Chapter 18: chapter sixteen

s i x t e e n

*

I've made a horrible mistake. I realise it within a few minutes of getting back in the car and that realisation grows as I drive, following the next set of directions Casper plugs into my phone and trying not to think about what I've done. I actually feel a bit queasy when it sinks in, and my hands would be shaking if I wasn't gripping the wheel so tightly.

What the fuck was I thinking, inviting him to permanently live with me when my stupid heart has decided to go all soft over him? I curse my desperation to be the helpful friend, the one people can turn to; if I wasn't so greedy for validation, maybe I'd have had a bit more time to figure out my crush, and either get rid of it or know not to ask Casper to move in.

But I rushed in to help a friend in need and now I have to live with a guy I have a rapidly-growing crush on.

"You all right?" Casper asks. "You've stopped singing along, and while I appreciate not being subjected to double the Christmas assault, I've come to realise that's a sign something's wrong."

Shit. Am I that transparent?

"No, no, just lost in thought," I say, and before he can ask what I'm thinking, I add, "Wondering what you've got up your sleeve."

"Ah. All shall be revealed." He taps his nose and winks, and that alone doubles my crush. Damn his adorable face.

"Talk to me," I blurt out. I need a distraction and the Christmas music isn't doing it because I know all the words and notes and melodies better than the back of my hand. "Tell me a story."

Casper chuckles. "Um. Okay. A ... Christmas story?"

I glance at him. "Do you have one?"

"Nothing fictional."

"I don't want fictional. Just ... tell me something I don't know."

He purses his lips at me and gives me a funny look; I can see him out of the corner of my eye, giving me a once over. "Um. All right. Well, you already know I've never celebrated Christmas myself. It's not something we ever did as a family. But there used to be this couple who lived next door," he says. His voice has softened, as though he's a teacher telling a story to a bunch of rapt kids. "They went all out, every year. Their garden was lit up like a ... well, like a Christmas tree."

He chuckles. I do too, trying to ignore the fact that I'm holding my breath listening to him talk.

"Anyway, they were really crazy about Christmas. More than you. Garden full of decorations, lights in every tree, the whole shabam. I hated it. Like, really hated it. It was all so garish and tacky, and they never turned it off for, like, six weeks straight."

"I don't like this story," I say. "Is it going to end in you sabotaging their decorations, Scrooge?"

"I would never," he says. "Anyway, one year they didn't put the decorations up, and I was so glad. I figured they'd finally come to their senses, and I would be able to sleep with the curtains open without the glow of flashing reindeer and presents and all that shit."

"Typical grinch."

Casper tuts and carries on. "But then I found out that the guy's wife had died, and she was the one who did it all. They were both absolutely crazy about Christmas, but then she died and he was too frail to put all their stuff out without her."

"Oh, god." My chest squeezes tight; I feel like crying over a couple of strangers. "That's so sad."

"Mmm. I thought so too," he says quietly. "So there I am, a grumpy seventeen-year-old grinch who hates Christmas, lugging these boxes out of storage while this sweet old one-legged guy directs me where to put the decorations. I fucking hated all those lights, until I found out why they weren't there anymore."

"Cas..."

"I'm not a total grinch," he says. "That's the moral of the story, I think. I liked the couple, even though they were Christmas fans." He looks over at me. I manage to meet his eye for a moment. "But obviously you know that someone being a Christmas fan doesn't seem to affect my ability to like them."

Fucking hell. What is this man doing to me? I feel like I just sent my heart on a rollercoaster.

"I can't believe you did that. You might not want to hear this, but you embodied the Christmas spirit."

"Nuh-uh." He holds up a hand and says, "I embodied basic human decency by helping out an old guy who needed a hand. It just happened to be Christmas-related, and you wanted a Christmas story."

Under my breath, I murmur, "You've got a bit of Christmas spirit."

He doesn't say anything, but when I sneak a look at him, there's the smallest of smiles on his face. I imagine the scene, him even more baby-faced eight years ago, grumpily putting up lights for a grieving old man, and I swear I can feel it. My heart swells. That's the last thing I need when I'm trying to minimise my crush on him.

Forty minutes before we're scheduled to reach our destination, Casper starts tapping his foot. Within a few minutes, both knees are jiggling, and it is in no way in time with the music.

"Do you need a wee, by any chance?"

"Just a bit."

"I can pull over, you know. There's no-one around, and there are bushes and trees aplenty."

"That'd be good," he says, and the moment I pull over on a wide stretch of road, not so muddy or icy that I won't be able to pull out again, he hustles over to a thatch of trees to hide himself from the road.

