by Fields, MJ
He pushes the recipe book back over. “Pick as many as you want. There’s only a couple more things we have to do today.”
“Yeah?” I laugh.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“Lay it on me. Tell me what you have planned.”
His phone buzzes on the counter, and he holds it up, showing me a picture of Brandon Falcon. “You wanna meet him?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“I’ll take your word for it, or better yet, I’ll remember you gave him a black eye and avoid him like the plague.”
His phone buzzes again. “Good guy but impatient as fuck.”
“You sure you wouldn’t rather join the Peace Corps than deal with—”
From the entryway comes a loud whistle and a male voice. “Hey, Tricks, I have shit to do and your cousin is on the top of my list. Let’s do this.”
“You want a busted lip and another black eye,” Patrick says, walking toward the door, “keep talking shit and you’ll get both, asshole.”
Chapter 15
“Compassion is the wish to see others
free from suffering.”
~Dalai Lama
Patrick
“I have got to be out of my fucking mind to be going along with this shit, Savannah.” I laugh from behind her.
“It has to be the perfect one.”
“We’ve passed hundreds of perfect ones, and it’s going to be dark soon.”
She looks back at me, carrying two canvas bags filled with shit we grabbed at the dollar store, and laughs. “You need a break from the cardio, gym rat?”
“Hell no,” I lie.
I mean, I don’t, but this hiking shit is not my thing. Yet, here I am, following her, with her hair tied up in a top knot, wearing my old green flannel over her Bean tee because “it’s so comfy” as she ducks and weaves between trees in the forest around Crystal Lake.
“I think I found it,” she calls back to me.
I let out a loud, “Woo-hoo,” that echoes through the forest and hurry to where she’s standing.
“This one?”
“You may not see it, but I swear it’s perfect.”
“I see it.” I drop the bags. “Now let’s make it happen.”
She narrows her eyes at me as I push up my sleeves and squat. “You think this is stupid?”
“Not at all. It’s a tradition. I like traditions.”
She sets down her bag and sits on the ground and, in a monotone voice, she repeats my words, “Traditions give us a sense of belonging. Brings back memories of family together time, the good shit, so we can celebrate the bond with those we’ve loved. It’s spiritual and helps us connect now and for generations.” Then she looks at me and makes a hardened face. “It’s not a fucking corporate ploy the man uses to take more of our money.”
I laugh. “Is that supposed to be how I sound?”
She smiles and tosses me a pinecone from her bag. “Just butter a pinecone, Patrick.”
And butter pinecones we do.
“Is there an order of operations here?” I ask.
“This isn’t algebra class, there isn’t a recipe in a book. It’s peanut butter and all the toppings, in no particular order.”
I sit back and pull out the dried bags of fruit and tear them open. Then I pull out my phone. “Favorite Christmas song?”
Without hesitation, she answers, “ ‘White Christmas.’ You?”
“ ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside’.” I try to keep a straight face as I watch hers scrunch up.
“Are you serious? You know—”
“I know it got a bad rap—it’s a song. But I also knew it would get you going, and I’m not gonna lie, Savvy. It’s becoming a hobby.”
“Such a jerk,” she says with no sort of conviction.
“The real answer? I don’t have one favorite.” I tap my music app and add a new playlist, loading it up with different artist remakes of ‘White Christmas.’ Then I hit play and put it on speaker. “Now, let’s pick out your favorite rendition.”
“Bing Crosby,” she answers before hearing any of the others. “On vinyl.”
“You’re a vinyl girl, huh?”
She nods.
As we decorate the peanut butter covered pinecones with dried fruits and birdseed, we listen to ‘White Christmas’ on repeat and talk vinyl.
She’s definitely stuck on the 70’s and 80’s music and knows some pop stuff, due to the fact that she listens to the only station that comes in on the radio at The Bean.
After placing them on the branches of the smallest pine tree in this part of the forest, I have to practically beg her to let me take a picture and promise on my life not to post it on social media. I ended up taking several, making her move around, telling her the lighting wasn’t good or some shit, just to get a few different faces of Savvy Sutton. I’m going to guess the majority are her being annoyed, which will definitely be the ones I save. And then I get her to take a selfie with me.
On the way back to the house, where our dough is being refrigerated, because as much as she’s against rules and hates boundaries, so far, she’s insisted we follow the recipes she chose to the T, she asks, “Are you sure we don’t need anything else at the store for the cookies?”
I love that she’s excited about doing this. Like I legit feel an energy I’ve caught waves of it coming off her every time I’m around her, but it’s been like this all day. She’s still holding back, which is cool; I just hope to get to see her fire ignite when all that passion she feels for so many fucking things is focused on whatever she decides her true purpose is. For now, I get to relish in the fact that I’m sitting front row, watching it all come together.
“Pretty sure we’re good.”
She nods and sits back.
“Favorite season?” she asks.
“Summer and fall.”
“If you had to pick one?” She says the same shit I’ve been telling her every time I ask her a question and she gives me a not so precise answer.
