Always, in December
Emily Stone
To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake it is necessary to stand out in the cold.
—Aristotle
Part One
December
Josie stood in the doorway of her flat, under the mistletoe that Bia had insisted they hang “just in case,” and stared mutely at the box Oliver was clutching. One of her hands was still resting on the door, and for a moment she nearly gave in to the urge to slam it in his lying, cheating, and, she realized now, far too symmetrical face.
Oliver cleared his throat. “I know you wanted your stuff back so I just thought I would…” Something about the expression on her face caused him to trail off and he looked down at the box of her belongings instead. He fumbled with it as he tried to hold it out to her, awkwardly bumping into the doorframe instead.
“Right.” She gave in and took it from him, deliberately maneuvering so that she avoided touching his hand. She grunted at the sudden weight of it—it was far heavier than it looked. She supposed that made sense—two years’ worth of stuff left at his flat, forgotten about or left there deliberately to make life easier. Stuff she’d presumed, up until a few weeks ago, wouldn’t be leaving there for the foreseeable future, given she’d assumed that she would, sooner or later, be moving in. What had he been thinking, as he packed it all away? He’d pleaded with her not to end things initially, but now here he was, determinedly marking the end of the relationship.
She pressed her lips together firmly to stop them trembling, and turned her back to Oliver. Right at the top of the box, rolling around on one of her books, as if thrown in as an afterthought, were the flashing reindeer earrings he’d given her three weeks ago, ahead of their work Christmas lunch. The lunch where, instead of coming back with her once the desserts were out of the way, he’d stayed on to drink and flirt with a colleague of theirs. The lunch where, instead of coming home within the hour, he’d gone round to said colleague’s house. And slept with her.
She set the box down on the vinyl floor, just outside Bia’s room. She supposed, then, the earrings had been his farewell gift to her, though neither of them had known it at the time. The thought that had flared up time and time again since the morning after, where, still in bed, he’d told her what he’d done, stabbed at her mind now, even as she tried to repress it. The idea that, if she hadn’t gone home early after the lunch, then maybe they wouldn’t be stood here now. Maybe she’d be curled up next to him on his tiny red sofa watching reruns of Line of Duty and ordering a Thai takeaway and bottle of white wine. Maybe he wouldn’t have given in to temptation, also known as Cara. Or maybe it would have only been delayed, until the next time there was Prosecco and a skin-tight red dress involved.
She took a deep breath through her nose as she stood up, vowing to throw the earrings in the bin the first chance she got. He was still standing there when she turned back around, and she fought hard to keep her face impassive, to force down the angry lump in her throat. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his too-tight jeans and rocked back on his heels, looking over her head and around the flat as if admiring it for the first time. She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. No way was she making this easier for him.
“So are you…OK?” He finally met her gaze and seemed to flinch back a bit from whatever he saw there. Good. It meant she’d nailed the drop-dead glare. She raised her eyebrows farther. She wouldn’t be surprised if they’d disappeared under her bangs by now, but she didn’t care. She refused to be dragged into any form of small talk, not after what he’d done to her.
“I mean, after what happened in the office today, I just wanted to make sure…” He trailed off again, apparently losing the ability to speak in full sentences. Josie kept her arms tightly crossed, desperately hoping that the heat she felt pulsing under her cheeks wasn’t showing on her face. Of course he’d bring that up. Of course he’d figured out why Janice had wanted to talk to her. One of the serious drawbacks to sharing an office with your ex, on top of the fact you had to see them every day, was the fact that you couldn’t lie and say everything was going just swimmingly at work.
“I’m fine,” she said shortly, though from the way his brown eyes turned soft as his gaze lingered on her face, she knew he didn’t buy it. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wishing she’d changed out of her black-and-white-striped work dress, which felt too tight now, and too exposing, like she’d gotten home at two in the afternoon and been sitting doing nothing for four hours. Which, to be fair, she had. Though maybe he wouldn’t notice—he’d never paid much attention to what she’d worn when they were together, something she’d found incredibly charming, the fact that he’d genuinely seemed not to care whether she was in a tracksuit or heels. She wondered now if that had all been put on, given the girl he’d slept with.
Oliver opened his mouth, shut it again, then nodded, clearly thinking better of whatever he’d been about to say, whatever condescending support he’d been about to offer. “All right,” he said evenly. He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, which lay flat against his head, almost like it was stuck in place, though the side part that she knew he combed into place every day was slightly ruffled. “But you know you can still talk to me, right, babe? I still—”