12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter eighteen

e i g h t e e n

*

There have been plenty of times over the last thirty-six hours that I could have spilled my heart to Casper but every time I’ve got close, I’ve ended up chickening out. I could have told him over supper on Thursday after the ice skating; I could have told him later that night when we watched old episodes of Mock the Week, sharing a sofa and the bottle of Pinot. But I didn’t.

Friday brought a ton of opportunities, none of which I took: at breakfast or on the way to Java Tea; when I was the only customer there for the last thirty minutes; when we got an Indian takeaway and watched Notting Hill. Not a Christmas film, no, but I reckon if he can stomach that, then he can handle Love, Actually.

Now it’s been a day and a half and I haven’t mentioned it, not even on any of the three occasions that he’s asked what’s on my mind. Each time, I’ve deflected or started talking festive to stop me from blurting out that he is on my mind, that I’m driving myself crazy liking him.

Soon, it’ll have been two days since I first decided to break the news, because we need to leave in ninety minutes for him to get to work on time. Today’s his final shift of the year, and then we’re going to be spending even more time together, and it will be unbearable if this is all I can think about. I’ve been totally blindsided by this crush. For four years, Casper’s been my friend. My very cute friend. And then, the moment we’re sharing a house, I have to go and make it weird by liking him.

It’s bloody freezing today. That’s true for every winter day in Saint Wendelin, from November to March, but today I feel exceptionally cold when I wake up. My first panicked thought is that I’m coming down with something, the chill a precursor to some kind of bug that will ruin Christmas, until I realise that even in my bedroom, my breath is fogging up. That’s new.

It’s a struggle to get out of bed when it’s so cold in here, but I need to figure out what’s wrong. I’m fairly certain I already know: for it to be so cold inside, the boiler must be kaput and therefore my central heating is out of order, because I usually keep the house at a toasty twenty degrees from seven at night until eight in the morning but right now, I’m not sure it’s even breaking zero.

I’m wrapped in a fluffy blanket over my onesie, thick socks on my feet, when I finally make it downstairs and shuffle over to the utility closet beneath the stairs. But it’s already open; I can already see the dead pilot light and I can hear that it’s doing nothing.

“I think the boiler’s fucked,” Casper says, emerging from the kitchen with a slice of slightly-burnt toast in his hand. He’s wearing two jumpers and a beanie underneath his hood, and he appears to have found a pair of my furry slippers, bright pink boots that clash with dark orange tracksuit bottoms.

“Ugh,” is all I can articulate right now. “I’ll call the company, see if we can get someone out.”

Casper presses his lips into a thin line. “Not sure that’s gonna be possible, Bee.” He steps past me to the sitting room window, hooking the curtain back with his little finger.

All I see is white. There’s no definition, no way to tell the sky from the trees, the shrubs from the road. It’s all just ... white. Coated in a blanket of fresh snow. Several blankets. Blindingly white and crisp, so clean it hurts to look at, and it looks deep.

“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself, joining Casper right in front of the frosty pane. The only hint of colour outside comes from the pair of rotund robins flitting from snowy tree to tree, probably looking for something, anything, to eat.