by Lindsey Hart
“I do. Do you have kids you like to hang out with?”
“Sometimes. I don’t really know that many because I’ve always had a nanny, and I’ve never gone to school or daycare like other kids. I have aunts and uncles, and I like my cousins, but I don’t see them that often.”
“We’ll make something for them.” Shade has a really good grasp of how the family unit works. I’ve literally met seven or eight-year-old kids who still didn’t know what a cousin or aunt or uncle was.
“Can we go now?”
I finish the rest of my pancake even though I’m not hungry because I don’t want to teach Shade that it’s okay to waste. I don’t think it matters how much money a person has; there is always someone out there who doesn’t have any and would give anything for what you have, so wasting anything really isn’t okay with me. My parents taught me that from a young age, and at boarding school, we weren’t allowed to waste either. Not that they force-fed us. If we honestly didn’t like something, we were expected to speak up, although it didn’t always work. I was also forced to eat vegetables when I wasn’t at home, and now I love them. But when I was younger, not so much.
Shade goes running off while I clean the table and rinse the dishes before putting it in the dishwasher. When he gets back, he presents the car keys to me with a huge grin on his face.
Grocery shopping was a bit of a nightmare because the Christmas rush was already on. I can’t imagine the craft stores or anywhere else will be much better, but we’re doing it.
Shade’s more excited than I’ve ever seen him, and I wouldn’t disappoint him for anything, even if it means battling heavy traffic, packed aisles, and long lines.
CHAPTER 9
Luke
God, I needed a good game after today. Work was shit—just more pressure about the merger that may or may not happen. Everything is hinging on me, and I’m sick of it. I hate that my decisions affect so many people. I used to love that—that I was succeeding. But now? Now it’s not very fun. I was looking forward to coming home, but as soon as I walked in the door, I was bombarded by Shade. He was so excited to show me all the things he’d made—Christmas stuff—all of it. Then he asked me about a tree.
I took him out for dinner because Feeney hadn’t made anything edible (she burned something unidentifiable again) and also because I needed to get out of the house. I knew she had put Shade up to it. Freaking Christmas. We don’t do Christmas in the house, and it’s not because I can’t bear to think about it. I’m not that much of a pussy, even though it does still sting. Mostly, I just hate it. I hate having to pay token visits to the people I don’t want to see. I hate having to fake it, buy gifts, the crowds, and the disruption in the workplace and the rest of the world.
I’m not surprised to see Feeney sneaking around the corner of the living room. I have my headset on, and I’m immersed in a game. The second I spot her, I get killed. It’s game over for me about five seconds after I started.
I rip off the headset because she’s standing off to the side with innocent surprise all over her face, her eyes all big, watery, and doe-like.
“Sorry.” She points to the TV. “Did I make you die?” She’s clearly not sorry. By the look on her face, it’s clear she thinks all video games are a waste of time.
It’s pretty much the classic look for someone who never played them. She probably had fancy riding lessons and freaking gymnastics or ballet to keep her busy as a kid. What do rich kids do? Shop? Take part in pageants? If I even know. I wasn’t raised rich, and I didn’t make money until much later in life.
“Do you need something?” I don’t purr the question. It comes out as a raspy, chainsaw rumble.
Feeney can’t just let it slide. “Rough day at the office? You sound like a grumpy bear who just sat down on the business end of a sharp branch while he was trying to scratch his ass.”
“What would you know about bears? This is Florida.” I don’t think Little Miss Priss has ever even gone camping before.
“There’s this amazing invention called the TV. And books. Opens up a whole different world, even if you live in Florida.” She closes her eyes like she’s fighting herself. She doesn’t look annoyed. Rather, she’s more focused.
She’s going to ask me about Christmas, and she’s going to do it for Shade. At least she’ll say it’s for Shade. She’ll tell me what a shit father I am, ask me about Brittany, and also ask me if I’m still so damaged that I can’t do the holidays. Maybe she’ll try to come up with a solution or some bullshit and try again to make me believe she’s doing it for Shade, and I’ll pretend to be happy about it because isn’t that what I ostensibly hired her for? To care about my son?
