Dalton is growing angrier by the minute.
“Is he hungry?” Jeremiah asks Clara.
“He ate before we came in,” she says, sounding exasperated. She’s missing Shaylee’s first school program, and I know she’s been looking forward to it.
“I’ll take him,” I tell her, reaching for the angry baby. It’s not like he can get any more upset.
Clara looks at me, her expression somewhere between desperate and apologetic. “Georgia, you don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. Watch Shaylee—take lots of pictures for me.” I reach down for Dayton’s diaper bag, not exactly sure what to do with the contents but stubborn enough to work it out if need be. That’s what YouTube is for, right?
Dayton wails as I hug him close to my body, and I try to figure out how the heck to grasp the wiggling hellion when he’s doing his best to throw himself right out of my arms. I make my way through the makeshift aisle, apologizing as I step on people’s feet and bump into legs.
A little boy, probably a year or two older than Dayton, reaches out as I pass, pressing his hand on my wrist. His wet hand.
Ew, ew, ew.
My gag reflex eases only when I push through the back doors and into the quiet hall.
Well, it was quiet. Dayton’s screams fill the space, echoing off walls, and I turn him in my arms so he’s looking at me. “Hey now. You know me. We met when you were eight months old, and you got to hang out in that super cool folding crib thing in my living room. I fed you those gross-looking mashed pears, and you spit them at me—not cool, by the way. You love me; you just don’t remember. And—no!” I hold him out in front of me, letting his legs dangle. “You may not rub your snotty nose on me.”
Suddenly, Dayton flops against me and hiccups his last cry—not because I’m some amazing baby whisperer, mind you, but likely because he’s figured out I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and he’s decided it’s best to devote his energy to survival.
“Yuck, kid,” I groan as I realize he accidentally (or was it?) wiped his face on my scarf. It’s a lost cause, though. Babies are just gooey, and there’s no getting around it.
His cries have turned into pathetic whimpers. I walk the halls, babbling pure nonsense.
“You think you have it rough?” I say. “At least you know where you’re going to live in a week. And your mother has a cabinet full of baby food and those weird puff things she says you like. I think I have three cans of soup and some soggy cucumbers. Out of the two of us, I should be the one crying.”
Dayton ends up falling asleep after a while, making me feel like Aunt of the Year. My arms are going to fall off, but at least he’s not wailing.
He snuffles out a sad little mew in his sleep, which seems weird. I gently press the back of my hand against his cheek and wince. I didn’t notice it before, but now he feels too hot, feverish even.
I’m just trying to figure out how to pull my cell out of my back pocket to text Clara when the doors open, and a herd of snowflake-bedecked children and their parents begin streaming out.
Thank goodness—it’s over.
“GIGI!” Shaylee squeals when she pushes through the crowd, followed by my family. Her tight brunette curls bounce around her shoulders as she comes barreling through the door…straight for her sleeping brother and me.
“Whoa there,” Jeremiah says, capturing the exuberant five-year-old around her waist and swinging her into the air.
She giggles as he places her on his shoulders. My niece takes after her dad with her olive complexion and bright brown eyes. She has my sister’s smile, too, and according to Clara, my quirks. Not sure exactly what that’s supposed to mean, but I’m certain it’s not a compliment.
“Did you see me, Aunt Gigi?” Shaylee demands, clasping what looks like a bag of party favors in the hand that isn’t clutched in her father’s hair. “I sang Frosty, and I danced, and Mrs. Millerson said I was the bestest snowflake ever. And look!” She swings the bag forward, barely missing Jeremiah’s ear. “I got a candy cane and stickers and a stupid orange!”
“Don’t say stupid,” Clara says automatically, but she’s laughing at her daughter’s exuberance with the rest of us.
“What’s wrong with the orange?” I ask Shaylee, and then I hand sleeping Dayton to Clara and whisper, “I think he might not be feeling well. He’s kind of hot. I was about to text you.”
“It’s fruit, Aunt Gigi,” Shaylee says with an exaggerated sigh. “Who wants fruit for Christmas? Candy and stickers are way better.”
“Good point.”
Clara frowns as she presses her hand to Dayton’s cheek. “He is really warm, isn’t he?”
“What’s wrong?” Jeremiah asks.
“Dayton has a fever,” Clara answers.
My mother swoops in and checks for herself. “Oh, Clara, he’s burning up.”
“He probably has another ear infection.” Clara’s forehead lines with worry. “He gets one with every tooth. No wonder he’s been so crabby.”
Jeremiah pulls out his phone. “It’s eight. If we hurry, we can get him in to see a doctor at the after-hours office before they close at nine.”
Clara looks down at her dress, and she sighs. “All right.”
“Dad and I will take him in,” Mom offers, scooping Dayton into her arms. “You go to your party.”
“Mom, I can’t—”
“Of course you can,” Mom argues. “I’ve taken care of a sick baby before, haven’t I?”
