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I told Gemma I had a cold and stayed home. It was a lie. It was the most cowardly lie I have ever told and I ate a frozen lasagne for Christmas dinner as punishment.
On Boxing Day, at about four in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door.
I opened it in my dressing gown with a mince pie in my mouth.
Tess stood on my doormat in her red coat, holding a tinfoil-wrapped plate in both hands. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Snow, the rare Manchester kind, was melting in her curls.
“Your mum sent leftovers,” she said. “And your sister made me promise to check you weren’t dying. She says you’ve had man flu since November.”
“Oh,” I said, through the mince pie.
“You weren’t ill, were you.”
“No.”
“You were avoiding me.”
“Yes.”
“You idiot.” She held out the plate. Turkey, stuffing, sprouts, a slab of Mum’s trifle. “I spent all of Christmas Day thinking you hated me. Gemma kept asking why I was checking my phone.”
“I don’t hate you. Tess, I think about you constantly. That’s the problem.”
She looked at me for a long moment. The snow kept falling behind her.
“It’s freezing out here, Ben,” she said quietly. “And I’m not working tonight.”