“I wanted to talk to you about getting a tree. Or maybe you have one.”
Here it comes. I want to laugh as I was so spot on.
“What does your family do for the holidays?” I decide at that moment to test her just a little.
She stares me down like she knows what I’m doing, and she doesn’t let it rattle her. I feel a small tinkling of respect for Feeney. I thought she’d be meek, have zero personality, ditzy—the usual rich, spoiled, twenty-something-year-old stereotype. It’s more than slightly galling for me to admit she’s already exceeded my expectations. Then again, they were very low.
“We put up a tree, have people over, do family stuff, give gifts, and eat, just like what most of the rest of this country does. Shade said you usually go to his grandparents. When I asked about a tree, he was very excited. We made all those ornaments today. I…I was wondering if I could use the credit card to buy something small if you don’t have one.”
“Why? The house doesn’t need more clutter.”
She glances at the TV like my video game character could help her. At the moment, he’s wearing grey clothing, combat boots, sporting a massive gun, and is covered in blood. She gulps and finally looks back at me.
“I think it would be good for Shade.”
So far, I’m two for two. She just needs to bring up Britt, and I’ll have called her game perfectly.
“Do you? A plastic tree and some shit he’s never going to use again? That would be good for him?”
“It’s about the experience. Giving him something nor—”
“Go ahead. Say it. Normal. Something normal. You think a tree and gifts are going to make up for what he doesn’t have?”
“Lots of other families have children where one parent isn’t in the house.”
“Because they divorced. Not because they died.”
“You can’t use that as a crutch, Luke. Your son wants a fucking tree. I’m buying a…a…oh, dang it, I’m buying a chicken nugget tree and all the flipping chicken nugget decorations that go with it. We’re going to pick it out together. You don’t have to be happy about it, and you can chicken nugget burn it after if you want. Just put on a happy face and pretend like you’re not a… a…chicken nugget hole for the day, and then life will go on.”
I’m floored. Really. Yeah, she brought up Britt, but not the way I thought she would. Technically, maybe I brought her up. Maybe that was too leading. Fuck, I’m not getting my three for three, but I can’t say I’m disappointed by the fire that suddenly shot out of Feeney like a flame thrower. She basically roasted me straight on the spot.
I’m not sure what I admire more. That she had the guts to do it or that she didn’t pity me the way everyone else does. Is that the same thing? For most of the world, Britt might as well have never existed. A week after she died, people stopped talking to me about her. I know they were afraid of triggering grief or saying the wrong thing, but grief isn’t something that’s triggered because it’s constant, and everything everyone says after is always going to be the wrong thing.
“Will it?”
“Will what?”
“Will life go on?”
“I don’t know. You tell me!” She’s obviously frustrated. She beats me at my own game. “I’m not here to argue. I’m getting the tree, and you will make sure
your son has a good Christmas. You will put up with the tree, you will help him decorate it, and you will compliment him on the things he’s made because he’s a great artist, and he worked hard. He’s four-years-old. None of this is his fault. He knows all about how his grandparents don’t like having him at Christmas and how you and your dad don’t get along. I know all about it. He’s smarter than you know, and he’s very perceptive. I don’t have to tell you that. Anyway, whatever. You’re just being difficult.”
“I just have one question.”
“What?” She crosses her arms before eyeing me like I’m going to do something unpredictable—something like pulling out a jar of jam and doing a strange jam dance. I don’t know. Jesus. At this moment, I can’t think of something weirder than that.
“What’s with the chicken nuggets?”
“You know what’s with the chicken nuggets. Instead of saying vulgar words, I sub in something else.”
“That’s childish.”
“It could be funny if you had a sense of humor.”
“My sense of humor is just fine.”
