31. Thirty-One

31

PRESENT

M artin is waiting for me when I turn up at his doorstep the next morning.

I say ‘doorstep’. When we broke up, Martin was forced to move back in with his parents for a bit, because the house belonged to me, and there was nowhere else for him to go. Six months later, he’s still there, living back in the flat above the baker’s, and next door to the bookshop; which means I have to spend an awkward few minutes talking to his mum about our respective Christmas plans, before she lets me go through the shop and upstairs to find him.

“I know why you’re here,” he says, as soon as he opens the door. His face is pale and waxy, and he looks like he hasn’t slept; which could just mean he’s been up all night gaming as usual, of course, but which I secretly hope is a sign that he’s been tortured with guilt.

“Yeah, I expect you do,” I comment, following him into the living room, which looks out onto the village square, just like our old flat next door. From where I’m standing, I have a perfect view of both the Christmas tree and the snow globe; neither of which does much to improve my mood.

It’s Christmas Eve, and I could not possibly feel less festive.

“Why did you do it?” I ask bluntly, not bothering to sit down. “Why didn’t you tell me Elliot was looking for me that night? And why did you tell him I didn’t want to see him? Don’t bother denying you did it; I know you did it. I just want to know why, that’s all.”

Martin opens his eyes very wide, in a way that makes me think he’s probably been practicing what he thinks is an ‘innocent’ look in the mirror, in preparation for this.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he says, holding his hands out like a man begging for his life. He’s obviously been practicing that too. “I did it for you, Holly. I did it for love .”

Aaaand it looks like he’s been listening to some particularly cheesy love songs, too. I think I might throw up if this continues.

“You know I’ve always loved you, Holly,” he says earnestly, trying to take my hand and failing. “Ever since we were at school together. Remember how we used to sit together at lunch? And how we’d always pick each other when we had to pair up for something in class?”

“I sat next to Fern Clark at lunch,” I tell him. “And the teacher always paired people up. I think I remember being put with you once? Maybe?”

“Oh, come on, Holly,” Martin says beseechingly. “We were made for each other. Living next door, both of us the children of entrepreneurs…”

“Martin, none of this is even remotely relevant,” I snap, already exhausted by him. “You don’t hack someone’s email just because they lived next door when you were kids and once shared a packet of Quavers at break time. And if we were destined to be together, you wouldn’t have had to lie to make it happen.”

I see hope spark behind his eyes at the mention of the Quavers — that was a mistake on my part — so I move quickly on.

“You did do that, didn’t you?” I ask. “You hacked my email? And you did something to my phone to block Elliot from calling me?”

“I didn’t hack it,” he says, pouting. “Your dad gave me the laptop. And you gave me the phone. So I didn’t have to hack anything, I just…”

“Oh my God, stop being so pedantic!” I slap my forehead in frustration. “It doesn’t matter what the technical term is for whatever you did; you did something . And you outright lied to Elliot when you told him I didn’t want to hear from him.”

Martin stares at his feet. He’s wearing a pair of very sensible slippers that make him look cozy and benign, when, in fact, I now know him to be an arch-maniplulator, and expert gas lighter.

I can’t believe how wrong I was about him. “He wasn’t good for you,” he says at last. “Elliot. He changed you. You weren’t the same person after you met him. And you weren’t thinking straight. Anyone could see that. I could see that. And okay, maybe I shouldn’t have intervened in the way I did. I know it was wrong. But I swear to you, Holly, I was acting in your best interests. I might have done the wrong thing, but I did it for the right reasons. You were being reckless; making decisions that would ruin your life. You’re still doing it now; breaking up with me, taking this silly ghostwriting job. It’s not you, Holly. And I’m just trying to help you. That’s all I want.”

I glare at him through narrowed eyes, trying to figure out which TV show or superhero movie he’s blatantly stolen the ‘wrong thing, right reasons’ line from. I know it’s not his. Martin doesn’t have a single original thought in his head. He’s not like…

But anyway.

“Elliot didn’t change me, Martin,” I say slowly. “I’ve always been like this. You just didn’t know me well enough to see it.”

But he did. Elliot did. Elliot saw me. And he didn’t turn me into someone I wasn’t; he just helped me see the person who was there all along. And now that I’ve been reminded of who she is, I think it’s maybe time I started getting to know her again.

“There are no right reasons for what you did, Martin,” I tell him firmly, pleased to see that my voice is only shaking a little bit. “None. You barely even knew me back then. We weren’t friends. And even if we had been, my life is my own, to ruin as I see fit. It wasn’t your place to decide that for me. It wasn’t your place to decide anything for me; and it never will be, because I never want to see or hear from you again, okay? I’m blocking your number. I’m changing my Netflix password. And if I ever see you in the street, I will cross to the other side, and pretend I didn’t. Is that clear?”

