Page 34 of Love Around the Corner

The worst of it was that he kept remembering Leo’s face when they’d argued. He’d looked devastated, and Alfie’s stupid, soft heart ached for him, wanted to reach out and comfort him.

What a joke. What a fucking joke. Could hebea bigger loser?

He spent the morning mooching about in the house, avoiding the living room. Nothing gave him pleasure, everything tarnished by what he’d lost. For close to a year, his life had revolved around his deepening friendship with LLB and now it was gone.

Maybe he should go out? Walk down to the beach and freeze out the grief. He was considering making the effort to get dressed when he heard a sound outside the front door. His heart jolted in hope, swiftly followed by anger and biting shame at his own weakness. But when he went to the door to check, there was nothing there save a plain white envelope sitting on his narrow porch. Alfie’s name was written on the outside in a spikey script. He knew, instantly, that it was Novak’s writing.

Unsure what to expect, he picked up the letter and brought it inside. For several minutes, he sat at the kitchen counter staring at his name on the crisp white envelope, willing his hammering heart to pipe down. Did he want to read an apology? What could Novak even say that would make a difference? No one was disputing the facts.

Out of spite, he left the envelope unopened and went to take a long hot shower. But it followed him, that envelope, lingering in his thoughts. When the water started to cool, he climbed out, dressed in clean clothes, and returned to the kitchen. Aware of the envelope in his peripheral vision, Alfie made himself a coffee and paced several times around the living room, avoiding the rug where they’d… What? Made love? Fucked?

His eyes found the envelope again, sitting stark against the granite countertop. With an irritable sigh he admitted that he wasn’t going to throw it out unread, so he might as well get it over with and open the damn thing. He picked it up with an irrational, anxious nausea fizzing in his belly. A single piece of paper lay inside. It shook as Alfie unfolded it.

Alfie—You owe me nothing, but please come to Bayside Books at 6pm. Leo

That was it. A summons. A fuckingsummons?

“Screw you,” he snapped, balling up the letter and hurling it across the room. It bounced off the Christmas tree and rolled across the floor before coming to rest against the rug.

Who the hell did Novak think he was, summoning him like that?

You owe me nothing? Damn straight.

Except that his eyes were riveted to that ball of paper, to the promise it offered of relief from the cavernous hole in his chest. And what choice did he really have?

Of course he was going to go. It was inevitable.

And so, at six o’clock, he stepped out into the snow, crunchy as it refroze in the icy night air. Despite the cold, Alfie felt hot beneath his coat, heart pounding with resentment and longing and unable to tell the two apart. He’d go meet Novak, he’d hear him out. But he made no promises about forgiving him. He couldn’t imagine what Novak could say to ease the hurt or salvage Alfie’s pride. But he had to find out. The last few days—these last twelve months—meant too much to him to just walk away.

The streets were quiet this late on Christmas Eve. Everyone was home, or heading out to see family, or to a party. Sean Callaghan, he remembered, was hosting his big bash tonight. But it was the last place Alfie wanted to be—he’d forgotten about it entirely until just now.

Bayside Books was shut, the sign turned over to read ‘Closed’, but there were lights on inside and the Christmas tree in the window twinkled cheerily. There was no sign of Leo. Frowning, heart thumping hard against his breastbone, Alfie tried the door. It opened with a click and he stepped inside.

A familiar scent wrapped itself around him, that mix of old books and cedar that had somehow come to mean Leo. He closed his eyes against a powerful rush of feeling, the sense-memory of Leo’s lips against his own, his thick hair running through Alfie’s fingers. Pushing it back, he looked around. “Hello?” he called softly.

No reply.

God help him, if this was a joke, he’d burn the damn place down. “Novak?” he called, louder and sharper.

Still nothing.

That’s when he noticed another white envelope propped up on the dark wooden counter, his name scrawled on the front. Fuck’s sake, what was this? Angrily, he ripped open the enveloped and pulled out another note.

My brilliant friend,Leo had written,I don’t have the words to explain myself to you so I thought I’d let our companions of the last year speak for me. I know you’ll understand.

Begin with the first of five Christmas stories by the 19thcentury’s finest social commentator.

Alfie stared. What on earth was this? “Novak?” he called. “Novak, what the hell?”

No reply, no sense of anyone listening either. The shop felt empty. He was alone save Novak’s… What? Quiz? Scavenger hunt? He was tempted to turn around and walk out—the whole thing was fucking ridiculous—but somehow he found himself rereading the words on Leo’s note, his mind turning them over.

Well, the 19thcentury’s finest social commentator was usually considered to be Dickens, and the first of his Christmas stories wasA Christmas Carol. Glancing around without really intending to look, he found a copy of the book sitting just behind him on the table near the counter. Frowning, afraid he was being played again, he picked it up. It fell open to a page bookmarked with another piece of paper, another note. And there, on the pages of the book, a sentence had been underlined in pencil.

Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.

Alfie frowned. What did Ebenezer Scrooge have to do with anything? Unless… Was Novak comparing himself to that old misery guts? He lifted an eyebrow, aware that he’d made a similar comparison not so long ago. Opening the second note, he saw that Leo had written:More in that wretched classic of French rebellion.

His lips twitched, but he resisted the hovering smile. Thewretchedclassic? He had to meanLes Misérables. Still feeling foolish, he searched around and found the book standing, face out, on the bookshelf next to the table. Another piece of paper marked a page and, sure enough, another quote had been underlined.

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