I leaned forward so I could see them better and grinned. They read, FAMILY, FRIENDS, BASEBALL, TAX REFUNDS, BEER.
“Dad,” Mariah scoffed. “You can’t say beer.”
“Why not?” He picked up his beer and took a sip. “It’s one of my favorite things.”
“Because this is supposed to be for kids.”
“Oh.” Cole picked up a marker, crossed out BEER with an X, and wrote MILK. Then he wrote NOT FOR KIDS with a little arrow pointing to the crossed-out word.
“Now it looks even worse,” Mariah said, giggling.
“That’s okay, Mariah,” I said. “I’ll use yours for the example. And mine.” I finished labeling my feathers and held my turkey up. “What do you think?”
“Family, friends, students, holidays, love,” Mariah recited. Then she smiled in approval. “Those are good. Better than my dad’s.”
Cole crumpled up a piece of construction paper and threw it at his daughter like a snowball. “Enough, you. It’s time for bed. Let’s get this table cleaned up.”
“I’ll clean it up,” I said, rising to my feet and reaching to gather up all the scraps. “You can put Mariah to bed.”
“She can help,” Cole insisted, taking his maligned turkey over to the fridge and sticking it onto the front with a magnet. “Mariah, return Grandma’s scissors to her junk drawer and put the glue sticks and extra paper back in the craft cupboard.”
“Okay.”
A couple minutes later, the table had been cleared except for my wine glass and Cole’s beer bottle. “Say goodnight to Miss Cheyenne, and get upstairs,” Cole told his daughter.
“Can’t she come up and say goodnight like she did before?” Mariah asked.
Exhaling, Cole looked at me. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I said. “That gives me a chance to finish my wine. I’ll come up in five minutes?”
“Great!” Mariah grinned and scooted out of the kitchen, and I sat down again.
Cole lowered himself into the seat next to me. “Thanks for staying.”
“No problem.” I picked up my wine and took a sip. “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”
He laughed. “Stressful day?”
I shrugged. “My mom is a little extra these days, with Thanksgiving this week, and my brother’s wedding in two weeks, and then Christmas not long after that. But with Griffin well on his way to giving her the grandchildren she’s always wanted, you’d think she’d let up on me a little, but no.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “Yesterday she left this pamphlet on the kitchen table called ‘Beating the Biological Clock.’”
Cole winced. “Ouch.”
“Tell me about it. I was so furious, I crumpled it up and threw it away right in front of her. And then late last night, of course, I got out of bed, dug it out of the trash, and read the whole damn thing front to back. And it turns out she’s sort of right! Women lose, like, a thousand eggs a month, and peak fertility occurs when girls are between the ages of eighteen and thirty.” I tossed back the rest of my wine—so much for taking it slow—then set the glass on the table with a plunk. “And you know what else? Men continue to make sperm and testosterone at virtually the same rates throughout their entire lives. So not only is the asshole biological clock a real thing, it’s a real thing only women have to deal with.”
“Sorry,” he said.
I looked at him, and his expression was so contrite I had to laugh. “It’s not your fault. And I don’t think my body is shriveling up and wasting away that quickly. I have at least a few good years left.”
“Your body is fucking perfect, Cheyenne.”
I swear to God, those words came out of his mouth.
My jaw fell open.
His face went red. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“For what? It was a compliment.”
“Men shouldn’t comment on women’s bodies.”
“But did you mean it—what you said?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it again,” I demanded, my pulse racing.
He looked me in the eye. “Your body is fucking perfect, Cheyenne.”
“Okay, I’m ready!” called Mariah from the top of the stairs.
With my face flushed with pleasure, I pushed back my chair and hurried out of the kitchen. He likes my body! He likes my body! He likes my body! I kept repeating the words in my head, even though it made me feel like the world’s shittiest feminist. But it was the first time Cole had ever given me any indication he saw me like that.
