Casey picks up a crayon and thinks about my question, then she shakes her head. “Mommy said we can look at Christmas lights and make brownies and cookies and wrap presents . . .”
I fight back the urge to comment on how infrequently her mom has been able to keep her word lately, given her work schedule. “She promised all of that, huh? That sounds like a lot of sugar. Good thing you’ll be at her house.” Casey flashes me a toothy grin. I’ve barely been able to get any of my own stuff done what with how chaotic Kylie’s work life has become. I guess a marketing consultant stays busier than I would’ve thought during the holidays.
“So, it sounds like you’re feeling better, if you can eat all that junk food.”
With one brisk nod, she licks her lips. “Yep.”
“Does that mean you want to get our Christmas tree tomorrow morning?”
“Yes!” she shouts and jumps up on the balls of her feet. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” She claps her hands once—twice—three times before she stops jumping. “Can we go with Mac?”
I glance at her, abandoning my shirt on the ottoman, a riot of thoughts making it difficult to think of one single cohesive thing. No. Yes. Maybe. She shouldn’t. It’s not a good idea, even if I want her to. She’s probably mad at me anyway.
I’ve been trying not to think about Mac all day. Leave it to the munchkin I’m trying to protect to bring her up, testing my decidedness. She asked me the other day why Kylie and I live so far apart and I had to have a grown-up conversation about her mom and me.
I choose my words carefully before I answer her this time, too. “Tomorrow’s Friday, Case. Mac will be working.” I rumple the top of her head. “Just because you’re sick and get to stay home doesn’t mean everyone else does.”
She sits back down, glaring at her coloring book. “But . . . then can we wait for when she’s not at work?” She peers up at me, her brow drawn. It’s pitifully cute.
“What’s the matter with getting a tree with just good ol’ dad? That was the plan in the first place, right?”
She pouts, and I prepare myself for a tantrum. Even though I handle them better than I would’ve thought, I still don’t like being the bad guy, not when it comes to Case.
“But I like Mac. She’s pretty and fun and she’s a girl.”
“Yes,” I say in complete agreement, “she is all of those things.” It hits me just how significant any sort of relationship with Mac would really be. Casey’s already in love with her and nothing’s even happened yet.
Casey picks a yellow crayon up again and finally starts coloring. “Are you still mad at her?”
This time my brow furrows, and I drop a hand towel back into the basket. “What? Why would you think I’m mad at her, Case?”
She shrugs and her eyes dip back down to her coloring book. “You sounded mad at each other.”
Draping my arms over my knees, I look at her. Of course she heard our conversation at the shop. And now I wonder if everyone else did as well. “No, Case, I’m not mad at her. At least, I’m not mad anymore.” I’m mad at myself, at the situation, and I want to be mad at Mac for getting too comfortable around Casey, but I know I have no right to be.
“Didn’t you like the cake?”
I almost laugh. The fact that we have to have this conversation at all angers me. “I loved the cake, Casey. It was very sweet of you and Mac to make it for me. I was upset for grown-up reasons.”
She glowers, no longer just disappointed; she almost looks annoyed with me. “Well, if you’re not mad at her anymore, can she come get a tree?”
There’s enough sass in her question that I’m not sure it qualifies as a question. “Case”—I turn to face her—“I’m going to talk to you like a grown-up, okay?”
She nods and folds her hands in her lap, watching me, waiting. Something her mother must have taught her. I shake my head and rub my temples, delaying. “Case, I’m glad you like Mac. I like her, too. But having her around makes things complicated for Daddy.” Casey’s face is impassive and she says nothing. “I—ah—I don’t want you to get too attached to her, sweetheart. She won’t be around forever, and I don’t want us to both be sad when she leaves.”
Her eyes widen. “But . . . where is she going? I thought she was your girlfriend.”
“My girlfri—Casey, where did you get an idea like that?”