I take advantage of the moment to take out my phone and text ... who do I text? Neither of my older sisters even know about Casper and Paisley will just make jokes; my closest friends are Emmy and Ally but neither of them are clued in on the situation either. It'll have to be my mum.

ME: i've made a horrible mistake. told cas he can move in with me as an official housemate, he's very excited, but i have a huge crush on him. this can't go well. do i tell him i changed my mind?????

I send the text, fingers shaking as I watch the direction in which Casper ran so he won't catch me texting and ask what I'm doing. I haven't peeked at our destination – I'm still clueless, no idea where we could be going when my internal compass tells me that by the time we arrive, we'll be approximately a hundred miles northeast of Saint Wendelin.

I doubt it takes Casper long to pee. Probably a bad idea to have sent that text. Unless Mum replies in the next three seconds, her response will most likely pop up while I'm driving, which means I won't be able to do anything about it and Casper will see it when it fills my screen.

Come on come on come on, I think, anxious fingers and toes tapping in painful apprehension, until her reply buzzes in and I almost drop my phone.

MUM: hmm. im not sure baby! not a horrible mistake, that's for sure! i think honesty's the best policy ... tell him you like him. you're both adults. or you chalk it up to spending a lot of time with him recently and try to move on.

As far as advice goes, hers isn't terrible. But it isn't particularly helpful, because the odds of me telling Casper that I like him are, ooh, about a million to one. That isn't my style. The last thing I want to do is make this more awkward.

But she's right. I have spent a lot of time with Casper recently, more time than I usually spend with anyone but myself. It's probably just a proximity thing. Once we've lived for each other for more than a few days, the crush will fade away when he leaves the loo seat up or hogs the bathroom when I need a long soak.

I feel marginally better. When he returns, probably not more than a minute after he left, that underlying flicker of doubt and guilt and anxiety is more of an occasional spark.

I wordlessly hold out a bottle of hand sanitiser when he gets back in the car and he laughs as he holds out his palms and I squeeze out a dollop of lavender-scented gel.

"Much appreciated," he says, rubbing it in before he pulls his gloves back on. He spots my phone in my hand. "You haven't been cheating, have you? I'll have you know, I value honesty and integrity – we might not be able to live together if you've been a nosy parker."

A get-out clause, I think. But I shake my head. "I didn't peek, don't worry. I'm still totally in the dark regarding where we're going."

"Good." He settles in with a grin. "Any chance we've run out of Christmas songs yet?"

"Not even close."

*

I make the final turn and screen pops up to say that I've arrived at my destination, which turns out to be a car park. Casper hops out and gets a ticket before I've even registered that it's pay and display, and then he opens my door and holds out his hand to me.

"Come on, m'lady. Adventure awaits."

Apprehension awaits, I think, but apprehension is already here. Where the hell are we and what has Casper planned? I let him take my hand, glad that we're both wearing gloves so he can't feel how hot my palm is, how sweaty it'll probably get at his touch, but I don't leave him with the burden of pulling me out of the car because I'm at least twice his weight.

"When're you going to tell me where the hell we are?" I ask.

"Just wait."

"It seems like a typically dead typical town."

"It isn't. Well, it kind of is," he says, "but you'll see. Just stop being so impatient." He clucks his tongue at me and lets go of my hand when we're walking side by side and he doesn't need to lead me anymore. "We've established that you trust me – enough to let me live with you and enough to let me take control for a day – so put that trust into action."

"Hmm."

Casper's unaffected by my cynicism, grinning even wider as he closes his fingers around my elbow and we turn a corner, and my breath is stolen by the biggest Christmas tree I've ever seen. My feet stop moving; all I can do is stare up at the enormous pine, with head-sized baubles dangling from the branches and metres of tinsel strung all around it. At the very top, at least forty or fifty feet up – my six-foot tree is starting to look pretty small – is an enormous star, glittering gold.

"What?" It's the only word I can vocalise and even that is an effort, my brain refusing to cooperate when I ask for a few words. I walk towards the tree, right in the vast, empty centre of this quiet town. "Cas? Where are we?"

Casper's standing next to me, arms folded and eyes twinkling. He's facing the giant tree, and I swear I can see the bright red and sparkling silver baubles reflected in his eyes. "Surprise!"

I'm still a bit speechless, reduced to staring at him, my eyes as wide as they'll go behind my glasses, my vision speckled with lightly-falling snowflakes that catch the occasional sliver of bright December sun when the clouds part.

"I was talking to my sister this morning. She called while you were out," he says, "and I told her that your level of Christmas fanaticism is almost on a par with the Garrisons – the old couple I told you about. She mentioned this place, and I thought it'd be nice to show you, if you haven't been already. Based on your face right now, I'm guessing you haven't."

