Page 40 of His Until Christmas

I curve too.Into him.And for once, I don’t hate being crowded.

I don’t even hate being jostled by tourists with bulky rucksacks. I lean closer to him to avoid them, and Reece widens his stance all the way between Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner, and Green Park stations, and this prolonged close contact?

While I hate it ending, I decide it’s almost worth it to emerge into everything I love about December in this city.

Piccadilly Circus is chaotic—busy and bustling as much at night as it is in daytime—and it doesn’t matter that those few flakes of snow Reece offered as a reason to spend more time together are long gone. The Christmas lights are enough of areason. They sparkle, and so do his eyes when he points out the statue this spot is known for.

“Ever sent your gran a pic of this little guy?” He takes my phone to snap one for me, then takes another including himself this time. Reece crowds closer, and there we both are on my phone screen with a cupid between us, complete with a bow and arrow, and that statue might as well use me for target practice when Reece proves how hard he’s listened. “Regent Street next for the angels?”

Two weeks before Christmas, it’s carnage.

I love it.

Reece almost reels back at this clash of consumers and commuters, this collision of slow-moving window-shoppers with impatient workers wanting to get home in a hurry.

That’s okay. He kept me upright on the Tube. I do the same here, like I also did at a ball for bankers until he had his bearings. Tonight, he finds his feet even faster. Reece grins at babies bundled in snowsuits who stare open-mouthed with wonder at the angels hanging over their heads.

He still grins as he turns in a slow circle with my phone to capture a panorama of black cabs and scarlet double-deckers. He also secures shot after shot with all of me in frame instead of only my chin or forehead. For once, I don’t feel self-conscious for posing beside windows like a tourist. These photos spell that Christmas is coming and that it’s bitterly cold—my nose is as red as Rudolph’s in some shots. Less so in others after it starts to sleet and Reece insists on returning my scarf.

He won’t take no for an answer. “I’m used to being cold and wet.”

He takes more photos than I asked for, my laughter frozen forever in breathy images I send home once we’re somewhere warmer.

Reece and I sit in a tourist-trap pub decorated like an explosion in a tinsel factory and grab something to eat and drink together. After the food arrives, Reece uses my phone to take one more photo, this time of me doing a pretty good Sebastian impression, which he must drop into my housemate group chat.

One housemate replies in too much of a hurry for punctuation.

Sebastian:dont shove so much in ur mouth u will choke

That bossy order is quickly followed by a nosy question.

Sebastian:who u out with

I don’t answer—give Sebastian an inch and he’ll stage a mile-long inquisition. I do push my plate away. “That’s probably enough.”

“Enough food or enough photos?” Reece takes a last bite of an overpriced burger, his nose as red as mine in one of those breathy shots that gets me a rare response directly from Gran.

I get a heart-eyes emoji first followed by three sentences complete with punctuation Sebastian could learn from.

Gran:Who’s taking all these lovely photos of you, Jack? They’re so beautiful. Tell them thank you from me!

I’m not entirely sure how to answer her first question.

Who took these photos?

Should I say someone I work for? Or someone I’ve spent years getting to know, and would want even more time with if I didn’t feel obligated to keep finding bright lights for her?

No.

I can’t type that.

Like when I was a kid and feeling anxious about going back to school, she’s still a mind reader, only she doesn’t send Gramps to wrap his cloak around me. She mentions what I’ve tried to do for the last three years without him.

Gran:Thank your friend for all these wonderful reminders of places I went with Richard. You’ll have to find someone as kind in NYC!

No.

That would be impossible. Plus, I don’t want to.I don’t.Not when this is all I could ever want for Christmas.

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