Always, in December(40)
Josie smiled. “You’re one to talk. Where’s Helen now?”
“She’s in the kitchen, taking charge of the roast, and I thought it was easier to let her have at it. Do you want to talk to her? I can grab her?”
“No, that’s OK,” Josie said quickly, not particularly wanting to risk Helen and Max interacting over video.
“Anyway, how are you, my love? I’m worried about you, spending Christmas alone.”
Josie glanced at Max across the table, who was taking a sip of red wine, raising his eyebrows at her over the rim. “Well, I’m, umm, I’m actually out at a pub with a friend at the moment having lunch, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It does,” her grandad said, moving his head into the frame. “But we need proof.”
Smiling a bit, Josie turned her phone to Max, who moved his wine glass immediately out of sight, and cleared his throat, giving an awkward little half wave, which made Josie laugh.
Memo made an appreciative “hmm” noise in the back of her throat. “So this is your ‘friend,’ is it? He’s pretty—when are you bringing him to visit?”
Josie laughed again, but they moved on to talk about other things, like what Helen had gotten them for Christmas—a Kegel exercise set for Memo and a smoothie subscription for her grandad, which made Josie a little nervous about opening her own present from Helen when she got home. If Helen could buy her own mother Kegels, there were no limits. “I got the quote, by the way,” Josie said, a smile playing around her lips.
Memo raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Did you know?”
“Love Actually?” At Memo’s sigh, Josie laughed. “Thought you’d got me, did you?”
“I have to admit I thought that might be the one to put me firmly in the lead, but alas, there’s always next time and I’ll catch you out sooner or later.”
Josie was smiling when they hung up, though the interruption meant that her roast had gotten a little cold. Max, one step ahead of her, ordered a jug of hot gravy.
“How come you’re not there?” he asked, gesturing to where she’d put her phone next to her on the table. “With your grandparents?”
Josie took a bite of beef, chewed slowly, then sighed and picked up her wine. “It’s just…it’s too difficult. Going back to where I grew up. Especially at Christmas, on the day my parents died. It makes me sad, and then they get sad that I’m sad and I…” She sipped her rioja, put it down. “I guess that just seems unfair, on all counts.”
Max nodded. “I get that.”
When the bill arrived, there was the predictable awkward fumbling with bags and wallets, but Max was insistent that he pay for the whole thing. Just as she’d noticed before, his wallet was chock full of papers, receipts, and folded envelopes—his to-do list, he said, where he couldn’t escape it—which meant that he had to dump several cards and papers onto the table in order to retrieve the card he wanted. One thing in particular made Josie stare, and she reached out to touch the sides of the envelope.
Wordlessly, she picked it up and unfolded it, tracing the writing on the front of it. Her writing.
“Something wrong?” Max asked, after he handed the card machine back to Bunches. Josie turned the envelope around, staring at him. He frowned at it. “That’s not mine.”
“No. It’s mine.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a letter, I wrote it, and then…” She’d lost it, when she’d hit him. He must have picked it up with all his things, shoved it there with everything else without realizing. There was no reason he’d have wanted to keep it, surely, and it hadn’t been opened. “You must have picked it up, I guess, in the road. It’s the letter I lost that day.”
Max grimaced, and ran a hand across the back of his neck. “God, I’m sorry, Josie. Was it important? I swear I didn’t even realize, I just shoved everything in here, haven’t got round to sorting anything out yet.”
Josie nodded—she believed him. Still, the thought of him carrying it around these past few days, of holding on to something so intimate, made her feel a little strange, like she’d given up some part of her without being aware of it. He was watching her, his eyebrows pulled together, clearly worried about whether she was going to be pissed off, so she smiled to reassure him. “I have this…tradition,” she explained, holding up the letter so he could see what was written on the front of the envelope. Mum and Dad. She wondered if he’d figure it out. “And, well, I guess it’s been delayed a little this year, but it’s still something I want to do. Something I need to do, on the way back.” She took a breath, and he asked no questions. He wasn’t the type to pry, she was learning. It was partly that which made it so easy to ask, “Will you come with me?”
They walked hand in hand to the post box, the letter clutched in Josie’s other hand. She’d been meaning to write another one, but had let herself get distracted in the whirlwind of Max, and the thought of that brought a tug of shame. But she was doing it now, she told herself. It wasn’t like she’d forgotten them—she’d never do that.
It was the first time she’d ever shared the tradition with anyone, even if she didn’t tell him exactly what the letter was—she thought he knew enough to guess, anyway. It felt more intimate than anything else they’d done so far and as they stopped by the post box there was a lump in her throat that she knew it was OK to feel. He squeezed her hand, saying nothing, just letting her know that he was there.