Up in Mariah’s room, I watched her scramble beneath the covers and lowered myself to the edge of her bed. Once she was tucked in, her stuffed dog beneath her arm, I switched off the lamp on the bedside table. I was afraid if I left it on, she’d notice how pink my cheeks were and ask why.
Oh, no reason. I’ve just been waiting for your dad to notice me for twenty years, and he just sort of admitted he thinks I’m hot, but I’d like you to please remember when I said looks aren’t the most important and not how happy I am right now, okay? Thanks.
But she had something else on her mind. “Miss Cheyenne, are you in love?”
The question startled me. “Why do you ask?”
“On your turkey, you put love as one of the things you were grateful for.”
“Oh.” Somewhat relieved, I thought for a moment. “Well, there are all different kinds of love. Love between family members, love between friends, love for our co-workers and neighbors, love for our country, love for our pets.”
“And for our stuffed animals,” Mariah added, kissing her dog on the head.
I smiled. “Definitely for our stuffed animals.”
“But have you ever been in love? Like a mom and a dad?”
“I thought I was, a couple times,” I answered truthfully. “But sometimes that kind of love is really just other things dressed up in a fancy costume.”
Mariah nodded. “And when the fancy costume is off, you see that it wasn’t really love?”
“Sort of. Yes,” I said, deciding that it wasn’t a perfect metaphor, but it was good enough for a Tuesday night after a couple glasses of merlot. “I think real love will keep feeling like real love, even after the costume is off and the novelty wears thin.”
“What’s novelty?”
“Newness,” I told her. “Real love should last, you know? It should grow even stronger over time, not fade away.”
“I didn’t know love could fade away.” Mariah’s voice trembled a little.
“It can’t,” I promised her. “Real love doesn’t fade. It only gets stronger.”
“I love my dad the most out of anybody.”
Girl, same, I wanted to say. Instead I leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I know.”
“Sometimes I wish he wasn’t a police officer,” she whispered, as if she felt guilty about it. “I saw a movie once where a police officer died.”
My heart ached for her. “Listen to me. Your dad is a very careful and smart police officer. And Bellamy Creek is a very safe town. You don’t have to be worried about him, okay?”
“That’s what he says too.”
“Because it’s true,” I said. “I’ve known your dad a very long time, and he always tells the truth. Guess what else I know about your dad.”
“What?”
“He loves you the most out of anybody. And he always will. So that makes him extra careful and safe on the job.”
She smiled. “Okay. Can you send him up?”
“Of course. Goodnight, honey.”
“‘Night.”
Downstairs, Cole was rinsing my wine glass at the sink. “She’s all ready for you,” I said, taking my book bag off the back of my chair and slinging it over my shoulder.
“Okay.” He set the glass upside down on a towel to dry and turned to face me. “Thanks for staying.”
“Thanks for the help with the project.” I glanced at his turkey on the fridge and laughed. “You did a great job. A-plus work.”
<
br /> He chuckled, folding his arms over his chest. “Right.”
“Well, I should get home. Early morning tomorrow,” I said, moving for the door.
“Want me to walk you back?”
Of course I did, but I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. Your mom isn’t here, and I don’t want to leave Mariah alone. She’s . . . a little emotional tonight, I think.”
His face grew concerned. “She is?”
“She’s okay,” I said quickly, “but she just told me she sometimes wishes you weren’t a cop.”
He nodded, his expression grim. “She saw a movie recently, where—”
“She told me. And I think it’s only natural for her to be afraid of losing you, given what happened to her mom.”
“I know. And I tell her all the time that I’m safe, and she’s safe, and that nothing can take me away from her.” He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, he shook his head. “Still, it gets to me.”
I smiled. “You’re only human, remember?”
“Right.” He smiled at me, then put a finger over his lips, reminding me that was our secret. “Anyway, I’ve kept you here long enough. Let me get the door for you.” He crossed in front of me and pulled the back door open. Icy air blew in, and snowflakes were falling from the darkened sky. “Looks like you guys are going to get your wish for a white Thanksgiving.”