"I haven't," I manage, shaking my head in awe. It's hard to tear my gaze from Casper, but I'm drawn back to the tree. It's taller than my house, by a long shot; its bright red bucket, decorated with swathes of holly, is taller than me.

"It's the tallest Christmas tree in Scotland. Even taller than the one in Glasgow, which is a puny forty feet. I think this one is forty-five," he says.

"I'm still trying to get over the fact that you have voluntarily brought me here," I say, my words coming out slow and measured. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm feeling great." He looks at the tree. "Bit less great." He looks back at me. "Great again." A laugh mists up the bitingly cold air. "I'd have to be an idiot not to know that Christmas makes you happy."

"And we all know that you're a wise man," I say.

"I am. Wise enough to know that I can bring you here, or get you to bring us here, and it'll make you happy, even if I don't get the hype." He unfolds his arms to put his hands in his pockets. "To be honest, I'm surprised you haven't already been here."

"I've never even heard of it."

Tutting, he rolls his eyes. "And you call yourself a Christmas fan."

"This is ... wow. Incredible." I'm at risk of getting choked up, not only over the amazing tree that fills me with joy and warms my spirit, but over the fact that he did this for me. He knew I'd love this.

"And now for the fun part."

"The fun part?"

Casper rubs his hands together, a wickedly gleeful look on his face.

"Oh, god, don't tell me this is some kind of sick demolition and we're about to watch them cut down the tree." I cover my eyes on instinct the moment the thought jumps into my head, but Casper barks a laugh.

"No! Jeez, Beth, no. I wouldn't do that to you. No. The fun part is – well, let's just say I'm not a totally selfless person and I figured if we're going to spend over two hours driving here, there needs to be something in it for me, because I derive absolutely zero joy from big pine trees wrenched from their forests for the brief enjoyment of people ruled by consumerism."

"Careful what you say, Scrooge. I am one of those hopeless consumers."

His eyebrows twitch. "And I'm coming to terms with that," he says. "It's okay. You make up for your flaws in other ways. Anyway, as I'm trying to say, we didn't come all this way just for a big-ass tree that'll die in a few weeks now that it's been cut down. I happen to have always wanted to try ice skating."

"Okay?"

"Take a closer look." He nods at the tree, and only when I clean my glasses – harder than it sounds, considering it's still snowing and my scarf is damp – do I realise, squinting slightly, that the tree is standing in the middle of a huge ice rink.

"Oh my god. We're going skating?"

"If you're up for it. If not, you can stand on the sidelines and cheer me on while I faceplant the ice over and over and over. Have you ever skated?"

"A few times," I say, "but not since I was, like, twelve."

"Want to help make my dreams come true?" He pretends to skate along the pavement, though there isn't much acting required considering the current weather. He almost does the splits when his shoe skids on a patch of ungritted ice.

"If your dream is to land yourself in A&E six days before Christmas, then I think that's achievable," I say, reaching out to steady him when he almost loses his balance again. For a guy who's lived in Saint Wendelin all his life, he doesn't have the most appropriate footwear: his laced-up boots are more fashionable than they are sturdy or sensibly-soled.

"If that happens, so be it. Great excuse to get a couple of days off work."

"A couple?" I raise my eyebrows at him. "If you fuck yourself up on the ice, you could break an ankle. That'd need more than two days recovery."

"I only have two days left," he says. "I'm working tomorrow and Saturday, and then I'm off until the second of January."

"Wait, what? You have all of Christmas off?"

He gives me a grim nod. "Unfortunately. I tried my best on Julio, but he said that Christmas is a time of being with family and friends, and he's closing the cafe from the twenty-third of December until the day after New Year's Day."

We're going to be spending a lot of time together, is my first thought. From the eve of Christmas Eve until the day that marks a whole new year. Unadulterated company. Plenty of time for him to piss me off, or for me to fall for him. I push that thought away, though, and focus on a more amusing one: plenty of time to fully indoctrinate him into my Christmas.

*

It's been a long time since I last stepped on the ice, the boots tight and unforgiving, but I settle into the rhythm of it after a minute of unsteadiness. After a couple of minutes, I manage to stand straight and figure out how to move my legs and my feet to propel myself across the ice.

Casper isn't so lucky. He's clutching the side of the rink, his cheeks a paler shade of brown as he tries to drag himself along without falling. I laugh as I sail past him, completing a full circuit around the tree before I return and come to a jerky stop by his side.

"How're you doing?" I ask.

"This is so unnatural. How the fuck are you doing that?"

"I don't know. It's just kind of ... instinct. The toes of your skates have the little spikes, to dig into the ice so you can push off, and your feet are supposed to go slightly sideways, I think? I don't know, I don't overthink it. I just go."

"I can't do it."

