Chapter Fourteen
“You know I’m not going to let you go alone,” said Greg after their breathing had gone mostly back to normal.
He ran fingers down Taylor’s side, their bodies warm, but not sweaty. Like they’d finally managed to chase the cold away. Taylor stiffened, a quick tension in his muscles before he relaxed again, but Greg caught it.
“I know,” said Taylor.
Not, “Of course you’ll come with me” or any variation, just an “I know.” A foreboding, I-still-intend-on-leaving-you-behind tone distant in Taylor’s voice, like a harmony of words that weren’t spoken out loud.
“Can a reindeer hold two adults? Two adult men? I know it can hold multiple elves and children,” Greg asked.
“I caught two.”
Greg paused. Maybe he’d misinterpreted Taylor’s first response. “Guess I’m learning how to drive a reindeer. I take it you know how?”
“I was placed on stable duty for a few years. I know a few things.” Taylor rolled against Greg, but he had his eyes closed in contentment, his words coming distantly, tiredly. Open kisses landed on Greg’s shoulder, tracking their way across his chest.
Greg tried to get a good look at Taylor’s face, to see the expression there and gauge whether Taylor truly meant to leave alone or not. But the angle was all wrong, the two of them pressed too close together so he could only sense through Taylor’s body, through the way Taylor breathed hot air against his skin. The way Taylor almost seemed to be attempting to distract Greg from this line of questioning.
“You know the way to the North Pole?”
That sounded ridiculous said out loud. Know the way to collective childhood imaginings, the place that only existed in movies and dreams?
This morning, far from the icy palace surrounding Katie’s home, far from the snowstorm that had roared around Greg’s house all night, with the sun shining through the bedroom window and Mandy’s show faintly murmuring in through the door, Greg could almost—almost—pretend that life had gone back to normal.
But he’d done that last year, hadn’t he? Stepped away from that gingerbread house, made a late-night decision not to lie to Mandy about the elves, but then, had turned away from Taylor showing her how to whip her jump rope. Left them alone long enough at times that Taylor had secretly shown Mandy how to use a blowtorch, a nail gun, and who knew what else.
Maybe he should be asking about that instead? He was, after all, her only parent now…
Her only parent.
Taylor lifted his head so that he hovered over Greg, concern shining from his eyes. “I’ll figure it out.”
And for a moment, Greg thought Taylor was responding to his thoughts, to being Mandy’s only source of protection, that Taylor was laying claim to that other, now-empty space where Katie had been. Then he reined his thoughts in, chided himself for getting ahead of reality.
The North Pole. A dreams and nightmares sort of place. Taylor would figure it out. Just as he always did.
Greg had more questions, a million more, but Taylor bent to shut him up with another kiss. Their lips had scarcely brushed when there came a sudden familiar pounding on the door.
“Daddy! We need to go get the presents! We didn’t open presents!”
“Shit,” whispered Greg, running a hand down his face. His belly tensed, pressing up against Taylor as he shouted, “I’ll be right there, sweetie!”
He pulled himself away from the coziness of the blankets with a reluctant groan and reached for the dry clothes Taylor had brought. There he paused, holding the fresh underwear in his hands. Looked back to Taylor.
“Is it safe?”
Taylor smiled grimly. “I took out two lingering snow angels in the house. And one that was hiding in the Camry. They were shrunken, scared of the sun. The snowmen are just piles of melting snow and ice. Will need to do a tree removal in the driveway through.”
“Thanks,” said Greg softly.
“My job.”
“Daddy!” shouted Mandy.
“Two minutes, sweetheart!”
He pulled his clothes on, his feet still aching when he slipped dry socks over them. The dry cotton felt good. Felt damningly amazing. He suspected he’d need to see a doctor about them. Make sure he hadn’t given himself frostbite. Or if he had, what to do about it.
“Your boots are in the other grocery bag,” said Taylor, motioning to the one he’d dropped with the duffel. “A little wet. I had to dig them out.”