Was always summer, but that’s recently changed. “Touché. Fall. You?”
“Winter,” she says without even thinking.
Not going to lie, that’s definitely not what I was expecting. “You like cold and snow?”
“I like the season in general.”
“Care to embellish?”
“I like snow, because it covers up the dead and rotting mess fall leaves behind. I like the landscape, the bone structure of winter, if you will. It’s a time when even the trees seem lonely, but they still stand, which breeds inspiration and hope. It always seems that, after the holidays, everyone seems to slow down a bit. Like the pressures put on them by society lifts off their shoulders. The cold, the snow, and then the real cold, it tends to literally chill people out, makes people less nasty.”
“Makes sense. Not many people want to be out in it, so no one is clawing at each other or climbing over top of each other to reach that ladder they perceive leads to success. They aren’t chasing the dollar; they’re reflecting. A blank canvas. Interesting … I get it. I like it.”
She leans back and smiles, looking out the window.
“Favorite representation of winter and why?” I ask.
“Snowflakes. Anyone who doesn’t see their beauty hasn’t stood in the cold nearly long enough, which causes them to misunderstand the splendor of the first flowers of spring or appreciate the heat of the summer sun.” She turns and looks at me. “Have you stood in the cold?”
“No longer than it takes to build snowmen, shovel a path to a vehicle, or clear a sidewalk.”
She cringes. “Ouch.”
“But I will now. I look forward to it, actually.”
She turns and looks thoughtfully out the window again. “Promise me, when you look at a bare tree, you won’t feel sad for it.”
“Why would I?”
She looks back at me inquisitively.
“I see how strong they are.”
&n
bsp; “When snow covers them, don’t feel sorry for them either.”
“Why would I?”
She cocks her head to the side in question.
“It gets the first kiss of the snow and blanketed in its beauty.”
She smiles and turns away.
* * *
Lying beside her in my bed, a bowl of popcorn between us, remote in my hand, I look over as she scrolls through the pictures thatI took on my phone and deletes most of them.
“Why aren’t there more of you?”
“You didn’t take any.”
“I don’t have my phone.”
“Yeah, about that. You—”
“We’ve been through this twice already. I got it. Don’t leave my wallet and phone in an unlocked vehicle. I’m smart. I retain information easily.”
“Yeah, well, you left keys off the list.”
“If they steal it, there’s insurance, and I won’t have to keep putting a quart of oil in it every time I drive it or—”
“Sell the thing.”
“Or feel guilty about selling my mom’s prized possession.”
“If your mom’s passion was power and freedom, and … Was it gardening or living off the grid?”
“Little bit gypsy and little bit hippy.”
“Love that. Add a little bit savage and that’s the outer you.”
“The outer me?”
“I think, yeah. We show people what we want them to see, and the passion burns inside until it’s ready to be released.” I point to her phone, charging beside the bed. “And keep that charged and on you.”
“Anything else?” She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, stay. Stay for the holidays. Just stay.”
“No. I have plans.”
With the other females in my life, I step back. It’s so much fucking harder with her, and not because I like her, really like her, but because it’s not right. Not at all. She has no one. All the people she had let her down or died.
“Are you going to turn on the TV?” she asks, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
“Yeah.” I turn it on as I lean back against the headboard and push play.
She doesn’t last three episodes and she’s out, watching TV, with my phone in her hand.
I slide out of bed, tiptoe around it, grab her phone, and take a picture. Then I message it to myself, pushing send and having a near heart attack because I hope it doesn’t wake her up.
She may think I’m fucked up if she sees me taking pics of her in her sleep then sending them to myself.
Okay, thinking about it, I think it’s pretty fucked up, too.
Luckily, she doesn’t wake up. She’s lying on three pillows, unlike last night when she tossed two aside. Just like last night, she’s beautiful, absolutely fucking beautiful.
“Night, Savannah,” I whisper and have to stop myself from bending over and kissing her on the head.
* * *
When I feel the bed bounce and hear my dad’s voice, I jump straight out of bed.
“You know what today is, Tricks?”
I nod as I look around for Savvy.
“One of the three days a year we go to church and let everyone judge us, in a place where they pretend there is no judge but the Big Guy.”
“Okay, Xavier.” Mom laughs. “Let’s let him wake up. You okay, Patrick?”
“Yeah, just something’s missing.” I pause and look for her phone. It’s gone. I grab mine that I took out of her hand last night to charge and see it’s noon. “Slept in.” I hit up her location and see she’s at her dorms.
I rub my eyes as I walk over to hit the button to draw the blinds and look around the dark room.
“No wonder I slept so late.”
“Well, get your shit together. We have to go get a tree.”
11:50 a.m. - You should have woken me up, Savvy. Offer still stands. Join us anytime. We’d be more than happy to have you.
“You ready?” Dad calls from my doorway.
“Yeah, Dad, let me just grab some pants.”
“No time for pants; let’s roll,” he says, dead serious.
“Do not listen to your dad,” Mom calls from outside my room.