"You can," I say, holding out my hand to him. He tries to take it, but slaps his hand right back on the ledge he's using to hold himself up.

"Nope. If I let go I'll fall."

"That's part and parcel of learning. You fall, you get back up."

"How the fuck do you get back up if you fall on the ice?"

I point at my skates. "With the spiky toes."

"Damn it. I should have practised." He lets out a strained laugh. "Then I could've impressed you with my mad skills."

He wants to impress me? The thought sends a flicker of warmth to my chest, spreading throughout my body.

"You've already impressed me with the tree," I say. "I promise I won't laugh if you fall. Come on. Take my hand."

Tentatively, and ever so slowly, he does. He holds on so tight it hurts, and he's like a baby giraffe learning to walk when he eases away from the wall on shaky legs, both arms spread out to balance himself.

"Now follow my lead." I start to move, only just holding onto my own balance, let alone his. His grip somehow tightens even more, close to crushing my bones, and he lets out a squeak when he almost falls.

"My respect for figure skaters just grew exponentially," he says. "All I want is to make it around one lap. I'll take that as a win."

"We can totally do that."

I try not to think too hard about the fact that we're holding hands, skating on an ice rink filled with couples, skirting around the country's tallest Christmas tree. If I overthink it, my heart will stop and we'll both fall.

It's a slow and shaky start. Casper's making the strangest noises, sounding like a distressed mouse and then a hungry cat and then a frightened child, and it's hard to keep myself together and not collapse in a puddle of laughter.

"There you go!" I cry out when we've made it halfway round and strayed more than half a metre from the edge. "You're getting the hang of it."

"I'm really not. If you let go of me, I'll go down."

"I wouldn't be opposed to that," I joke, and he guffaws.

Laughter is, apparently, the best way for him to lose his concentration and his balance. He flounders for a moment, and lets go of my hand a moment before he thumps down on the hard ground.

"I think I just broke my coccyx," he says with a groan. "I'm a lost cause. Leave me. Let me succumb to the ice."

"Oh, stop moaning," I say, before I let my laughter take over. "Use the spiky toes to get up."

His first attempt is a fail. He gets onto one foot and one knee before he tumbles down again. People continue skating all around us, unfazed. I wait until I'm more certain of my balance before I hold out both hands to him.

"Let me help you."

"No, no, I'll pull you down."

"No you won't. Come on. Take my hands. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

He accepts my grip, and he does almost pull me down. But I bend my knees, leaning back just enough to haul him up but not so much that I topple over.

"This is so much harder than I thought it was going to be," he pants, struggling to catch his breath.

"You're trying too hard. You have to trust the ice."

We're still holding hands. Both hands. We're facing each other, standing still in the middle of the rink, and I almost lose the strength in my knees, but he needs me to be strong right now, because – let's be honest – he fucking sucks at skating.

I guide him over to the Christmas tree, where he leans against the pot. "Watch me," I say, moving slowly so he can see what I'm doing with my feet. I do a careful figure eight and then a loop around the tree, losing sight of him for several seconds. I think we've been here for a while, judging by the thinning crowds; I've lost sight of time, trying to help him.

"Come over to me," I say, purposely standing a few metres away from him. "You can push off from the pot. Gently."

It takes a few minutes to persuade him before he finally advance towards me on wobbly legs. His feet are doing the right thing, though; he must've watched me closely.

"There you go!" I clap when he reaches me, almost wrenching my arm out of its socket when he latches on.

"We're never going to make it back to the other side," he says, laughing at last. "We're doomed to live out our days in the middle of the rink."

"You've totally got this. Slow and steady," I say.

And he has. Almost. We skate, hand in hand, slow and steady. We make it to the other side of the Christmas tree, and it all goes downhill from there. Figuratively, of course. I make the mistake of looking up in admiration at the supersized decorations above me, at the twinkling lights strung up above the ice rink, and Casper panics.

"We're going to crash!" he shrieks. We're not going to crash, several metres from the children skating towards us, but he tugs too hard on my hand and I lose my balance. I can't right it in time, and when I crash down, so does Casper.

I don't mean to pull him on top of me. I was trying to let go of him, but he wouldn't release his grip, so when I collapse on my back, he lands with a knee between my thighs and knocks the wind out of me when his bony elbow catches my stomach.

There's an unreal blast of pain, mostly the shock of the fall and the ice against my head, but it fades when I blink up at him, his shocked face looming over mine. I'm living a cliche, I think, but it's hard to care in this moment, when my eyes meet his and behind his head is a halo of tinsel and fairy lights and glittering baubles.

The realisation comes with equal bolts of elation and dismay.

I'm in love with Casper Boutayeb.

*

so ... what're you thinking?