Greg got Mandy changed into a clean one of his shirts and put her back on the show with a quick promise. Then he begged Taylor to watch her while he ran out to the store to grab her some actual clothes, some actual shoes, some actual…anything.
Taylor just chuckled morosely, and waved a hand, before he turned his attention to the coffee maker.
Outside, the world remained a winter brown. The bare arms of the trees. The beige lawns. The cardboard boxes of a million delivered presents before the holiday.
The sky had gone blue, the sun heating up the SUV’s interior, the scent of French fries cooking into the cloth seats and plastic dash. He pulled into a parking space at a big box store and sat in park, the car idling, the gas gauge sinking. For a long time, he leaned against his steering wheel, staring at the blacktop, breathing heavily.
He found himself tensing every time someone walked past. A white-bearded man, with a milk in one hand, a bag in the other, looked a little too much like Santa. The occasional children short enough to be elves hiding behind their ice-mirror magic. Too many women sharing some similarity to Katie: brown hair here, the same coat there, the way one woman walked or another cocked her head while looking at her phone.
Her white tree with Mandy’s construction paper chain now nothing but a frosted ornament inside a frosted house. The presents they’d likely set out for her dusted with snow. Mandy’s room there, with its rainbow duvet and the dollhouse they’d bought her during the last year they’d been together with all its little animal families, all of it gone.
Gone, like half this parenting team.
The steering wheel grew tight under his grip, the plastic eating into his skin as a weight he hadn’t realized existed settled against him.
He returned bearing bags to find Taylor curled up on the couch with Mandy, the two of them under that plaid blanket, the show going in the background while Taylor guided Mandy through dragging a cleaning rod through a barrel of a gun. Her tongue peeked out through her lips and her brows knit in concentration. Taylor’s voice a murmur of explanation.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Mandy dropped the gun barrel into the blanket, her eyes going wide with guilt. Taylor didn’t even look up.
“It’s not even put together. Can’t shoot anything if she tried. Cool it.”
“It’s still a fucking gun.”
Now Taylor looked up, with a clear, unperturbed expression. “Thought we weren’t supposed to cuss around Mandy.”
Greg swallowed tightly, his grip on the plastic bags turning to a fist. “Mandy, I’ve got some leggings and some shirts in here for you. Give that back to Taylor and go ahead and pick out what you want to wear.”
Mandy leapt up and dove into the bags, pulling out a unicorn top and rainbow leggings that didn’t match. Then she squealed when she found kitty leg warmers. “Meow! Ah! You got me sparkly shoes!”
“Take all of it, sweetheart, just take all of it into Taylor’s bedroom and get dressed.”
She gathered up the bags, clothing hanging off her arm, and trotted off toward the bedroom. Leggings trailed behind her, a pair of blue socks fell in her wake, and she almost tripped once over a sleeve flopping down against her feet.
“The rest of my guns are in there,” said Taylor with a raised brow.
“Shit. Wait, Mandy.”
Greg hurried after her and gathered up anything that might hurt her—including the knife he’d seen under Taylor’s lube—tossed it all into one of the plastic bags and then ducked out of the ro
om as Mandy began dancing around, pulling his giant shirt up over her head. He threw the bag down at Taylor’s feet with a sound of frustration that he wasn’t even sure he understood.
“Taylor, you can’t—”
Taylor smoothly stood, pressed his hands on either side of Greg’s face and leaned in close. “I’m going to protect her. I’m going to protect you. This time next year, it’ll be all over. You’ll have your Christmas again and Mandy won’t ever need to worry about shooting elves or burning snowmen.”
“You can’t teach my daughter how to use a gun without my permission.” Greg grabbed Taylor’s hands with his own and pulled them down. “Hell, Taylor, you can’t show her how to use a blowtorch or a nail gun or…”
Nothing but unapologetic grimness on Taylor’s face. Not an ounce of remorse. Not a measure of shame. Like Taylor thought he could make these decisions for Greg and Katie.
For Greg.