“Your sense of humor is chicken nuggets.”
“That makes no sense. You should swear more when there aren’t little ears around. You sound ridiculous otherwise.”
“If you make it a habit, things slip out. It’s not okay for things to slip when someone looks up to you.”
“It’s still ridiculous.” I feel the jab in there, but I can’t figure out what exactly it is, and it slightly pisses me off. I feel rattled. I don’t like feeling rattled.
“I’m getting the tree tomorrow. Sorry for interrupting your game. Goodnight.”
Then she’s gone in a flash. She just spins on her heel and walks out of the room. She needed the last word, but it wasn’t the kind of evil last word most people need to get in. In fact, I don’t think there’s much evil in Feeney at all. She’s smart, but she doesn’t use it for bad purposes. She probably does have a good sense of humor, and god, it’s been a long time since I had an intelligent conversation with someone. It’s been a long time since I talked to someone at all.
Wait a minute. Did I actually just enjoy that?
And what’s wrong with my steak from dinner? Why is it suddenly sitting so heavy and horrible in my stomach?
Also, what’s wrong with my brain? It’s gone haywire, giving me faulty circuits. I’m just slightly annoyed, that’s all. I don’t feel anything more than annoyance slash slight anger. Maybe. And fuck, my body just doesn’t know what to do with itself when my brain doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Fuck the fucking Christmas tree. Fuck fucking Christmas. I can honestly say I can’t stand it.
No. I didn’t enjoy that. The steak was bad, and it’s giving me lousy brain chemicals. I’m starting to hallucinate. That wasn’t even a conversation, and it certainly wasn’t an argument. It was Feeney poking her nose in to tell me to do better. For some reason, I want to do better. I want to do the fu…chicken nugget Christmas tree. And everything else. For Shade’s sake. Yeah, for Shade.
I need a distraction now more than ever, so I shove my headset back on and pick up the controller. I play a few more rounds before I turn the game off, disgusted with myself. I’m normally pretty good at this, but I think I died within ten seconds of every single round.
CHAPTER 10
Feeney
I’m nervous as all chicken nuggets when five o’clock rolls around the next day. The nerves turn to nausea when Shade and I hear the front door open. Luke’s footsteps sound like my doom coming down the hall. What’s he going to say when he sees the living room? Is he going to freak out? He didn’t freak out last night. Last night, he was pretty calm to the point of being cold. I can’t believe I basically told him off, and he didn’t really even put up resistance.
I think he’s become so good at being an asshole…err, I mean a chicken nugget, that it’s practically second nature. He relies on it as a shield. I expected some emotion when we talked last night but there was nothing. He’s become seriously good at shutting down.
Not that I can blame him. If I were in his place with a kid to look after, a household to run, a job I couldn’t just quit, bills to pay, and I was doing it all alone after something terrible happened, and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I just didn’t deal with it, I can’t imagine I’d be much better.
I know I wouldn’t be much better. Christmas was always a fun time at my house. My mom loves Christmas, and my dad endures it for her sake because he loves her. Even after all these years, my parents are a success story. I can’t remember ever asking them how they met, and they don’t talk about it, but it’s been nearly thirty years, and they’re still together. They don’t hate each other, they sleep in the same bedroom, and sometimes, they even do small loving things in front of me, like hold hands or kiss each other on the cheek.
And Mom always makes a big deal out of Christmas. Every year, she goes full out with the decorations. We usually have three trees, and the house turns into this extravaganza that could outdo most malls or put any Christmas display to shame around the city.
This year, it makes me feel disgustingly homesick to think about it being the first Christmas I’m not going to be spending at home. I’m ashamed to say I literally cried myself to sleep last night thinking about it—the first time ever for that too.
So no. I don’t think I’d handle being in Luke’s place any better than I’m handling being in my own. The way I’m choosing to deal with it is to not think about it. Shut down, shut it out, and focus on something else. I guess that’s exactly what Luke does.
