chapter twenty-three

t w e n t y - t h r e e

*

Somehow, the morning has shifted into afternoon in the blink of an eye, the hours whiled away between breakfast - Casper cooked up a storm when my stomach gave off an irritated rumble, and we feasted on toast and bacon and sausages; fried onions and peppers and eggs – and moments stolen to make up for the days we have spent not kissing.

I think we're all caught up now, as we sit in a tangle on the sofa in front of the heater blasting away in the sitting room, his hand on the back of my neck and my hand running through his curls. He won the genetic lottery with his hair, so soft and each curl so perfect. It's after midday but I doubt we'll be eating lunch today after our ten o'clock breakfast feast, and I'm feeling pretty damn satiated right now.

"As much as I don't want to ruin the mood right now," Casper murmurs, "because I am digging the mood right now, I feel like I need a bit of preparation for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I echo, my brain not catching up as fast as it should when my eyes are focused on his lips.

"Christmas Day with your family," he says, almost grimacing but managing to hold it back.

"Oh, fuck."

"You didn't forget, did you?" He leans back, his arm still around me. "Oh my god, Bee. Even I remembered – I made sure not to forget that my birthday will be spent celebrating Christmas with a bunch of people I'm a bit scared to meet."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I mutter, not fully listening to him. "Shit, Cas, it's Christmas Eve!"

"I'm well aware."

"I haven't done any of the food shopping!"

This is bad. Between the snowstorm that has kept us inside for days on end, and the major distraction of having Casper living in my house for the past eleven days, I've managed to do sweet fuck all for Christmas lunch and now it's tomorrow. In twenty-four hours, my parents and my three sisters and my brother-in-law will descend on my house, expecting warmth and good food, and all I can offer is broken heating and – at least right now – nothing to eat. Except the nut roast and the pudding my mother said she'd bring.

"Well, it is about time we left the house," Casper says. "It's been four days. And as much as I'd love to spend the day battling the cold with you in here"—he traces patterns on the back of my neck, fingers brushing over my skin and making me tingle all over—"I have a feeling it might ruin the day. And I don't want our first birthday together to be a let-down."

It's strangely easy to forget that tomorrow's not only Christmas Day but my twenty-fourth birthday, and Casper's twenty-fifth. I spend so long building up to the festivities, the lights and the decorations and the love that come with Christmas that I don't stop to think about my day. Our day.

"We'll just go to the supermarket," Casper says, his hand dipping under the neck of my jumper to graze my shoulder. "It can't be that crazy, right? Surely everyone else is more organised." His expression turns to one of vague concern and his hand stops moving. "Right?"

I give him a pointed look. "Shopping on Christmas Eve," I say slowly. "After a big snow storm. People have been inside for days, and the shops are about to shut until the twenty-seventh. People go crazy, acting like they're stocking a war bunker and won't be able to shop again all year."

"Oh."

I can't believe I forgot. Scooping my hair off my face, I pull it into an I-have-shit-to-do ponytail and stand up, instantly missing the feel of Casper's hand on my skin. "Come on. We need to act fast if we're gonna save Christmas."

Casper snorts a laugh. "I'm sorry, when did I step onto the set of a shit Christmas action film?"

"I mean it!" I take his hand and pull him up off the sofa. "My entire family is about to descend on us and there'll be rioting if we don't feed them."

"Is it too late for me to find somewhere else to spend tomorrow?" he asks, wincing at me. "Also, why does the responsibility fall on you when tomorrow is your birthday? If anything, you should be able to rock up at someone else's house and be waited on hand and foot."

"Usually that's the case, but my parents' house is being renovated so I offered to host, and I didn't expect to have no heating and to forget to buy the fucking food."

Casper takes hold of my elbows and waits for me to stop before he says, "It's going to be fine. We'll go and get food and I'll blow you away in the kitchen and impress your family and they'll fall in love with me, and I'll get to spend the whole cursed day cooking." He tucks a finger under my chin to lift my head – only a fraction, considering we're virtually the same height – and he presses a gentle kiss to my lips.