She shrugs, like it’s normal for her to know about my love life. “Mommy said that one day you would have a girlfriend just like how she has Scott. She said I would like her, too, and we could maybe be a family here at your house like we are at Mommy’s. Then I’d get double the presents.” Her final thought pulls her tiny mouth into an impossibly large grin.
I lean back into the couch, feeling like I’m fifteen again. “It seems you know a lot for a five-year-old.”
“If you ask her to stay, maybe she won’t leave,” Casey says, holding up a crayon. “I don’t know this one. What color does it say?”
I squint to read the fine print. “It’s—uh—periwinkle,” I say and hand it back to her. I watch her a moment as she colors. Oblivious. Everything is so simple in a child’s mind. Casey’s never lost anyone, she’s never had a broken heart. She doesn’t know that with relationships there are no certainties but plenty of expectations.
“Daddy, I need a drink, please.”
I rub my face. “Me too,” I mutter and haul myself to my feet, all too happy to move around and work off some of the tension coiling up inside me. It feels like just last week I was worried about changing diapers and learning how to braid hair. Now, Casey wants to pick out her own clothes and all she can think about is Mac and fingernail polish.
I’ve denied myself feelings for Mac for months, and for what? Within a matter of days, she’s inched her way into my family and my home. The thought of us being together is too foreign to even picture and how would it even end? Horribly.
I pull Casey’s princess cup out of the cupboard. I would love for Mac to flash a few of her megawatt smiles at me for once, though, and for her to be vehemently protective of my daughter the way she is about her own family. And I crave the taste of her lips again—whenever I want—and for her to look at me openly, instead of always hiding beneath her lashes or veering her gaze away.
“Do you want milk or ju—” I begin, but Casey’s not in the living room.
“I forgot!” she calls out, running from the hallway into the kitchen, a little out of breath. She wipes her hair from her face, licks her lips, and hands me a stack of photos.
A picture of Casey laughing makes me grin. “What are these, Case?”
“Pictures of me for your birthday present,” she says happily, then she flashes me a bashful smile. “Aren’t they pretty?”
I set Belle and Ariel down on the counter and flip the kitchen light on. I study the next photo. Casey is frozen in a twirl, her teal nightgown floating out around her tiny legs, and her arms are raised high in the air. I slide it off the top and admire the next one. Casey’s grinning, close up and into the camera like a goon, with her eyes squinted shut. I can’t help but chuckle.
“Mac took these?”
Casey chirps a yes and runs back to her coloring book. “Yesterday. And she bought me lipstick at the store, too.”
My head shoots up. “She what?”
“Yep!”
“Can you bring it to me so I can see, please.”
Casey grunts and gets off the couch again, then runs back into her room. She returns with a tube of clear lip balm. I breathe out, rising fury quickly receding. “I see. Well, that was nice of her,” I say with a final breath of relief. Casey goes back to her coloring book, oblivious to the fact that my blood nearly boiled over, and I turn back to the photos held between my fingers.
Each one is precious and beautiful and they blow me away. I don’t have pictures like this of Casey; I barely have any at all. There’s nothing like having your five-year-old show you what a complete fucking asshole you are.
Thirty-Five
Mac
&nb
sp; Although I should be relishing in the fact that it’s Friday, anything celebratory is the furthest thing from my mind. Colton’s off again today, staying home with Casey. His empty stall is one of many constant reminders that we’re not on the best of terms right now.
Once again, I feel like my hands are tied when it comes to him, only this time . . . it hurts. Of all the guys I could’ve fallen for—of all the guys that would’ve been way more available—I chose him. He makes me feel different, more present in my life than I’ve been in a long time. The way he looks at me in those fleeting moments when his guard is down almost makes all the confusion and aggravation worth it. Then he lets me in a little, giving me a glimpse of who he is behind the scowl, only to push me away again.
I glance at my computer screen, at the open spreadsheet that I’ve only stared at all day. Sure I need to file a few things, and I should probably order rubber gloves and brake pads and oil filters for stock, blah, blah, blah, but I don’t feel like it. Now that Christmas is only a couple weeks away and work is slowing down, I’m starting to realize that for the first time in my life, it doesn’t feel like my favorite holiday; it feels like some of the magic is gone.
