Hollywood casting directors.”
“I see.” Jake nods slowly. “So, you’re saying banana bread is like … I’m not actually bread, I just play one on television? That sort of thing?”
“You get it. I guess, though, by that logic, meatloaf is bread.”
“Meat …” Jake tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes. “… loaf? The singer?”
I laugh. “No, the food. You’ve never had it?”
“I’m not ashamed to admit that I have not.”
“It’s like a mince pie, I guess, without the crust? Baked in a loaf pan with ketchup on top.”
“Sounds rubbish,” he says.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“Maybe you can make it for me on one of our dates?”
“Oof, I don’t know, Jake. I don’t usually make meatloaf for someone until I’ve met their family. And anyway, I thought the goal here was to make me fall in love with Christmas? How would meatloaf move the festive needle?”
“Hm, you’ve figured me out.” He sips his drink and watches my tongue as I catch a stray crumb on my top lip.
“I’ll play along, though. Would today be our first date, then?”
Jake leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. “I’d argue that today is our third. The ghost tour was first, ice skating was second.”
“I think we might have different ideas of what makes a date.”
“Fascinating. Tell me yours.”
“Fond glances, I guess? Handholding. A kiss at the end, maybe?”
“Feels a bit prescriptive, that.” Thoughtful, Jake pushes out his lip, squints his eyes. “You know, since we’re already three dates in, maybe we should just make an Advent thing of it? Twelve dates to fall in love.”
“… with Christmas,” I add.
“Of course.”
“… and London.”
“Oh, of course. We need to keep the scope realistic.”
Even though I’ve only known Jake Frost for a few days, he feels like someone I remember. When I’m with him, my body receives information from frequencies I don’t have names for. Like my heart and my subconscious recognize him as the one I’ve always wanted.
* * *
When we get back to Covent Garden, it’s snowing in the piazza. I hold out my hand to let the meandering flakes land on my glove. “So strange. I heard it doesn’t actually snow much in December in London, but this is the third or fourth time I’ve seen it. But it never lasts long.”
Jake pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He looks like he’s been rolled in sugar. “Ah … I don’t recommend catching those flakes on your tongue.” He nods with his chin towards the roof of the patisserie. “It’s not real snow. I think they use soap.”
A closer look at the flakes on my gloves makes it obvious they aren’t real snowflakes, even though they evaporate before my eyes like they’re made of ice.
A flash mob of people dressed as Santa Claus suddenly fills the piazza, dancing to an EDM version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” I barely avoid an elbow to the head from a would-be influencer monologuing to his phone with the dancers in the background.
“Legit chaos for sure,” the guy says into a lavalier mic clipped to his collar, “but overall a festive slay that will for sure heal your inner child.” He’s barely older than a child himself.
Nearly everyone else around me either records the falling flakes with their phone or takes a selfie at a strategic angle.
They’re more concerned with capturing the moment than experiencing it.
But then it occurs to me—here, being present isn’t the point.
This isn’t snow you can catch on your tongue or feel melting against warm cheeks when you lift your face to the sky.
A piece of fake snow lands in my mouth and I awkwardly try to blow it out, but it’s already melted on my tongue. The faint taste of soap lingers. “See? This is why I don’t like Christmas. It’s all, like, performance art.”
“You enjoyed it five seconds ago,” Jake says.
“Yeah? Because I thought it was real.”
Jake moves closer. His hands are still in his pockets, but the gravity of his gaze pins me in place like I’ve sprouted a taproot.
“I’d argue—” he begins.
“You say that a lot,” I laugh.
Jake pauses with an indulgent smile before starting again. “I’d argue that the beauty you found in it is real. Those feelings were real, regardless of what made you feel them.”
“You’re insufferable.” Laughing, I take a few steps backwards. “Goodnight, Jake.”
He simply nods with a gentle smile on his face. Just as I turn to start my walk back to Paperwhite, he says behind me, “Evie.”
When I look back, he’s still in the same spot. “Hm?”
“For tomorrow, how about another date with good food?”
“You have my attention.”
“But this time, more sitting?”
“Mr Frost, I might swoon.” I lay my hand across my chest like I’m clutching pearls. “It’s a date.”
* * *
I’m exhausted and craving sleep, but I promised I’d call Maddie.
As soon as she appears on the screen, she says, “Claudia says you’re welcome.”
“Uh … what am I thanking Claudia for?”
“She’s why I’m not there. If I was there, you wouldn’t be starting a whirlwind holiday romance with the hottest man I’ve seen since Will Poulter and his perfect blond quiff made a surprise appearance as a pastry chef on The Bear.”
“Using the word ‘quiff’ in normal conversation is inexcusable.”
“Hm.” Maddie grimaces. “Too queef-adjacent?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Strike it from the record.”
“And Jake looks nothing like Will Poulter.”
“His hair does. A bit.”
“Also, there is no whirlwind holiday romance, Mads. This isn’t reality. Men like this don’t actually exist.”
Some of Maddie’s own cynicism comes through in her sour chuckle. “That’s a men problem, not a reality problem.”
“Why let myself be disappointed if I can avoid it though?”
“Well, that’s the beautiful thing about leaving at the end of the month, yeah? Let this man crack your hips, put you through his mattress, and make you a nice English breakfast after. Then, come home before he has a chance to disappoint you.”
I make a face at Maddie through the screen, but in this moment, I can’t think of a reason to not indulge in the fling she’s been on about since I arrived.
I genuinely like spending time with Jake, but surely knowing there’s a built-in end date can keep my heart from throwing anchors and tying strings.
Maddie squints at me through my phone when I don’t respond right away. “I’m taking that as a yes,” she says. “Keep me updated, OK? I’ve gotta run.”
Before I have a chance to set my phone down, a text arrives from Jake.
Jake:Is it tomorrow yet?
Evie:No, but I know how to make it arrive faster.
Jake:Teach me your ways.
Evie:Just go to sleep. It’s free time travel.
Jake:I’ll never think of sleep the same again.
Evie:Like and subscribe for more life hacks.
Jake:Meet me at our spot near the tree in the piazza at 6 p.m. tomorrow?
Evie:Since when do we have an “our spot”?
Jake:Since now. See you tomorrow.