“Yay,” I cheered softly, coming to stand next to him.
He looked down at me. “Wait a minute. You can’t go out without a coat.”
“Cole, really, it’s such a short walk. I’ll be fine. You need to go say goodnight to Mariah.”
But he’d already disappeared into the front hall, and a moment later he was back with a dark gray Carhartt I recognized as his. Secretly pleased he was offering his own jacket, I slipped my arms into it.
“Thanks,” I said, freeing my hair from the collar. “I’ll make sure to get it back to you tomorrow.”
“No rush.”
I faced him again, wishing I didn’t have to go home at all, but instead could stay here and curl up under a blanket with him, watch some television, or even go to bed early. My eyes traveled over his shoulders and chest, imagining what it would be like to rest my head on them, bury my face in his neck, snuggle up beneath the covers on a cold night like tonight, instead of falling asleep alone. Then I remembered what he’d said earlier—your body is fucking perfect, Cheyenne—and I couldn’t help but smile as I met his deep blue eyes. “See you Thursday.”
“See you Thursday.” He pulled the back door open once more. “Hey, shoot me a quick text when you get into your house, okay?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re such a dad.”
He gave me his crooked grin. “Can’t help it.”
* * *
Glad my mother was already up in bed when I got home, I dropped my school bag by the front door and dashed up the stairs and into my bedroom. Shutting the door silently behind me, I flopped across my bed on my back and hugged the jacket close, bringing it over my face and inhaling deeply.
It smelled like soap and shaving cream and maybe a little like the pub, but it was a hundred percent him. I couldn’t get enough. Would it be creepy to sleep in it?
I sat up again and grabbed my phone off the charger on my nightstand.
Me: Made it home in the blizzard. Thanks for the coat.
There was no immediate reply, and I figured he was still in Mariah’s room.
I waited for a minute or two and then gave up on a reply. Reluctantly removing the coat and tossing it on the bed, I took off my work clothes, put on my pajamas, and chose an outfit for school tomorrow. After checking my phone one more time—still nothing—I went across the hall to the bathroom, washed my face, took my pill, brushed my teeth, and rubbed moisturizer into my skin.
Back in my room, I switched off the light and slipped between the sheets, reaching for my phone again.
He’d written me back!
Cole: Thanks for letting me know. You’re welcome for the coat. It looks good on you.
Another compliment!
My entire body hummed with pleasure and I wiggled from side to side. You’d look good on me, I typed, wishing I had the guts to send it. I laughed silently as I deleted the words and sent a real reply—flirty, but not dirty.
Me: It kept me nice and warm all the way home. I might never give it back.
Cole: Ha.
Me: Would you arrest me for theft?
Cole: Definitely. You’ve always been a menace to society.
I grinned and typed another message I’d never send.
Would you cuff me? Throw me in the back of your car? Get rough with me?
It felt good just pretending I was the kind of girl who’d actually text him that. But since I wasn’t that brave, I deleted the words and typed something else.
Me: Mariah okay?
Cole: Sound asleep. I should get to bed too.
Me: Same here. Goodnight.
Cole: Night.
With a smile lingering on my face, I set my alarm, replaced my phone on the charger, and snuggled beneath the covers. I imagined him doing the same thing, and I liked that I was the last person he’d spoken to—even if it was only via text message—before falling asleep.
Was it as good as being next to him? Hell no. But I was thinking about him, and maybe he was thinking about me, and tonight, there had been something different about the way he’d looked at me.
It was enough for now.
Also . . . Yes. I slept with his coat.
Don’t judge.
* * *
The following day was a half-day at school, and I spent the rest of the afternoon making pie crust dough and helping my mom prepare for Thanksgiving. We dusted the furniture, put the leaf in the dining table, and dragged the Christmas tree from the attic along with boxes of lights and decorations. While my mother strung the lights, I hung the ornaments, laughing at the ones Griffin and I had made by hand during grade school.