With a gasp, he stalked away, his shoulders hardening to the point of a headache, a pained, awful pressure growing. Something on his back that felt larger than he could imagine. That if he could just see it to name it he might be able to toss it away.
“When I kill Santa, she won’t need to know how to use any of those things.”
“She shouldn’t have to know how to use them now.”
At least not as weapons. But then, he’d turned his entire garage into a weapon last night. All his tools meant to fix things, to build, to put things together, suddenly becoming repurposed in ways he’d never thought they’d be used for. Katie would have been horrified.
But Katie hadn’t been there. If she had, maybe she’d be alive. Maybe he wouldn’t have this awful pressure he couldn’t name enclosing over him.
“Do you want me to go?” asked Taylor, pragmatically.
“It’s your home.”
“This hasn’t been home for a long time.”
“Well home isn’t much of a home right now either.”
“What are you really mad at? An hour ago you were telling me you wanted to go to the North Pole with me. Now you’re acting like I’m ruining your daughter.”
“I just want you to—”
He paused because he didn’t know. He didn’t know why he’d suddenly felt this anger. It churned, as if spun into a wall, blocking out the nerves with fears that threatened to crush him.
“To what?” asked Taylor.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing…”
When Greg didn’t immediately respond, Taylor bent and sifted through the plastic bag with his weaponry inside. Busied himself with finishing cleaning the second of his guns, occasionally glancing up expectantly. In the other room, Mandy gave a squeak and there was a light thump as if she’d fallen.
“I’ve never had to do this before,” admitted Greg. “Not like this. Not…”
“Alone?” proffered Taylor without looking up.
Alone. That was the word he’d been avoiding. Yes, alone. Solo. Katie had always been there, even when the two of them realized they’d been better off apart than together. They’d never hated one another; there’d always been a sense of respect intermixed with a regret that they just weren’t compatible for the long term.
“She always took care of things I never even thought of. Bought Mandy a brand-new outfit for picture day. Made sure she made a present for me on my birthday and Father’s Day even when we weren’t together anymore. She’d always hand me a note with a size chart for Mandy’s clothes so I wouldn’t accidently get the wrong ones…”
Maybe that’s what had set him off. Buying clothes, trying to remember Mandy’s size by thinking back to that updated card Katie had handed him months ago. He closed his eyes briefly.
Taylor approached in a cautious manner. Wrapped a hand within the crook of Greg’s arm. “You won’t have to do it alone. I mean, if you don’t want to.”
“You’ve said you hate kids.”
“I do.” When Greg lifted an eyebrow, Taylor shrugged. “Not all kids.”
“You didn’t want to be a dad, remember?”
“I’m not. She already has one.” Taylor flashed a grin at that, probably enjoying throwing Greg’s own words from last year in his face. “But I don’t mind picking up some slack. Like teaching her how to defend herself. Showing her how to buy clothes that hide weapons.”
“You can’t give her guns.” Greg gave Taylor some side eye.
“Fine. I won’t give her guns.”
Greg sighed.
“I’ll show her tutorials on YouTube.”
“Taylor…”
“It’s easier when she can hold it herself, but I get it.”
“Holy fuck, no. You’re not teaching her how to do anything with guns. She’s seven years old.”
“Oh, it’s an age thing. Okay. What age can I teach her how to shoot then?”
Greg knew his mouth hung open, but he couldn’t seem to find a way to shut it. And Taylor wasn’t much help, standing there, still lacking any shame over his questioning.
“Twenty,” blurted Greg.
Taylor blanched and lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “That’s much too old. How about ten? Twelve?”
“No!”
“Okay, fourteen, then. That’s a good compromise. Closer to twenty than seven.”
“Holy fuck,” mouthed Greg again. There came the sound of Mandy twisting the door handle. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“What about a bow instead? Arrows feel safer, right?”
Greg shot him a warning look.
“Karate?”
“Later.”
Somehow though, that weight had lessoned. The churning not quite as tight, the weight on his shoulders not quite so heavy.