"It's going to be fine," he says again, so close that I can feel his breath on my lips.

"Okay."

"Let's go. We have less than four hours before the shops shut."

"Shit."

"Worse case scenario," he says, hands slipping down to hold mine, "we have a load of bread, and there are sausages in the fridge. Got some eggs left too, and a bag of peas."

"Great. We'll wow everyone with breakfast-for-lunch plus Mum's nut roast."

"Sure you don't just wanna ring your sisters and tell them to bring chicken and stuffing and veggies? Or, I don't know, get a takeaway?"

I gasp. He flinches. "That is blasphemy."

"Says the atheist whose favourite holiday is Jesus's birthday." He gives me a wry smile and before I can retort, he gives my hand a tug. "You can tell me off in the car. I don't want to deal with the fallout if the Kings don't get their Christmas lunch."

*

Saint Wendelin itself is too small to warrant its own supermarket but twenty-five minutes down the road – it feels so good to drive again, once Casper and I managed to shovel the driveway and de-ice the car, a thirty-minute operation alone – there's a clutch of three within a couple of miles of each other. Between Asda, Lidl and Tesco, I'm praying we'll be able to get everything we need. It might even be discounted, given how late we've left it.

Lidl is the first supermarket we make it to, and I know with a sinking feeling the moment I see the car park that there isn't space. It's absolutely rammed, cars squeezed into every available spot, and even a few that I'm sure aren't technically spaces. Even the disabled spots are occupied by blue badgeless cars, like being disorganised on Christmas Eve is an excuse to be a dick.

"Hmm," Casper hums to himself. "I guess you were right. It looks a bit busy."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Even though he chuckles at that, I feel bad for saying it. I'm frustrated with myself for forgetting, for getting so wrapped up in my crush that I didn't think to stock my fridge at least five days in advance.

"Second time lucky," he says, idly tapping his knuckles on the window. "Lucky you've got me around, huh?"

"Huh?"

He nods at my palm, the bandaged one resting on the steering wheel. "Something tells me you're going to need a hand. Luckily, I'm a big strong boy"—he flexes his arms, which hardly makes a difference—"and I can handle a roasting tin weighed down by a chicken with a bunch of veg up its arse."

I hadn't even thought about my hand. It's not too bad, but it's only been a bit more than a day and it's far from healed yet, and it's pretty important as far as lunch preparations go. Taking it off the wheel, I gently stretch out my fingers and close them into a loose fist and the pain is instant. Not the sharp stabbing of a fresh cut anymore, but that ache that seems to sink deep into my bones and radiates through my fingers.

At this rate, tomorrow is going to be a complete shit show, and it's the first time I've ever been in charge of Christmas. No matter how much I do in my own home, every other year has been spent with my parents, who go all out cooking up a storm in a cosy house with fully-functioning heating, and all I've had to do is enjoy the day.

Casper seems to sense the direction my thoughts are going in and he puts his hand over my knee. A little higher than my knee. I feel the warmth of his fingers on my thigh. "Don't worry. It's not worth stressing about. Even if all we manage to get is a bunch of sprouts, it'll be a Christmas to remember."

As horrific as the idea is – and that's coming from someone who actually likes sprouts – I know he's right. It's not the end of the world if our lunch on Christmas Day doesn't match up to what I envisage as the perfect Christmas lunch. But we can do better than a bunch of sprouts.

Asda's crammed. It doesn't help that it's close to a shopping centre and with two hours of free parking, the spaces are snatched up by people not even trying to raid the shelves for last minute lunch preparation. We crawl through the car park but every time I spy a space, someone manages to sneak in from a different direction and steal it right as I'm about to turn in.

"That's the third time that's happened," Casper says, sounding completely amazed. "People are arseholes, aren't they."

"Total arseholes."

"I'm gonna keep a tally. For every space we see and lose, we have to take a shot once we get home."

"I don't have anything shottable," I say. "Hard liquor isn't really my thing."