A shit-ass grin spreads across his face. “Well, get your shit together; we have to go get a tree.”
I head to the bathroom to take a quick shower, knowing damn well I should have been more excited to go get a tree, part of our tradition, but I hate the fact that she’s sitting in a dorm room, alone on Christmas Eve.
* * *
“How big is yours?” Dad asks Uncle Zandor as we wait in line to get into Mass.
“Huge. Stands a good twelve, fully erect,” Zandor says loud enough for the old ladies in front of us to hear, and all four of them glance back then quickly away.
Simultaneously, Aunt Bekah and Mom elbow them.
“Mine’s sixteen. Had to force it inside.” Dad wags his eyebrows at Zandor.
“I hope it was wrapped; otherwise, it makes a mess. Bekah says she hates it when that happens, but I know she loves the smell it leaves lingering in the air.”
The old women now gasp, and a couple of them look back in disgust.
Aunt Bekah whisper-hisses at Uncle Zandor, “Enough, this is church.”
I look over at Mom, who is shaking her head as she says, “I gave up a long time ago.”
Dad lifts his chin to Uncle Z. “Who’s on top?”
“Bekah looks lovely on top.” Z smiles proudly.
“The hell,” I whisper to Amias.
“Try being me and living with him.” He shakes his head in annoyance. “Just try.”
One of the ladies turns and looks at Amias. “You poor, poor children.”
“Ma’am? Is something wrong?” Zandor asks, his voice dripping with concern.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, exposing your children to your … your—”
He gasps like he’s shocked. To anyone who doesn’t know him, they would straight up think he was being sincere. “Ms. Betty, we’re discussing Christmas trees.”
“You don’t fool me.”
“I wasn’t trying to fool you, Ms. Betty.”
She leans and whisper-hisses, “Your wife, on top?”
He throws his head back and laughs, and now everyone in the line is looking at him.
He pulls out his phone and shows her a picture. “I had an artist create the angel that tops our tree to look like my wife, Ms. Betty. A Christmas gift to honor the woman who mended my wicked ways.”
Her face seemingly catches fire.
He leans in. “I hope yours have been mended, as well.”
“What did he just say?” Amias whispers to me.
“He told her he’d pray for her,” I lie.
* * *
Lounging in the room I just moved out of Jase and Carly’s place, after stuffing myself with prime rib and lasagna, hopping between the files she deleted that are still hanging in the delete file, feeling bad that I didn’t tell her they don’t truly delete for thirty days until you delete that file too, and glad because I think every damn one of them are keepers. And then, I check her location for the hundredth time. I can’t help but worry she may have left her phone in her dorm and is broken down on the side of the fucking road or some shit.
“What the hell’s going on with you?” Justice asks as he walks into the room.
“Fucking gutted.” I pat my stomach.
“Same, man,” he says, flopping down on the chair next to me.
My phone vibrates, and I can’t help but feel relieved and smile when I see her name pop up in my messenger app.
7:59 p.m. - You took a picture of me sleeping, my mouth hanging open, and I’m pretty sure I was drooling. You’re lucky I didn’t smother you with any one of the eighteen pillows on your big-ass bed.
“When the hell did you make all those cookies?” Justice asks, pulling my attention from reading the message again.
“Didn’t want my parents to feel bad about the last-minute trip. Tho
ught I’d keep the cookie baking tradition going, you know?” I shrug.
“Tricks, you sure it’s music you wanna go into? Seriously, Momma Joe is up there, raving about your cookies.”
I laugh. “You gonna give up the tattoo artist dreams and … I don’t know, venture into law or some shit?”
“Fuck no, and point made. You thinking of adding to your collection?”
“Always,” I answer as I try to figure out if I should message back immediately or leave her on read.
“You’ve been more glued to that phone than normal. What’s up?”
I toss it aside and turn toward him. “You ever think about getting some piercings?”
He narrows his eyes. “Like, what kind?”
I just look at him, hoping he gets it.
He does. “Tricks, I’m not piercing your dick.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you want it done?”
I shrug.
“You get you have to lay off pussy, even blowjobs if you do that until you’re healed?”
“I’m aware.”
He sits forward and narrows his eyes at me. “Depending on what you choose, it can be a month or up to four. We just moved here; you can’t be sick of the ass yet.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.” Which is true. “Already know there isn’t anything more I want to fuck with here.”
“You already gotten into something tainted?”
“Maybe.”
He narrows his eyes as he looks at me.
I truly do not want to tell any of them I’m kind of into someone. Not that I’m embarrassed about it; just don’t want them to be all in her shit. Plus, if they asked around, everyone thinks she likes girls, including her. And she may, but I know damn well she likes me, too. It’s not about anything, but she doesn’t need any other reasons to run.
After a solid two minutes of him looking like he’s going through some silent speculation, I ask, “What’s up, JT?”
“Just thinking maybe we break our rule; share names of ass we’ve had here.”
“Didn’t matter at our old school.” And it didn’t … unless we dated them.