Luke steps into the living room where Shade and I are sitting on the couch together. After a busy day getting the tree and buying decorations (I was careful to budget the expenses), we both took a break and parked ourselves on the couch to wait for Luke. I think we are both tense in equal measure.
When Shade spots his dad, he jumps off the couch and hurtles straight at him. Luke bends down, and Shade wraps his arms around his neck.
Ouch, my heart.
I don’t care how much you dislike a person. Seeing them dote and love on their kids is always going to get you right in the sensitive spots you don’t know you have.
“Dad! Look what we did! We got a tree! And we made things for it! We bought things too! Do you like it?! Come look!”
I didn’t tell Shade that I talked to Luke about getting the tree. Or that he knew it was coming. Luke actually acts surprised, and then he smiles.
It’s not the first smile I’ve seen from him, directed at Shade, for Shade, but this one does something funny to me. I know what it feels like to have a crush on a guy. Granted, I might have experienced it later in life than most people, but I do know what those butterflies in my stomach mean. I know what those tingles in certain spots signal.
So, it’s time to focus on the tree and not on Luke. Not on the tingles, and not on the butterflies. They’re probably moths, harmful moths.
“Do you like this one? We made a paper chain! Look over here! This one’s a squirrel!” Shade is all over the place after he drags Luke to the tree.
I guess I have to admit that Luke can be a pretty good sport when he’s called on to do it. He acts enthusiastic enough, exclaiming over each and every ornament Shade picked out.
“Look, this one’s a mermaid cat. Feeney picked this one. It has pink fur around the tail.”
“I see that. What an odd thing.”
“I think it’s awesome,” Shade says, slightly put out.
“I think so too. Pink hair. Huh.”
While Shade and Luke study the tree, which was a forty-dollar special at a department store—the usual green fake kind (I wanted pink or purple because those are super cool, but they were also super expensive)—and all the ornaments we picked out, which we also carefully bought with a budget in mind, I slip away to the kitchen.
I dig out the ingredients for dinner, which we also bought while we were out. I’m taking the barbeque starter and
the tray of chicken out the patio door when a deep voice stops me in my tracks.
“What’s that? And what on earth are you doing?”
I turn slowly like a criminal caught breaking and entering. I stare Luke down levelly, not wanting him to see how his voice suddenly affects me—affects me in the way of making me nervous. Because he doubts I can do anything at all, and that’s all it is. I hate how he’s always waiting for me to fail. Those shivers going up and down my spine, they’re fear-of-failure shivers.
I got this. Seriously. I watched some video tutorials. How can I fail?
“I’m going to barbeque this chicken.”
“Sweet mother of…uh…chicken nuggets. There’s no way in heck you’re barbequing.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I challenge. Shade is still in the living room. I can see him standing over at the tree, so it’s just Luke and me, about to spar this one out. “I burn the chicken? Well, it’s not going to happen. I know what I’m doing.”
“I very much doubt that,” Luke snorts. “The worst that could happen? You’ll burn your face off because you’ll turn on too much propane. Or you’ll light the whole backyard on fire. Or even the house and everything.”
“I don’t think that’s actually possible.”
His eyebrow quirks up. “You could still burn your eyebrows clean off. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Fine. Then go turn it on. I’ll do the rest.”
He actually gives me a comical look. As in, he thinks I’m funny. He’s amused by me. That should piss me off, but instead, it secretly thrills me. Because, you know, I’ve apparently become a lost cause who needs those kinds of thrills.
“Not a chance.” Luke steps forward, plucks the pack of chicken out of my hands, and heads past me.
He fiddles with the barbeque—a huge stainless contraption—for a few seconds, and it lights up. Of course, there’s a switch. Why didn’t I think of that? He adjusts the heat and stares at the flames coming up through the grill. It is pretty intimidating. Can a person really burn their eyebrows off? I’ll have to look that up later. Not because I find it funny but just because I want to know.