12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter one

"How is someone so sweet such a grinch?" I muse, pulling off my gloves to hold my giant mug in both hands.

"I was born with a curse." He leans forward to fold his arms on the counter, halving the distance between us, and he lets out a sigh.

"If you're about to say what I thi-"

"I was born on Christmas Day," he says, cutting me off, "and I'm afraid that cursed me to a lifetime of despising the season."

"Well, I think it's a blessing."

"Trust me, I know how you feel about Christmas, Beth."

Before I knew him too well, a few festive seasons ago, I overheard him grumbling about having a Christmas birthday and I couldn't help but interrupt. That was when I learnt that we are chalk and cheese. Being born on Christmas Day is all we have in common, it seems. I can't count being frequent visitors of Java Tea, considering he's paid to be here.

"You'd have thought," he continues, "that with your parents being so addicted, and calling you Bethlehem, of all things, you'd rebel against them. By all reason, you should be a grinch too. You should be the grinchiest grinch."

Not even close. Yes, I was born into a family that goes beyond all out for the holidays, but that only made me love it more. And, yes, it took me a while to forgive my parents for my name, but no-one has to know that unless I tell them. Almost everyone I've met assumes I'm Bethany or Elizabeth, and I've learnt to answer to both – and occasionally remind them that I introduce myself as Beth for a reason. That being that it's my name.

"This is what I call a healthy relationship with my family and the festivities. Most people enjoy Christmas films, I reckon. You don't have to believe in God or Santa to like Christmas, Cas," I say. Julio glances at us when he brings over a tray full of empties but he says nothing: as long as there aren't any customers stamping their feet behind me, he doesn't care if I hog Casper's attention for a few minutes.

"I believed in Santa until I was eight," Casper says. "Very traumatic. Ten out of ten do not recommend."

"Your poor future children."

He scoffs at me.

"Anyway. What're your plans tonight? Are you, by any chance, compiling a map of the most decorated houses of Saint Wendelin so you can sabotage them after midnight?"

"You make me sound like some kind of demon," he says, tidying up as he talks so he can't be accused of being entirely idle. There's the gentle clink of china as he rearranges the mugs, the swipe of a cloth as he cleans the steamer. "I just ... don't like Christmas." He shrugs. "Is that really so hard to believe? I'm a summer guy: I don't deal well with the cold."

My mint hot chocolate is doing a great job of warming my hands and teasing my senses and I take a sip, getting mostly a mouthful of cream. The cream is so good, though: they have some kind of secret recipe here that I haven't cracked, something other than just a splash of vanilla syrup in the canister. "Maybe you should rethink living in Scotland then," I say.

"Mmm. God knows why my parents traded in London for this." He gives me a dramatic eye roll. "Actually, more to the point, why the hell did my grandparents trade Morocco for England? Massive downgrade, if you ask me. I think I'll spend next Christmas in Marrakech."

"Christmas in Marrakech..." I trail off as images fill my mind's eye, a bombardment of colour and heat and flavour. "Take me with you. Maybe I could give up one white Christmas for something new."

"In your dreams." Casper laughs. "Sorry to break it to you, Beth, but you and I will never spend Christmas together. I think we might be best suited to the relative neutrality of the coffee shop environment. We have our roles."

There's a blast of Arctic air when the door opens and a whole family pours in, and I'm sure Julio's eyes are on us, wherever he is.

"And right now"—Casper points a mug at me—"your role is the friendly customer who sits quietly in the corner, minding her own business until I'm done for the night."

*

The doors close at seven, when Casper sends up a not-so-silent hallelujah that there was no last-minute trickle of customers who think it's okay to rock up at six fifty-nine and order a fresh latte. As his friend and ride home, I get preferential treatment, able to stay in my seat with my book as he and Julio tidy up, until the clock hits quarter past the hour and he's officially free.

The transition from the cosy warmth of Java Tea to the sub-zero temperatures and – oh, joy – sleet is a tricky one, the wind snatching my breath when we step outside. The pathetic halfway-there attempt at snow slushes onto the pavement and catches in my hair, and it's only a three-minute walk to my car, parked on a stretch of free, unlined road, but it feels like five hours. The wind lashes our faces as it pushes against us, and I have to lean forward just to be able to walk. My hands are balled in my pockets, car key clenched in my fist, and neither Casper nor I say a word until we're in our seats.

"Well. Fuck that," he says, teeth chattering as he does up his seatbelt. I can't really add anything to his succinct summation of the last few minutes, and my lips are too cold to form words anyway, so I just nod and crank the heating up to full blast once the engine's running.

Casper doesn't really live on my way home. He's a townie, sharing a flat with his boyfriend at the other end of Saint Wendelin, five minutes' drive from Java Tea; I live a ten-minute drive in the other direction in the tiny town equivalent of suburbs, in an end-of-terrace two-up two-down. As far as terraces go, it's pretty small. There are only five of us in the row, and not much else within half a mile either way.

"Thanks for this," Casper says.

"No problem."

He rubs his hands together and holds them over one of the air vents, which is desperately trying to bring up the temperature. It won't get up to heat until after I've dropped him off, though, and he gives up after a moment, sinking into his seat with a sigh as he checks his phone.

"You ok?"

"Mmhmm." He frowns at his screen, quick fingers tapping out a message, and pushes his hair off his face, only for it to flop forward again. His frizz-free curls belong in a shampoo advert, thick and luscious on top, the sides shaved short.

"Sure?"

He presses his lips together and nods once, and I leave it be. I may have known Casper for four years now, but our relationship is mostly confined to the coffee shop: I see him a few times a week when I go in for my daily drink and we chat if it's quiet. Sometimes I drive him home; sometimes we see each other around town and end up hanging out. We're situational friends; we're not the kind of friends who have deep, meaningful conversations. A good thirty percent of our chats are comprised of name jokes.

Part of me wants to pry, to push our friendship into that next level where we share the deep stuff, but his flat is only a minute away and he's facing away from me, his phone clutched in his hand. His body language is very much I just want to get home without any more social effort, so I don't say another word until I pull up on the double yellows outside his building.

"Home sweet home," I say. "You're free to haunt another day."

He gives me a tight smile. "Cheers, Beth. I'll see you around?"

Tomorrow's his day off, so it'll probably be a couple of days. "See you around, Cas. Have a good night!"

"You too. Thanks, again."

"You can always count on me," I say, hoping that he takes the words to heart. I'm pretty sure something happened in the five minutes between getting in the car and arriving here, and I don't want to pry, but the insatiably curious part of me is desperate to know what soured his mood.

Maybe his boyfriend wants to celebrate Christmas this year. That would definitely piss him off.

Once he's safely inside his building, away from the cold and the increasingly torrential downpour that has my windscreen wipers on full blast, I peel away from the kerb. A few minutes go by before the heating finally kicks in, and I drive home warm and toasty, hoping that Casper's okay. 

*