"You don't need vodka or tequila or whatever to do shots," Casper says. "We've got a bunch of mulled wine, right? What's more festive than doing fifteen shots of hot, spiced wine and passing out in front of a fire?"

I laugh and shake my head at him, my bad hand on the wheel and my good one coming to rest over his as we join a queue of people who have given up on finding a space and have instead formed a long line trying to leave.

"Forget Christmas," Casper says. "Let's just tell your family we're unwell – we ate some bad chicken when we were snowed in – and we'll drive as far north as we can go and we'll get a hotel. No stress, no responsibility."

"I don't think so."

He pouts.

"No, Casper."

He pouts even more, sticking his bottom lip out further and pulling his eyebrows together, giving me those irresistible puppy eyes. "Please."

"Down, boy. That sounds like a terrible Christmas."

"It'd be a pretty great birthday, though," he says. "We could find somewhere fancy and get room service. Or, ooh! We could go away. Go to, I don't know, Paris or New York. I think maybe I could get on board with Christmas if we did it in New York."

"Shush," I say, laughing anyway. "Maybe next year."

He pulls his hand away from mine to take his phone out of his pocket.

"What're you doing?"

"Making a note of that," he says, reading out slowly as he types. "Christmas 2020: Casper and Bethlehem go to Paris and stay in a hotel and do fuck all for their birthdays except eat food and shag and watch non-festive films."

We kissed for the first time a day ago, and already he's imagining that we'll be together next year, having hotel birthday sex. My cheeks go the deepest shade of red at the thought alone – a thought that, let's be honest, is pretty enticing. Not the non-Christmas part, of course, but the rest...

Casper seems to realise what he's just insinuated because he goes quiet for a moment, as though he's trying to figure out what to say next without it being an awkward segue.

"I'd rather go to New York," I say. "From what I hear, Paris is a shit hole."

He laughs. I catch his eye; he's grinning, eyes back to their sparkling. The winter sun helps – clean and bright, if bitterly cold – when it catches the windscreen and glints in his irises. "Good point. I've been twice and it was a shit hole both times. New York it is."

"Okay, you're on," I joke. "I can't wait to give a big fuck you to my favourite holiday to spend it with the grinch in the city that never sleeps."

He gives me a knowing smile. "I knew it." He leans back in his seat and lets out a happy sigh. "All this time, you act like you love Christmas so much, but I know you'd love to be shot of it. You're a secret grinch, deep inside."

"Careful, Wise Man. You're on thin fucking ice."

We're still not going anywhere, the lights red so far ahead that I won't get through the next time they go green, and my hand is resting on the gear stick. Casper takes it in his and kisses the back, his fingers curled around mine.

"I will be the most festive guy you've ever met tomorrow," he says. "I'll dress up in a Santa suit, 'cause I know that gets you going, and I will wow your parents, and I'll write cards for all of your family. I'll watch whatever film you want – I'll even watch two! – and I'll take Christmas jumper selfies with everyone in your family."

I stare at him, my eyebrows slowly furrowing into a frown. "What've you done with Casper? Where's my grinch gone?"

"Your grinch has a condition," he says, holding up one finger. "I will do all of that if..."

"If?" I ask, though I'm sure that whatever he says, I'll agree to, because the thought of him doing all of that is too good to miss. I can picture it now, him dressed up as Santa – who says Santa has to be a fat white guy, anyway? – and ho ho ho-ing his way into my family's hearts.

"I'll be Mr Fucking Festive As Fuck if," he says, drawing it out even more, "you will consider – just consider! – the idea of a less Christmassy Christmas next year. If we're still together this time next year, I think we really should go away somewhere. Maybe not New York, okay, I know that's a stretch."

"I don't even have a passport."

"Minor details," he says with a flap of his hand. "Anyway. Will you consider it? I'll go all out tomorrow, beyond all out, if you can tell me that you will honestly think about something a bit different next year."

I purse my lips, eyes on the road when the lights go green and we inch forwards, only a few cars getting through before the lights are red again. That's a big ask. Going away means not seeing my family for my birthday, for Christmas. It means not waking up to my tree and my decorations and the familiar festivities I've surrounded myself with.