We sliced Brussels sprouts, prepared the mashed potatoes, and made cranberry sauce. Since my mother’s house only had one oven, tomorrow I’d get up early and bake two pies—one pumpkin, one lemon meringue—before we had to put the turkey in. The mashed potatoes could be done on the stove, Mrs. Mitchell had offered her oven for the casserole and was also bringing hot appetizers, and Blair was bringing dinner rolls, a cheese plate, and her famous apple pie.
Finally, we set the table for seven with my parents’ wedding china and late grandmother’s silver, which only made appearances at Christmas and Thanksgiving. We decided to set a place at each end of the table, then have three people on one side, and two on the other.
“Well, I guess that’s everything for today,” my mother said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the table with a critical eye. “Unless you think we should swap out the ivory tablecloth for the burgundy.”
“No, I like the ivory.” I smoothed a ripple in the pristine damask as someone knocked loudly on the front door.
My mother and I exchanged quizzical glances. “Are you expecting someone?” she asked as she went to answer it.
“No,” I said, wondering if it was Cole coming to ask for his coat back. I’d been planning to return it this evening, but I wanted to change my clothes and clean up a little first. I’d put on sweats after work, and I was covered in dust and silver polish.
“Well, hi there!” I heard my mother exclaim. “Come on in, Mariah. What do you think of all this snow?”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I went to say hello.
“I like it,” Mariah said, stomping her boots before stepping into the front hall.
“Hey, Mariah,” I called.
“Hi, Miss Cheyenne.” She beamed at me and held up a brown paper bag. “I made place cards for tomorrow. Want to see them?”
“Of course I do! Take your boots off and come put them on the table.”
“How thoughtful of you,” my mother said, shutting the door behind Mariah as the girl tugged off her
boots. “Can I take your coat?”
“Yes, thanks.” Mariah unzipped her jacket and handed it to my mother, then scooped up the paper bag again.
“The kids loved your turkey,” I told her, leading the way into the dining room. “Thanks again for making it.”
“You’re welcome. I used the idea to make these.” She stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out seven miniature versions of the turkeys we’d made last night, each of them with three colorful feathers and labeled with a name.
“Oh, they’re so cute!” I exclaimed, picking up the one that said Miss Cheyenne in a fourth grader’s round, swirly cursive. “I love them! Mom, look what Mariah made.”
My mother came in and praised Mariah’s work. “Adorable! Would you like to set them out?”
“Sure,” Mariah said happily. “Mrs. Dempsey, you should sit here, because it’s the head of the table,” she went on, setting my mother’s place card at one end.
“And also the closest to the kitchen, which definitely helps me,” my mother said.
“I’ll sit here,” Mariah said, placing her turkey on the side of the table with the three settings. “Can I sit by you, Miss Cheyenne?”
“Of course.” I set my turkey on the plate next to hers.
“And Daddy can sit on the other side of you.” She set the card that said Daddy at the setting to my right.
“Perfect,” I said, because I was no better than a seventh grader who wanted to sit next to her crush in the lunchroom.
“Then Grandma at this end of the table, and Uncle Griffin and Aunt Blair across from us.” She finished setting out all the turkeys and looked at us for approval. “Is that okay?”
“It’s marvelous,” my mother said with a smile. Then she looked wistfully at the table. “Maybe next year we’ll have eight places to set.”
“Mom,” I said, shooting her a look. We’d managed to go all day without an argument, and I didn’t want one now.
“What?” She held up her hands, all wide-eyed with innocence. “I’m just saying, eight is a nice, round, even number. Don’t you think, Mariah?”
“Um, yes.” Mariah looked uneasily at me, like she wasn’t sure how to answer. “Eight is an even number.”
Make Me Yours: The Bellamy Creek Series Page 5