Mandy came out dressed in red and pink leggings, black and white leg warmers overtop, a shirt with sloth on it saying “Slow is fast” and blue shoes sparkling on her feet.
“How do I look?” she asked, raising her arms and then bending over as if to examine herself.
“You look like unicorn farts.”
“Taylor!”
“You look beautiful,” said Greg.
“Beautiful unicorn farts,” amended Taylor.
Mandy stamped a foot and glowered good-naturedly at him. “I’m a fucking princess! Not unicorn farts.”
Greg choked and glanced toward Taylor, who raised his hands defensively. “Hey, man. You’re the one who keeps cussing.”
They took Greg’s car back to his house and parked out on the street, ignoring the rubber-necking neighbors. Mandy shivered under her brand-new hot pink coat and clapped her small hands together. Then she clambered forward and leaned over the seat.
“Do you think the awful angels ate my kitty gloves?” she asked.
“Probably. They liked how sticky they were,” said Taylor.
Greg ignored them, popping open his door and stepping out into the road to look over at his house. The snow had dripped into icicles, that now sparkled in the sun merrily, but that was where the comparison to Katie’s house ended. Here, there was evidence of a fight: the half-open garage door dented and smashed and smeared with wood chips; the Camry caved in and turned halfway around in the driveway; the Christmas lights pulled apart; the trash can face down in the snow; red paint smeared across the front lawn, burrowing into the smoothed-over tracks.
“My jump rope!” squealed Mandy as she burst from the car and went flying across the street.
His heart hiccupped, thudding painfully as her feet hit the snow and he found himself racing after her, the thought of angels hiding in those white mounds forefront in his mind. The snow kicked up in chunks, no longer the soft powder of last night, but rather the clogged, half-melted mess that crunched under his feet. Here and there he caught the flavors of Christmas sweets—that incessant peppermint, that touch of clove, that frosted vanilla—but it all paled under the paint fumes and the wafting stench of smoke and gasoline from a generator left running.
The jump rope came free of the snow with ice clinging to its wove
n, ropey middle. Mandy’s excitement faded, her shoulders drooping as she spun to show Greg and Taylor her weapon.
“It’s broken,” she said.
The plastic ends had been shattered into pieces, bits of the orange handles riddling the snow in oblong triangles and sharpened stakes. The middle had become frayed as well, as if something had ground into it, yanked the fibers from themselves.
“Yeah, this one looks like a goner,” said Taylor as he hefted the jump rope between two hands and snapped it so the ice splattered off. “But I told you I’d get you another one. Always have to have good weapons on hand.”
“I want two. One for each hand.” And she opened both her hands as if to prove that she did, indeed, have two of them.
“That’s how I operate too,” said Taylor with a wink.
Greg nudged Taylor in the shoulder at the vague mention of the guns, but didn’t correct him.
Inside the foyer, the house shone with sunlight. Too much sunlight, for it sparkled across the snow and reflected brightly into his eyes. Just inside the living room, where the coat rack had been thrown over the snow angel, there was a blackened scorch mark across the couch that extended into the blanket and across one of the side tables, turning the wood from a light pine to a dark cacao shade.
Despite the hint of burnt fibers hanging in the air, the whole house smelled musty. More like an ice cave than a living room.
“This…might not be salvageable,” said Greg, already worrying over how he would explain this to his insurance.
“The kitchen entrance needs to be completely yanked out. That hard candy isn’t going anywhere, not without ripping up the tile with it.”
Greg scratched at his stubble as Mandy waded through the living room toward the tree and the stacks of presents he’d so carefully laid out the night before. This is not how he’d imagined Christmas morning, their stockings and the mantle lined with snow, the tree boasting crystals on some of its needles, the living room with nowhere to sit that wasn’t a wet, white blanket or a crispy, fried waterlogged mess.
Then again, he’d struggled to ever imagine something like this happening at all.
“I’m glad you hadn’t left,” he said quietly.
Taylor startled slightly.
Rise of the Snowmen Page 17