Martin nods miserably, looking like a schoolboy who’s just been given detention.

I straighten my shoulders, proud of myself. The old Holly would never have stood up to him like that. She would never have asserted herself. But I did it. And the new Holly may technically have been lying when she said she’d change her Netflix password, because she’s not totally sure how to do that, but still: she’ll figure it out, just like she’ll figure out everything else.

We’ll figure it out together.

That’s what Elliot said last night; right before he said that thing about how I’d feel on my deathbed, when I realized I’d spent my entire life without him, just to avoid getting hurt.

But I’m already hurt. I can see that now. I’ve been hurting for ten years now, and if you give me another ten, I’m pretty sure I’ll be hurting still.

When does the ‘not getting hurt’ bit start?

I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure ‘never’ is the answer to that question.

Seeing Martin today has made that abundantly clear; because I thought he was the safe option, and he turned out to be the dangerous one. Because nothing he ever did made me stop missing Elliot; and I don’t think anything ever will.

Which means I know exactly what I have to do next: for once in my life, I have to become the main character. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I have to get to the airport. And there’s absolutely no way in hell I’m going to ask Martin to take me this time, which means I need to get there myself.

Like, now .

Just as I’m about to leave, though, something large and white drifts past the window, making me turn and look out. It’s snowing again. And either I’m imagining things, or there’s a man who looks a lot like Elliot standing in front of the village Christmas tree, looking up at it.

I move quickly closer, pressing my forehead against the glass as I try to get a closer look.

In the square below me, the man turns slightly, looking over at the snow globe, with its usual line of people waiting to be photographed in it. He has dark hair, and is carrying a rucksack, as if he’s getting ready to go somewhere.

It’s definitely him. It’s definitely Elliot.

He’s not at the airport; or, at least, not yet.

He’s right here, outside the shop.

“I need to go,” I tell Martin, turning around so fast I make myself dizzy. “Don’t contact me again, okay?”

Then I run for the door, my mind made up.

On the first night I met him, Elliot told me he’d always remember me. But I don’t want to be someone he just remembers. I don’t want our relationship to be just a story with an unhappy ending. And now I just have to hope he still feels the same after everything I said to him to contradict that yesterday.

Ignoring Martin’s confused questions, I race down the stairs and into the baker’s shop below, which is filled with customers buying last-minute mince pies and Christmas cookies. Flying past them all, I fling myself out into the street, skidding on the snow that’s still covering the ground.

He’s still there. Elliot’s still there, standing looking up at the huge Christmas tree, with its hundreds of tiny snow globes dangling from the branches.

I don’t go to him, though.

Instead I turn and pull open the door to the bookstore, hurrying inside to where Dad and Levi are both busy serving customers, while Paris stands on a ladder, rearranging that shelf of books I arranged by color, when I was trying to calm my anxious thoughts by bringing order to chaos.

But that was fake too, wasn’t it? All of those pretty, colored spines just gave the illusion of order; underneath, it made it impossible to find anything, and I feel like this is an important realization for me, somehow. Maybe all this time I’ve spent telling myself I’m in control, I’ve just been secretly creating more chaos. And maybe it’s time to stop kidding myself that I’m not.

“Great work, Paris,” I yell as I race past her towards the office. “Keep it up!”

Paris stares at me, nonplussed, but I’ve no time to stop and explain myself. I have to get to my office, where I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk, and rummage around inside it until I find the thing I’m looking for. And then I’m off again, sprinting through the store and back out into the street, before you can say ho ho ho .

Please let him still be there.

Please let him still be there.

It takes me less than a minute to reach the part of the square that houses the Christmas tree and the globe; the area I saw Elliot in from the upstairs window.

He’s still there.

Just.

I reach out and grab him by the sleeve of his coat, just as he’s about to turn and walk away.

“Holly! What are you doing?”

Elliot’s eyes are slightly red, and his face is paler than usual. But he still smiles when he sees me, and it’s all I can do not to throw myself into his arms, without another word.

But there’s something I have to do first.

“I got you something,” I tell him, holding out the snow globe. “A Christmas gift. Well, you got it for me. But it’s always been yours, really.”

Elliot takes it from me silently, holding it up to the sky. Inside, the little people stand steadfastly holding onto each other while the snow whirls violently around them, stirred up by the shaking of the glass as I ran here with it in my hand.

Outside the glass, it’s snowing too; heavier now. All around us, people start walking faster, and stallholders begin packing up their wares, not wanting to stay out in this weather.