I glance at the clock. It’s almost time to close, so I start making the rounds, securing all the exterior doors, making sure they’re locked and the heavy machinery not being used is powered down. I turn off the stall heaters and lights, save for my dad and Reilly’s work spaces, since they’re the only ones still here, trying to get their vehicles finished before the weekend.
“I’m shutting everything down in my office,” I say. “Any final requests before I call it a day?”
Reilly straightens and stretches from his hunched position over a F-250’s hood and shakes his head. Then my dad rolls out from under a ’69 Mustang.
I blow him a kiss. “See you tomorrow?”
He glances up at the engine above him, more like he’s stalling than anything, then he looks at me again. “How about Sunday?”
I shrug. “Sure. I’ll stop by the store on my way there, pick up something to whip up.”
Ever so slightly, he shakes his head. “I’ll take care of dinner. You just show up. Six o’clock.”
I clasp my hands in front of me, smiling. “Ah, sure. Sounds great.” My dad’s not the best cook, unless everything is made on the grill, which is difficult to do when it’s snowing outside. Then again, this new leaf he’s turning over is pretty endearing. “Sunday, then.” I wave goodbye. “Love you.”
After I shut my computer down and I’m about ready to toss my phone into my purse, I notice I have a new text message. It’s from Colton. My heart palpitates and I feel myself flush with equal parts excitement and fear. Then I open it.
Colton: Does the offer for the tree still stand?
I’m not sure how to reply. Does he mean will Sam let him cut down a tree or will I go with him? Or both? I decide a vague response is best.
Me: I’m sure she won’t mind. Just let me know when you want to go, so she can expect you.
I finish gathering my things, impatiently waiting for his reply. The whole time, Colton’s words from yesterday replay in my mind.
We’re not a thing. He’s made that very clear from the start. The problem is I thought we were at least friends, but I guess friends isn’t so easy for us.
I’m climbing into the Jeep, wrapped up in warmth from head to toe, when he finally texts me back.
Colton: I was thinking tomorrow morning. Care to join?
I toss my head back in the driver’s seat and groan. “Of course I do.” But I know I shouldn’t.
Me: I’m not sure that’s a good idea.
Plus, there are a dozen other things I should be doing tomorrow so that I can get a place before the new year.
Colton: Casey will be heartbroken.
* * *
The next morning, I meet Casey and Colton down by his truck at eight sharp for our adventurous trek up the mountain. Sam and Reilly said the property is ours to shop, cut, and peruse to our hearts’ content. Everything is good to go, except, I don’t know where Colton and I stand, exactly.
Their front door opens and he steps outside. He glances down at me, and he might even look a little flushed when our eyes meet. I see the top of Casey’s head through the balcony railing as he ushers her out the door.
“Put your hat on,” he says. I’m not sure if it’s fully hit me yet—the drastic difference between the Colton I thought I knew and the father I’m more familiar with now.
Casey pulls herself up on the railing, waving with her free hand. “Hi, Mac!”
I wave back, unable to resist a genuine smile. “Hi!”
Casey scuttles down the stairs, Colton following after her. He warns her to be careful on the slippery steps going down and comments on her enthusiasm as she hurries over.
“Morning,” he says, strutting up to the Tundra. His smile is broad and gorgeous, and it’s so easy and nonchalant it irritates the hell out of me.
“Good morning,” I reply a little brusquely and turn to Casey. “You’re feeling better, I see.”
She picks at a loose thread in her mitten. “Yep.”
Colton opens the back passenger door of the truck and she climbs into her booster seat.
“You get the front,” Colton says with a small, knowing smile that I’m not sure how to decipher.
“You’re a big girl,” Casey clarifies.
“Right you are,” I say and open the door. I climb up into the passenger seat, studying Colton’s truck. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside it. It’s still clean, just like his workspace, and there’s still a tinge of new car scent mixed with something fruity.
