Page 46 of Every Silent Lie

“How honourable of him.” The door clicks, and I leave. I could never be there, surrounded by the memories of my previous life. Everything that I lost. Everything that he stole from me. Fuck him. Fuck everything.

If it’s possible, it’s even colder when I make it outside, the white sky so low I’m sure I could reach up and touch the snow waiting to fall. I lower to the top step by a potted tree, needing to take the weight off my feet for a few moments. How I wish I could take the weight off my shoulders too.

I sigh and reach for a branch, pulling a closed bud off but faltering when something glistens at me, catching the low winter sun and making me blink back the sharp flash of light.

A spear of ice.

It’s cascading from a branch, a perfect white feather fossilised inside. Crystal clear. Beautiful. I trail my fingertip down, studying it, strangely rapt.

Trapped.

Like me.

December 10th

Icing cakes my lips, my chews slow, and my arse is numb from my place sitting in the window, feet up, my T-shirt pulled over my bent knees. It’s a perfect white blanket out there, London a blank canvas. Pure, clean, untarnished. It should stay that way until it melts away. But no. Humans will spoil it, traffic and feet ruining the perfection, turning it into a sludgy, dirty mess that’ll become a man-made eyesore rather than remaining a natural beauty. Where were you, Snow, when I wished for you four years ago? “You’re late,” I whisper, taking another mouthful of my breakfast, watching the world go by, the white stuff bringing people out in force, all of them celebrating the arrival, dragging sledges, rolling snowballs. Dogs create trails with their snouts, leap like lambs, collapse into downward dog and yell at the weird-looking, soft, wet powder. Idiots crawl along in cars until the wheels give up and start spinning on the spot, leaving the drivers revving the engines, adding another layer of noise to the yells of excitement and joy. Excitement and joy. Maybe now, yes. People are dashing out into the white winter wonderland to enjoy it. But by the end of the day, they’ll be wishing the snow away, their lives disrupted.

They have no idea.

Their disruption is temporary.

I pop the last piece of my cake into my mouth and chew, licking my fingers, deciding that Mr. Percival’s Christmas cake is the only thing Christmassy I actually like. My phone rings from the kitchen. It’s the fifth time he’s tried to call me since I saw Mindy yesterday. And it’ll be the fifth time I haven’t answered. He thinks a little extra pressure from my family will solve this? Make me less . . . unreasonable? I rest my head back on the wall and go back to watching the world go by.

Persistent.

He was always that.

It’s how we ended up dating in the first place. I had a friend who had a friend who had a friend who had a brother. The brother came alone to a cricket match. It was a hot day, we had a basket full of beers and tinned cocktails, and we got tipsy on sunshine and alcohol. He tried to kiss me; I turned away. He didn’t give up, got my number from the friend of a friend of a friend, called me, texted me, until I finally relented and had dinner with him. I made it clear I wasn’t looking for anything serious—I was on a career trajectory.

He just smiled.

And I went out with him again the next night.

I don’t see any of those friends anymore either. And I wonder where I’d be now if I hadn’t gone to that cricket match all those years ago.

And would I be happy?

I pull my knees in closer, shaking my head clear, but that only leaves space for Dec. He hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. And I still don’t know if I want him to.

I get up and find my laptop, dropping to the couch and opening my inbox. I try to focus on the emails I saved to work on this weekend.

To our first kiss.

I snap the lid of my computer closed and toss it aside on a yell.

Wrapped up warm in endless layers—no gloves or hat—I slip my feet into my boots and brace myself for the cold as I open my front door into the corridor. Mr. Percival is standing at the exit doors, looking out onto the street, his walking frame holding him up. “Thank you for the cake,” I say as I near him, his flat-capped head turning to find me. “It’s really very good.”

“Where’s your hat and gloves, girl? It’s brass monkeys out there.”

“Where’s yours?” I retort with as much scold. “That hat is hardly keeping your ears warm.”

“Have you seen the size of my ears, dear? Ain’t no hat covering these things.”

A little snort escapes, surprising me. “So it’s true what they say?”

“About what?”

“Ears. They don’t stop growing.”