Elliot, however, just stands there, looking at the glass globe in his hand.

“How funny,” he says at last, his eyes locking onto mine. “I got something for you, too. I came here to give it to you, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something small and round, which he hands to me silently. I look down.

It’s a glass snow globe, with two tiny people inside; her in a red dress, him with dark, floppy hair. Instead of a snow-covered village behind them, though, there’s a row of palm trees; and, as I look closer, I see that the flakes floating around them look more like glitter than snow.

“It’s a glitter globe,” he says. “For people who don’t like the snow.”

As if on cue, the flakes around us get thicker. The people waiting in line for their snow globe photo have gone now, and the photographer is taking down his sign and starting to pack away his camera. No one wants to stay out in a blizzard.

“I’ve started to think it’s not so bad, actually,” I say, smiling up at him. “The snow. The town. But I have to admit, I’d love to see some palm trees like these ones.”

I hold the new globe up against the old one, noticing how similar they are, despite the changes that have been made to the scenery.

The same, but different.

“Well, now you have the best of both worlds,” says Elliot, returning my smile. “If you’re sure that’s what you want?”

“Oh, it is,” I assure him. “What I said yesterday, Elliot … I didn’t mean it. I was just scared. I still am, really, but you were right. I can’t stop myself from being hurt by not being with you. It’s too late for that. And I know it’s too late to get on that flight with you now, too, but … maybe after Christmas? And we can stay in touch this time; properly, I mean. I’ll write your number on a piece of paper, instead of just saving it on my phone. I’ll write it everywhere. Anything to make sure we don’t lose each other again once you’re back in the States.”

The snow is falling so fast now that I can barely see him through it, but I can see his smile; and I can see that it’s the same one he gave me when we stood in this same spot just over a decade ago, with the same snow globe in our hands.

“I’m not going to the States,” he says, his grin getting even wider. “I canceled my flight. I still have three months left on my visa, and I’m going to spend it here, in Bramblebury. I’d already decided that before …. before this.” He holds up the snow globe I gave him with a laugh. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you again, Holly, and I won’t. I didn’t fight for you the last time. I’m not going to make the same mistake again.”

My cheeks are suddenly wet, and I’m not sure if it’s from tears or just the melting snow, which is soaking into my clothes and making me shiver.

“Come on,” says Elliot, taking my hand and pulling me in the direction of the plastic globe, which now stands empty, everyone but us having gotten out of the blizzard. Hand in hand, we run towards it, ducking through the plastic flap that serves as a door and letting it fall shut behind us.

Inside the transparent walls, the snowflakes still float past our heads, but the rest of the world seems to melt away, the sounds of the street outside muffled by the globe, and the lights above the square shimmering softly all around us.

I always thought all of this stuff was fake; just a manufactured attempt to make Christmas feel magical. Right now, though, the magic feels very, very real; and, for the first time in years, I think I might be starting to understand just why people love this time of year so much.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Elliot asks, taking me in his arms.

I nod once, and then he kisses me; his lips warm against my cold skin, his arms tight around my waist, holding me safe from the storm outside. He kisses me, and I allow myself to melt into him, everything else fading into the background, until all that’s left is me, him, and whatever happens next. It is very much what I think Elsie Poole would call a ‘main character moment’. And, as it turns out, I really quite like it.

“I want to write the sequel to your book together,” I tell Elliot breathlessly, when we pause for breath at last. “I want to figure out how it ends; even if it’s messy and imperfect, and even if some bits of it go wrong and we have to start again.”

Elliot smiles, then kisses me again.

“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He pulls me in for another kiss, and as I kiss him back, I think about the first time, in the town hall under the mistletoe, and how I thought that these kisses were finite in number; each one just counting down to the last, which was always hovering on the horizon. I thought I needed to protect myself against the moment when they finally ran out, and that if I could just figure out how to do that, I’d never get hurt.

But now I know it doesn’t work like that.

And, even if it did, it’s a moot point, because I have a feeling these kisses are never going to run out.

This one in particular.

Finally, though, we’re forced to pull reluctantly apart, and, when we do, Elliot brushes the hair gently out of my eyes, and we grin stupidly up at each other, laughing at the sheer miracle of us having found our way back to each other again; which, when you really think about it, is the kind of thing that only really happens in stories.

Which I guess is appropriate for us.

Now we just have to figure out what happens next. As we step back outside the snow globe, though, and into a full-blown blizzard, Elliot stops and tilts my face up to his, ignoring the snowstorm as he leans down to drop another kiss on the very tip of my nose.

“It’s you,” he says, grinning down at me through the falling snow. “It’s always been you.”