Shaylee’s face falls. “Do I still get to spend the night with Aunt Nita and Uncle Jason?”
Clara looks at our brother and sister-in-law.
Jason tugs on Shaylee’s boot and teases, “Well, yeah, munchkin. Are you trying to get out of it?”
“No,” Shaylee says with a laugh.
“Because Aunt Nita made chocolate cupcakes, and I was going to share…but if you don’t want any…”
“I want them!” she squeals.
Not looking at me, Mom says to Clara, “Would you mind dropping Georgia off at the house on your way? She’ll need to take my car to pick up Isaac.”
Whoa. Hold that pony wagon right there.
“I’m not picking up Isaac.” I cross my arms.
Mom flashes me a look. “You will, Georgia. I told him we would, and now your dad and I can’t make it.”
“Absolutely not. No.” I dig in my metaphorical heels and give her my most stubborn look—one I learned from her. “Not happening.”
4
Georgia is going to kill me.
I heft my bag over my shoulder and amble through the small airport. Maybe I should call her, beg for forgiveness before we meet face to face—let her yell at me over the phone.
Nah, it’s probably better just to treat it like a bandage and get it over with all at once.
I look through the waiting families, searching for Georgia’s parents. I haven’t seen them in years. Will they recognize me? Will I recognize them?
My eyes pass over a scowling blonde-haired woman near the wall…and then they slide right back.
Georgia.
Seeing her is like a punch to the gut.
She hasn’t spotted me yet, so her eyes are still on the crowd. Her hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, lighter too, and the cut looks expensive. She’s wearing a pair of high-heeled boots that hug her jean-clad legs, and she has a heavy winter coat slung over her arm. She’s absolutely beautiful, even if she looks as prickly as a ticked off badger.
Judging by the look on her face, I’m in a world of trouble. I told her I wasn’t going to rain on her parade, but here I am. The way I see it, I have two choices—grovel or own it.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I call in the crowd. “Waiting for me?”
Because I already have her in my sights, I get to watch the full array of emotions as they cross her face. First, she’s startled, but that expression is quickly chased away by embarrassment. When our gazes meet, her lips part. She stares at me, her expression conveying n
othing and everything all at the same time. That flash of vulnerability is quickly replaced with icy disdain.
Ah, a look I know well.
I smirk as I make my way to her. She doesn’t move forward to greet me, doesn’t say, “Hey, Isaac, thank you again for sending Carter and Addison to save me last night.”
It’s hard to believe she reached out to me at all. It’s just not her style. When we dated, she was the type to insist on doing things herself, absolutely hated asking for help. I doubt that’s changed.
I stop in front of her, drinking her in but trying to be casual about it. We’re opponents in a friendly battle that’s spanned more than a decade. We size each other up, looking for weaknesses, assessing strengths. I can feel her tension like it’s my own. She’s wound tighter than an anniversary clock, and I want to know why.
But that will have to wait.
“What are you doing here?” she asks tonelessly.
I glance back at the crowd behind me and then grin. “People usually end up in airports after they exit a plane—if the flight was successful, that is.”
“You told me you weren’t coming.” Her tone makes it sound like she’s accusing me of breaking a promise, like my presence has personally insulted her.
I take a step closer, hoping to throw her off balance. She has the power right now, and I need up there with her on the high ground if we’re going to survive the holiday. “You said you missed me last night.”
She looks away, pursing her lips, not quite rolling her eyes—but oh, she wants to. “I said sometimes, and it was late. My judgment isn’t great after midnight.”
Unable to help myself, I chuckle. “I’ll file that tidbit of information away for later.”
I want her to engage, say something scathing, pick up this game we know so well. Instead, she shakes her head—more to herself than me—and turns toward the exit. “Come on.”
“I thought your parents were picking me up,” I say as I match her pace. Her heeled boots click on the tile floor, and for unknown reasons, the sound is crazy sexy.
I wince at the thought, reminding myself that Georgia isn’t just some random woman. She’s not a casual acquaintance I’m playing with the idea of engaging in a holiday fling. We have history. I’d go as far as to say she broke my heart if it wasn’t such a lame thing to admit.
“An unfortunate turn of events made it impossible for them to taxi you about,” she answers. “I was their reluctant replacement.”
I have a thousand things I want to ask her, but now is not the time for the questions that churn like heartburn in my chest.
“No complaints here.” I open the door, and what feels like an arctic wind blows against us. Tiny flakes of snow swirl in the air, thick and blinding. “This is one heck of a storm for around here.”
Georgia hurries ahead, pretending she’s impermeable to the weather—a right fine ice queen. But I know better.
The moment she steps onto the snow-covered parking lot, she lets out a shriek. Her arms circle as her heel skids on the ice. Dropping my bag, I leap forward to catch her…and end up slipping myself. We fall to the ground in a spectacular heap, but I manage to protect Georgia’s head just before it cracks against the frozen asphalt.
