So, maybe TK wouldn’t get his slice of justice now, but maybe one day, all the people in this industry who had been hurt by it will get theirs.
Chapter 35
December
Ispent Christmas week with my folks up north, and by the time I drove back down to London on the 27th, it was a relief.
Not that I didn’t enjoy spending time with them, of course I did, but there was a distinct difference between living at home and visiting home, and somehow the difference was the sense of claustrophobia you got when you’re there for a brief visit. It felt like my world had expanded once I’d moved out, and trying to shove it back into the confines of my parent’s home, even for a week, felt exhausting.
Mum was still in remission, and Dad had presented her with tickets to a Viking River Cruise for next year. They were still so in love, and while I loved that, it was hard to be around sometimes.
Mum had ventured to ask if I was seeing anyone, but I hadn’t felt comfortable telling her about Patrick. It was too soon, and being back in my parent’s house at Christmas, talking about boys… it felt like I was chasing echoes.
Patrick opened the door, his smile growing broad as he looked down at me from where I stood on his doorstep.
“Is that the ghost of Christmas past?”
“I’m cold, not dead, let me in,” I grumbled.
He moved to the side and opened the door wider, letting me step through so I could stomp the wet slush off my boots onto the mat. It never really snowed in London, but that didn’t stop it sleeting. Horrible, wet little daggers, part rain, part ice, all awful.
“Come on, Rudolph, let me help you with your coat.”
He turned me around and helped me shrug the heavy coat from my arms before hanging it up. It dripped, making little puddles on the mat .
“Rudolph?” I asked, turning to face him as I peeled off my gloves, and toed off my wet shoes.
“Your nose,” he teased, tapping the end of it. “It’s all red.”
Self consciously, I reached up to touch my face, becoming aware of how cold it was. I probably looked like one of Santa’s elves.
“Come on,” he said, reaching for my hand to pull me further into the house, “I made dinner. I hope you’re hungry.”
“No more turkey, please,” I groaned.
He looked back over his shoulder. “Pasta al forno alright, then? Not a single turkey harmed in the making.”
“Perfect,” I sighed.
After eating, we sprawled out in his living room, where he’d built a fire in the tiled hearth that crackled merrily away, warming me more effectively than any modern radiator. Patrick lived in a Victorian terraced house, a common enough sight in London. He shared the house with two others, but they’d both gone home for Christmas.
“I got you this,” he said, surprising me by reaching under the Christmas tree and pulling out a box tied up in a neat green ribbon. He slid it towards me, and I tentatively reached for it.
“You didn’t need to get me anything,” I protested weakly.
“Be a bit weird if I didn’t get my girlfriend anything for Christmas,” he said with half a shrug that seemed to be part self-deprecation, and part something else.
My fingers stilled where they’d been pulling at the ribbon.
“Is that alright?” He asked, his eyes finding mine for half a second before they roamed over my face. “Calling you my girlfriend? I know I didn’t ask, I didn’t know if, I dunno, if you’d thought about it. Because, you know, I’m not seeing anyone else, or anything like that and I wasn’t sure if you were or….”
Patrick looked away and ran a hand along the back of his neck.
“I know we didn’t have a conversation about it, so it’s alright if, y’know-”
I reached forward and pressed my fingers to his mouth, halting the stream of unfiltered consciousness that seemed to be falling out of it.
“It’s fine,” I said, but quietly as the words were barely able to squeeze past the lump in my throat.
