That pulls me up short—I notice I’m going seventy and make a face, braking.
“?’Course we do. He was such a dick to me last Christmas, don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” she says. “But maybe you’ve forgiven him for it.”
“What! I have not.” I’m quite affronted. “He’s not even apologised—or offered any sort of explanation!”
“OK, well, I know you tend to hold a grudge like Gollum with something shiny . . . but have you actually asked him what happened, pigeon? Maybe he didn’t get your card.”
I have wishfully considered this option many times in the last year. In the immediate aftermath of the mistletoe incident, I was so sure this was the explanation that I hunted Poor Mandy down at home to ask her again—was she certain she gave my card to Lucas? Did he definitely read it?
And she’d said yes, he read it. And laughed.
“He got the card,” I say, swallowing. I don’t like thinking about it, not when my body is still soft and sore and satisfied from last night. “Anyway, I’ve not even told you the worst part. The breakdown cover turned up early . . .”
“Oh no.”
“Not that bad. I was back in my seat.” I’m wincing at the memory of the woman’s face, how amused she’d been by my ruffled hair and red cheeks. “But she offered to give me a lift back to my car as they’d be a while fixing Lucas’s, so I just said bye to Lucas and left with her.”
“How did you say bye to him?” Jem asks.
“Oh, weird wave.”
“Little pigeon.” Jem’s voice is infused with warmth, and it makes me miss her more than ever. “You are too cute.”
“Embarrassing, you mean. It was great, though: I just went home and had a bath and did my own thing! I think casual one-time sex is the way forward for me.”
“Really?”
“Yes! Why not?”
“Well, maybe I’m not the best person to ask . . .”
“You’re always the best person to ask,” I say.
“You are well aware this would never happen to me,” Jem says, amused. “I cannot even conceive of it, Izz.”
Jem is demisexual, as in, she’s only attracted to people when she’s formed an emotional connection with them first. Great sex with someone you hate is a total contradiction in terms for her, I guess.
“Do you think I’ve been really stupid?” I say. “Do you think I shouldn’t have had sex with him?”
“Of course not! I’m not judging, not ever, you know that. I’m just not convinced you’re getting what you want from a relationship, here. You’re . . . cosy, Izzy. You’ve always wanted a partner who wears woolly jumpers and has a nice smile and a lovely family.”
I wish she’d not said cosy. It takes me right back to that bloody Christmas card again.
“Well, it’s not a relationship anyway, so no need to worry,” I remind her. “Now . . . speaking of lovely families,” I say, dodging a pothole.
“Don’t. I’m actually on the sidewalk outside the house with Piddles, in the very spot where I used to smoke as a teenager and dream of running away. Some things never change.”
“You know, you can run. You’re a grown-up now. You don’t have to spend the holidays with them just because you’ve ended up back in Washington. They make you miserable, Jem.”
“Oh, but they’re my family,” Jem says, and I can hear that she’s rubbing her forehead, the way she always does when she’s feeling guilty or sad. “I’m lucky to have them.”
I know what she means. When you don’t have yours.
“They’re lucky to have you,” I say. “I would so love it if you could walk into that house and own the woman I’ve always known you to be. So what if you’re not a doctor or a lawyer or a superrich businesswoman? You’re chasing a different dream, and you’re doing brilliantly. They should be proud of you.”
“I’m a backing dancer who’s got her first break aged twenty-nine, Izzy,” Jem says dryly. “I get paid, like, twelve dollars a month after tax.”
“Who cares! You have a gift, and the kindest, purest heart, which I personally think matters a hell of a lot more than whether you’re a ‘success.’ Which you are. So you win on all counts. Not that we subscribe to the idea of it being a competition. God, it’s complicated rising above other people’s expectations, isn’t it?”
“It really is.” Jem sniffs. “Thanks, Izz. Damn, you’ve made me cry.”
“I have many rambling pep talks up my sleeve,” I tell her. “Would you like one every hour, on the hour, just in case you need it?”
“You want me to sob my way through the holidays?”
“Only in a nice way!” I say, turning in to the hotel car park.
Lucas
There was a plan. It involved good red wine and candles. Slow kisses and pillow-talk.
My car in a lay-by was not the plan.
“Isn’t this the sort of conversation you should be having with one of your gym buddies?” Ana says in my ear.
I am actually in the gym right now. It is the only place where I feel sane at the moment. I’m on the treadmill, jogging and panicking.
“What about that Pedro guy?” Ana asks.
“Pedro got me into this mess to begin with,” I say, swiping a droplet of sweat from my chin.
There aren’t many people here yet, and the morning gym crowd is more serious and subdued. Which suits me just fine.
“Unless you are now using ‘Pedro’ as a codename for your penis, I don’t think that’s true,” my sister says.
I wince. “I’ve messed up, haven’t I?”
“Does it feel like you’ve messed up? Did it not, you know, go well?”
It was the hottest and most intense experience of my life. I have never, ever wanted somebody so badly. Every moment we spent together in that car, I could feel myself drowning in the euphoria of it, even as I begged myself to wait and remember everything, because this was precious.
But I had one shot.
I wanted Izzy to take me seriously. I wanted to tell her my story, to show her that I do have a heart, whatever she’s always thought. And instead, I behaved like a thoughtless teenage boy. I should have waited until the breakdown truck arrived. I should have driven her back to my flat for a late dinner, kissed her slowly on the sofa, and told her how beautiful she was.
“It was amazing, but not how it should have gone. I had a plan.”
“Oh, a plan. I know how much you love a plan.”
Every time Ana says plan it is loaded with sisterly scorn. I scowl, upping the tempo on the running machine.
“It’s not that. I just wanted it to be special.”
“Wasn’t it?”
It was. But it wasn’t right. This was my chance to show Izzy there’s something real between us—everything had to be perfect. Instead, I’d been almost panicked with desire, desperate for more of her, and then those people had come to fix the car, and . . .
“Hello? Lucas? It is very, very early here, and Bruno has finished his feed, so I’m actually only still awake because I’m being an amazing sister, but if you don’t say something soon, I’m going to fall asleep.”
“Sorry. Go back to bed,” I say. “Love you. Kiss my nephew for me.”
“Love you, too. And no chance,” she says. “I am not waking that baby unless something very big is on fire.”
I smile as I reach for my phone to switch back to my workout playlist. I can’t wait to see Bruno again in February. As soon as this thought crosses my mind, I imagine Izzy there with me: charming my sister, tickling a giggle from Bruno, laughing with me as we get the barbecue going in the garden. The image is so potent I lose my footing and have to grab at the treadmill.
I don’t want to get Izzy out of my system. That is clearer than ever after last night. I want all of her. Her kindness, her commitment, her multicoloured hair, and the way she always puts me in my place. I want to take her home and call her mine.
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
As soon as I arrive at the hotel, it becomes clear that Izzy is still taking her rules extremely seriously.