I glance around the truck and back at Casey as Colton helps her get situated. “I get it now—why you have a truck,” I say aloud. “I can’t really picture Casey on the back of the bike.” I’m curious how he could afford a Ducati in the first place.
“Daddy won’t let me ride the motorcycle,” Casey says, readjusting herself in her seat.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “My dad has a Harley, and I don’t really like riding on it. Sometimes it’s a little scary.”
“Mommy says it’s a death trap.”
Colton rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Reilly said not to worry about bringing anything, but I brought ties and a hatchet,” he says, looking at me. “Is there anything else we need?”
“They’ll have whatever you don’t,” I say and peer out the passenger window.
The V-8 engine rumbles to life, and from the corner of my eye, I see Colton lean back in his seat and face me. “This is something you do every year?” He switches the heater on and messes with the vents, waiting for me to answer.
“For as long as I can remember,” I say and focus on a flock of blackbirds that take to the air outside my window.
“Well, I appreciate Sam letting us pick a tree, and thanks for letting us in on your tradition.”
“It’s no big deal,” I lie. It does seem a little strange that he’s suddenly become a part of it. It feels too close and personal again, and even though I didn’t mind sharing it with him and Casey the other day, I’m not sure I’m as gung-ho now.
I can feel Colton’s eyes on me before he pulls away from the curb, but I focus out the window and watch the neighborhood pass by. Colton takes mostly back roads as we head toward the mountain.
Casey yammers on about all the animals she wants to put in the tree once we get it set up, how she wants Nick to help her decorate it and me and maybe her mom will want to help, too, but I lose myself to my own thoughts. Once again, I have no idea what my purpose is being here today. Is it so he doesn’t have to go to Sam’s alone? Is it because he feels like an asshole for what he said? Does he actually want me to be here with them?
The moment we pass by Jack’s Save Mart at the final light, I lean forward and glance up at the mountain. “Be careful,” I say, always leery of this road. “I
t’s windy and it gets slippery.” I know he’s driven it before, heading to and from the Turner’s cabin at least, but I say it anyway.
Colton glances at me and nods, then drives through the light, toward Sam’s ranch. It feels like months ago that they buried Mr. Miller, not years. Then I remember Colton said he was in an accident, but I don’t feel comfortable asking him about it in front of Casey, so I decide to leave it alone. For now.
Colton is careful and alert as he maneuvers the bends in the road, and we arrive at the Miller Ranch Boarding Facility sign fifteen minutes later. Their gravel drive is lined with white snow, save for the brown slush of recent tire tracks that we follow up the path.
The road opens to a barn and stables on the right-hand side, all so picturesque in the soft glow of winter with everything blanketed in white. The place looks lifeless, the horses all locked inside, and small icicles hang from the eaves of the buildings. When I look at the farmhouse, I see smoke coming from the chimney . . . and then I notice my dad’s 1965 Ford truck parked in the driveway beside Alison’s Tahoe.
“Can you stop the truck, please?”
Colton pulls the Tundra to a halt and I climb out. “I’ll be right back,” I say and crunch through the snow to Sam’s front porch. I almost walk right in, but I remember my manners. Sam’s probably not even here. I knock, a few quick raps of my knuckles, and wait impatiently for someone to answer the door. I hear footsteps inside and muffled voices. I’m not sure why my heart is pounding and my armpits are starting to sweat, but they are and I can’t help it.
I rub my gloves together for warmth and cup them against my nose. Quickly, I peer over my shoulder. Casey and Colton are both watching me, waiting. I hold up my index finger, hoping for one minute longer, and then the door opens and I whip back around.
“M—Mac,” Alison says. She’s surprised but she has a tight smile on her face. She’s fully clothed, which apparently I was worried about because I sigh in relief. “Sam told me you would be by, but I didn’t realize you were going to stop.” She glances at Colton and Casey behind me, then waves me inside. “Come in.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 54