But ... I want to see Casper in a Santa suit. I want to watch him write cards for all my family – even my brother-in-law, Jack, who I have met five times total, including the day that he married my sister. I want to sit with Casper as we watch Arthur Christmas and The Polar Express; I want to force him into a dorky Christmas jumper and take photos with the whole family.

"Okay," I say at last. "I'll consider it."

He pumps the air, his whole body twisting in his seat. "Fuck yeah!"

"But you have to do everything you just said," I point out, "which means you need to find a Santa suit on Christmas Eve. If I don't see you dolled up as St Nick tomorrow morning, I'm afraid I can't mull over the idea of a Casper-style Christmas."

Casper twitches his knee. "Let me out here."

"What?"

"Let me out here," he repeats. "The stakes just got incredibly high. I need to find a Santa suit and we're running out of time. I'll meet you at Tesco. Probably quicker to walk there at this rate anyway."

"Um. Okay?"

He leans across the handbrake to kiss my cheek before he jumps out of the car and jogs back to Asda. I roll down my window and yell his name, stopping him a couple of cars down.

"If you're going to Asda, get food!"

He gives me a thumbs up. "Santa suit and sprouts. Got it." He disappears again, at risk of slipping on the icy pavement, and I'm still sitting at the lights when I get a text from him.

CASPER: wtf is wrong with people why is it SO FUCKING BUSY jfc i was kidding before but we mgiht legit only get sprouts

*

It takes me twenty minutes to make it to Tesco and another ten to find a space, and right as I strike gold and slip into a space someone has just left, I spot a family sight and catch my breath.

Casper's bobbing along towards me with a bulging bag in his hand, and a crooked Santa hat on his head. He waves wildly when he spots me and jogs over to the car. In the time it took me to drive here from Asda, he has shopped and walked over here.

"Hey! Nice timing!" he yells out, lowering his voice when he gets close and I open my door. "Warning – people are out for blood. There was, like, no meat in Asda."

"You have a Santa hat."

"I have a whole Santa outfit," he says, "but I'll debut that tomorrow."

Judging by the wicked grin on his face, I should be worried. But mostly, I'm curious and a bit excited. "What did you buy?"

"Santa-wise, that's a secret. Food-wise, mostly vegetables. I did buy sprouts, actually. And some red cabbage – the last one – and a couple of sachets of bread sauce mix. They only had whole milk so I got that because I think we're almost out. I also got some prosecco because what's a birthday without bubbles, right?" He puts the bag in the boot and says, "Can you believe I got ID'd?"

I look him up and down. "Yes, actually."

"I'm twenty-five in ten hours, and that till lady had reason enough to believe I could be under eighteen?"

"It must be that cute little baby face," I say with a chuckle, pinching his cheek. "Do you even have ID?"

He pops the case off his phone and pulls out a green card – his provisional license. "Technically it's expired – I got this when I was seventeen and I still haven't learnt how to drive – but nobody seems to check that."

I take it from him to gape at seventeen-year-old Casper. He looks so young, more like an awkward thirteen-year-old who hasn't grown into his ears yet, his haircut almost the same but floppier.

"Oh my god, you're so cute."

He grins and takes it off me. "Thank you, ya helo."

"What's ya helo?"

"You," he says, tucking the license back into his phone. I shut the car and lock up, armed with a couple of bags for life.

"What does it mean?"

"My beautiful," he says. He loops his arm through my elbow and falls into step with me, and as we pass through the doors, he yanks me to a stop. I almost go head over heels, my mind still latched onto what he just said, heart skipping double time.

"What?"

He points up. "There's one Christmas tradition I do buy into."

The excitement that fills me at those words is silly, but I get all giddy at the thought of him actually, actively enjoying something about this season. I look up and see a sprig of green and white hanging above us and a smile bursts onto my lips.

"See mistletoe," Casper says, "must kiss."

*

i hope you liked this chapter! if you could celebrate christmas somewhere else, where would you want to go?