Chapter Text
Emma’s room was a mess. Drawers flung open, cranberry tights cascading off the edge, and hangers linked together like monkeys from the yellow plastic crate she played with as a kid. On the bed, atop the champagne-colored comforter sat her biggest suitcase, wide open with wheels sticking into the air like insect legs. Emma herself was a mess to match her room. Her hair was uncharacteristically tangled, cobbled up into a bun on her head. Not her usual bun, with the loose curls that framed her face. This bun made Emma feel like the scary headmistress from Matilda. Whenever she bent over to unceremoniously throw an item into her suitcase, it flopped forward, then when she stood up it flopped back again, the elastic losing the battle a little more each time.
The planner on her desk was open to the third week of December. “ECON FINAL” was written in loud red ink on Monday. Tuesday’s box yelled “JOURNALISM PAPER DUE”, and Wednesdays “SKETCH PORTFOLIO DUE”. Thursday was blank, which looked odd amongst the clamoring text around it. On Friday, in a very neat hand, the planner read “GENDER PAPER DUE” and “Penn Station @ 6 pm” below.
Emma’s phone lit up with a text. The screen read “Friday, December 18” underneath the time: 5:15 pm.
She picked it up, glanced at it only enough to see who had sent the text, and smiled.
“Text me when your train is close! Excited to give you a hug <3” -- Harriet
The only items left to pack were her shoes, and she carefully arranged them into the otherwise slapdash collection of clothes, toiletries, and books. A pair of pink flats, brown leather ankle boots with a block heel, and a pair of water-stained tan Uggs. Emma wore her white sneakers, which were as clean as white shoes in New York City could remain.
She appeared oblivious to the gaggle of girls standing outside her door, laughing loudly at one of their phones. They shrunk back, protecting their toes from being run over by her suitcase as she marched past, her head lifted haughtily, her bun bouncing to the rhythm of her steps, the elastic clinging on for dear life.
--
Miles away, under a blanket of snow, Knightley sat in the blue-tinged light of his open computer. The light cast shadows on his kind face, creating lines where there were none and darkening the circles under his blue eyes. The empty spreadsheet stared back at him as if taunting him. He sighed and began to type “Annual Yield and Production per acre” in the narrow box. Highbury Organics required an annual report and it was his job to compile it, amongst other things like making sure the process was USDA compliant, and that the product, mainly apples and various root vegetables, were distributed to as many small businesses as possible before a chain retailer. His parents had impressed upon him at a young age, support small businesses and they’ll support you. They were right, judging by the comfort of the house Knightley sat in and the annual dividends the family accountant mailed him once a year.
The house creaked and groaned in the winter winds. Highbury was only a few hour’s drives from the Canadian border so it was cold for most of the year. Knightley had found the constant sunny warmth of UC-Berkely strange at first, but by his graduation, he had dreaded returning to the cold embrace of Vermont. Alas, family duty called, and he was not one to shirk his responsibilities, as Jane was so fond of telling him.
He sighed again, leaning back at his desk, folding his hands on top of his sandy blonde curls. Last week when he was unloading the dishwasher, very glamorous, Rob had called him. He said he wanted Knightley to hear it from him rather, rather than stumble upon it. Obviously, this only made Knightley extremely anxious that his best friend had received some kind of life-ending diagnosis, and as his mind was running through all the horrible possibilities, Rob cut in.
“So you know that Churchill guy right…”
“Yes,” replied Knightley, drawing out the “s.”
“Well, he’s a dick.”
“So you called me to tell me that Frank Churchill is a dick. I already knew that Rob I don’t need to hear it from you to know it’s the truth,” replied Knightley, laughing a little.
“Ha yeah, well, yeah the thing is… he’s uh, him and Jane are uhh…getting married.”
“Ah,” said Knightley, pausing in the midst of putting a plate in the cabinet.
“I don’t know dude, they must have met over the summer after you went back home and… I mean Jane, man, she’s in way too deep I don’t know what she’s thinking.” Rob said hurriedly, his voice tinged with concern.
“Hmm,” Knightley nodded, his brain slowly processing Rob’s words. Jane engaged. Engaged? They dated three years, and never once did she bring up marriage. But with Churchill, she only needed three months to decide.
“You all right?” Rob asked, his voice sounding far away on the phone line.
“Oh yeah, no I’m fine just a bit surprised. I mean she didn’t waste much time did she.” He tried to laugh, but it came out more of a weak chuckle.
“It’s crazy man, it doesn’t seem like something she would do, get engaged after three months of knowing the guy. But I guess that’s not our problem now,” said Rob.
“Yeah,” replied Knightley softly. “Well thanks for the heads up Rob, I’ll call you later,” he rushed before hanging up without waiting for a response.
Rob’s use of the “our” pronoun both warmed and irked Knightley. He loved his friend and appreciated how Rob had been there for him after he and Jane ended things. But couldn’t Knightley keep this pain for himself? He was the one who’s long-term girlfriend was now engaged to the biggest dickhead of their year only four months after breaking up with him. Not that they broke up for the wrong reasons, he knew it was the right call. It was the speed of it all, how fast Jane went from not only not his but someone else's, someone who he frequently called a disgrace to all men. It made him dizzy.
So, he put his head down and focused on compartmentalizing the “Jane pain,” as he called it. Christmas was Highbury Organics’s busiest time, people wanted apples by the pound for their pies, and root vegetables were the new side of choice. When he returned from a day of pricing turnips and caging soil off from thieving squirrels, he was so bone weary he couldn’t spare a thought for anything other than food and sleep. Christmas loomed on the horizon, a treacherous passage of time he could not spend avoiding himself. But what he did not know was that with Christmas came something, or rather someone, who would occupy his head so thoroughly he would forget his own name, much less that of the soon-to-be Churchills.