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It’s 11:38 on Christmas Eve when there’s a knock at her door. When she opens it he’s standing there; fresh snowflakes melting on his wool coat. He looks like he hasn’t bothered to shave in a couple weeks and he smells like he’s already had a couple drinks. She’s standing in the doorway in her pyjamas. Barefoot. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him. Wide eyed. Mouth agape.
He holds up the bottle of wine he’d brought, either as a thank you or as an apology for showing up at her apartment tonight. They haven’t spoken much since the divorce. “Can I come in?” he asks with a sheepish look in his eyes and the tiniest smile.
George, bewildered, says nothing but gestures into the apartment. Grigor enters, stomping the snow off of his boots before he steps inside. She closes the door as he’s hanging his coat in the closet. The fireplace channel is on the TV and the window is cracked open even though it’s snowing because she likes the apartment cold. She’s got a couple of candles lit, but the scent of the room is fresh winter air and George’s perfume.
She leaves Grigor in the entryway and heads towards the kitchen. When she opens the door to the cupboard to grab two wine glasses, she stops herself. What is she doing? He served her divorce papers eight months ago then decides to just show up on Christmas Eve. And she’s inviting him back into her apartment, her heart, her bed. She could make all the excuses she wanted in her head; she was lonely, and he— she wasn’t quite sure why he was here. If she had any conviction she would’ve slammed the door in his face. They’re supposed to be divorced. But this is Grigor. And she didn’t even want a divorce in the first place.
Grigor hesitantly walks to the living room. Even though this was also his apartment not that long ago, last Christmas even, he still feels like a trespasser. He sits down on the couch anyway, and waits for George to return with the glasses. There’s a strange familiarity in the air. Memories seem to flurry around him like a shaken up snow globe.
He notices she’s still put up the Christmas tree. Only a handful of presents sit underneath it. From where he’s sitting he can faintly make out who they’re from; Tatyana, Arkady, Peter. Peter used to have this bizarre and fucking annoying tradition of getting George lingerie every year. That tradition is probably dead now with how he’s doing with Catherine. Not that it matters to Grigor. At least, it shouldn’t.
George returns with the glasses before he can really lose himself in the ghosts of Christmas past. She brings a bottle opener too, and they crack into the wine. He stares out the window. It’s mesmerizing how silent snow is.
“I didn’t want to be alone on Christmas,” he explains.
“I figured,” says George. She’s staring into the TV fireplace. He can’t read her expression at all. Does she really want him here? If she doesn’t, why didn’t she leave him out in the snow? It’s Christmas, he reminds himself. That’s the only reason why. She takes a sip of her wine. “Peter?”
“Him and Catherine fucked off to the Maldives. Don’t know if they’ll be back for New Year’s.” He doesn’t realize how quickly he’s been downing the wine until he’s met with the bottom of the glass. George looks at him with a sad smile, then tops up his glass.
She wants to ask him why he’s here. She knows from some totally-not-creepy internet stalking that she had done with Tatyana over a bottle of Pink Whitney that he’s using Marial to move on from her. Fucking Marial. It just had to be her. Apparently they’re on the brink of moving in together, which George knows because Tatyana’s a slut for gossip and she can’t help but listen. She doesn’t know why he’s here instead of with her, but it almost doesn’t matter.
She knows that he’ll keep showing up at her door and she’ll keep letting him in. Because love like theirs doesn’t just die. Even when he hates her for cheating and she hates him for giving up on their marriage. Even when he’s technically with someone else. Even when it ends it’s never truly over. Not when the wedding rings come off, or the divorce papers are signed, or when he shacks up with some rebound. He probably does still love her, and that’s was makes it so fucked up. He probably hates that it’s forever. She hates it too. Fucking forever.
Grigor had a pair of shoes that he wore until the soles were falling off and there were holes in the toes and the laces were so frayed they were barely usable. George had begged him to get a new pair, but he argued that no, he loved them, and you couldn’t buy shoes like those anymore. It didn’t matter to him if the shirt had a tear, or the coat had a giant hole in the pocket, or the fucking marriage was falling apart. When he loved something, it was forever.
“George?”
She took in a sharp breath. He had startled her. “Yeah?”
“Can we… I don’t know, truce for tonight?” He watched her open and close her mouth three times. “You’re still my best friend, and I miss you, and… it’s fucking Christmas, okay? So let’s just call it even.”
George bit her lip. She had to take a moment just to process what he was asking. She surprised herself when the word fell from her lips. “Okay.” This was probably a horrible idea, one that will just result in heartbreak when he leaves on Boxing Day. But the part of her that still loved him with her whole heart, body, and soul couldn’t pass up this chance to go back to how things used to be. Even though she knew it wouldn’t last.
He goes for the bottle to refill his glass as she puts hers down on the coffee table. Their hands brush. “God, you’re freezing,” says Grigor. She watches as he reclines back on the couch with his glass of wine, opening his arms and gesturing for her. “Come here.” He watches her hesitate. “For old time’s sake.”
As she settles into his arms, the warmth of nostalgia sets into his bones. She’s his forever whether he likes it or not. He feels guilty because he can’t— he shouldn’t stay, and he’ll break her heart when he detaches himself from her embrace, leaves the warmth of her bed, silently dresses, and sneaks out of her apartment on December 26th. He’ll break his own heart too. He’ll be leaving the first woman he ever loved, the only person in the world who could ever truly, wholly understand him.
But for now, she’s here in his arms and he’s stroking her hair without giving it a second thought. He glances over at his phone on the coffee table to see that it’s past midnight. “Merry Christmas, George.” He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head.
He can feel her sigh and then press her lips to his arm that’s wrapped around her. “Merry Christmas, Grigor.”
For a moment, it’s almost like they’re still married.