Page 75 of Every Silent Lie

I’m not running. Thank you for being wonderfully you. Camryn x

I set the pen down and find my bag in the hallway, throwing it on my shoulder and letting myself out. “Oh my God,” I breathe, stepping into a flurry of snowflakes. A blanket of white hides the steps down to the street again, ready to be shovelled away. My gaze drops to my heels, the toes kissing the blanket of snow, my shoes safe in the sliver of ground by the front door that the snow hasn’t reached. “Damn.” I drop my bag, wedging my hand in the doorframe to prop myself up, and change into my boots. Crunching my way down the steps, I look back at Dec’s house in the dim light of an early December morning.

It's picture-perfect.

Like the man who lives here.

My eyes peek left and right to the other houses on the street. All have fairy lights on the box hedging and trees flanking the front doors. Uniform. As if the residents have consulted each other on the theme for this year and understated and classy won the vote. No colour. No fuss.

Just pretty fairy lights, the tone a warm yellow glow, decorate each house.

Except Dec’s.

I have a love/hate relationship with Christmas.

I hum, hugging myself, and start ploughing through the snow to the nearest Tube, feeling the aftereffects of Dec Ellis, the flesh of my inner thighs tender and my insides aching deeply.

Can you breathe when we’re close? Because I can’t.

And it truly is for the best reasons.

I smile, accepting and appreciating the true happiness that courses through me. And it’s okay.

I’m okay feeling happy.

I should have anticipated it. The Tubes weren’t running. All cancelled, the snow now surpassing a few inches, which takes it from disruptive to disastrous. So I trudged my way through the snow, constantly checking my Uber app for a car close by. They were thin on the ground, only drivers with vehicles built to handle the snow working.

Which wasn’t many.

Which meant I walked for a solid forty minutes until one close by popped up and I nabbed it.

My toes are brittle by the time I make it home, and I have exactly ten minutes to shower, change, and get to the office. I’ve already accepted I’m going to be late; I’d work from home if I could bear it.

I open the gate with a few firm thrusts, pushing the snow back, and take careful steps to the door, heaving it open. My teeth chatter, my skin burns it’s so cold. Why didn’t I stay in bed with Dec?

My key is halfway in the lock when Mr. Percival’s door swings open. He looks me up and down. I’m sure I don’t like the slight drop of his mouth. “Good morning, Mr. Percival.”

“And what time do you call this?”

“Huh?”

He pulls out his old watch, dangling it at me. “Seven fifty!”

“I know what the time is, Mr. Percival.”

“I’ve been worried.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I have. You leave in the morning—Monday to Friday—at five thirty to run and return at six thirty. Then you leave at seven, for work, I assume, and return at ten p.m. earliest. On Saturdays, you run a little later and then leave again at noon and return at eleven p.m. earliest. Sometimes as late as midnight. On Sundays?—”

“I get it, Mr. Percival.”

“So where did you stay?”

I laugh and turn the key. “That’s private.”

He recoils, injured.