We’re tangled up like baby giraffes playing Twister, and in any other circumstance, I’d be loving life right about now. But the ground is freaking hard, the snow is freaking cold, and my shoulder freaking hurts.
“You okay?” I ask her once I catch my breath.
Georgia struggles to her feet, but she’s unable to get any traction in those boots, so she ends up falling back on me with a soft “oof.”
I gently push her aside so I can stand and then take her arm and pull her up as I rise. She clutches me as she wobbles, and I shamelessly grasp her by the waist.
“Not the best choice of footwear for a snowstorm,” I can’t help but say.
She flashes me a dark look. “It wasn’t snowing when I left the house, and I certainly wasn’t planning on playing chauffeur.”
“How’d you get across the parking lot before?”
“The snow hadn’t started sticking yet. I avoided the icy spots.”
Snow clings to her hair and eyelashes. It swirls in the parking lot lights and disappears in the dark perimeter.
“How long is it supposed to do this?” I ask, shielding my eyes as I look up into the darkness. It’s impossible to tell how thick the clouds are, or if it appears they’ll break up anytime soon.
“Dad said the storm is expected to let up early tomorrow morning.”
Georgia holds my arm as we cautiously cross the parking lot, sticking to the slushy tire tracks and avoiding the untouched snow concealing patches of slick ice.
She stops in front of a foreign SUV crossover that has me cringing. I’m a Mopar guy myself, the older, the better, but not everyone shares my love for the classics. Georgia was never a fan. She liked new, shiny, fancy. No wonder she ditched me.
She hits the key fob, and the car beeps. “You can toss your bag in the backseat.”
I do as I’m told and then make my way to the driver’s side.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
It takes me a moment to figure out what the problem is, and when I do, I fight a smile. “You hate driving in this, and it’s going to be slick with that layer of ice under the new snow.”
“I’m not a teenager anymore, Isaac.”
I surrender, holding up my hands. When we’re both in the car, I fasten my seatbelt. “Got a lot of winter driving experience while you were in Phoenix, did you?”
“I’m fine,” she all but snarls.
She then creeps out of the parking lot at a pace that would make a bifocal-wearing grandma yell obscenities out the window.
I cross my arms and settle back to enjoy the show. “The gas is the pedal on the right.”
“I’m getting a feel for it,” she insists. “Seeing how bad it is.”
“Look at the bright side—by the time we make it to your parents’ house, all the snow should be melted.”
“Glad to see you’re still as obnoxious as ever.”
“Glad to see you’re still a control freak.” I grin to myself.
I’m probably enjoying this more than a grown man should, but what can I say? She brings out the best in me.
A car way, way ahead taps their brakes, and Georgia responds immediately, stepping down too hard. The car fishtails a bit—nothing major—but she lets out a shriek that has me seriously concerned.
“Hey, it’s okay.” I say, no longer teasing her. “It’s just a little slick.”
Without a word, she pulls into a dark doctor’s office parking lot, jerks the car out of gear, and swings her door open. I meet her halfway around the car.
“What are you doing?” I ask her, genuinely confused. The Georgia I know would suck up just about anything instead of admit defeat.
“You’re right, okay?” She passes me, running one hand along the car to keep her balance. “I hate driving in snow.”
I slide into the driver’s seat, watching Georgia from the corner of my eye. She pulls the door closed, creating a mini avalanche of fresh snow that falls from the top of the car, and yanks on her seatbelt. Once it’s buckled, she lays her head back and closes her eyes, giving me the perfect opportunity to study her. She looks exhausted.
I was installing a side panel when Georgia called yesterday. My phone was on my workbench, and I almost ignored it, figuring I could call whoever was on the other end back when I was done for the day. But for whatever reason, maybe because the holidays were near and no one feels like working when they’re close, I left my project to check it. I was so startled to see her name; I almost dropped the stupid phone.
Ten years. That’s a long time.
If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be spending Christmas with Georgia, that she’d be the one to call me, I would have laughed you out of the shop.
“I’m fine,” she sighs, sensing my gaze on
her, not bothering to open her eyes. “Just go.”
“I thought you’d be married by now.” It’s easier to talk when she’s not looking at me. The truth is, I know the girl she used to be, but this woman is a stranger—and I don’t like it. I’ll sit here all night if that’s what it takes to get her talking. I’m not going to spend the weekend tiptoeing around each other. “Every time I thought about you, I pictured you with an architect husband, in this crazy fussy house you decorated, with two kids and a cat.”
She snorts, and it’s a weary sound if I’ve ever heard one.
“Ah, that’s it. Guy problems, huh?” I say lightly, though I feared as much. Just because I pictured her with a guy, doesn’t mean I actually wanted him to exist.
“We’re not doing this, Isaac.”
“Come on, tell me about him. Vent to me—what will it hurt?”
Slowly, she turns her head to face me, and then she opens her eyes. It’s dark in the car, but the color is burned into my memory. They’re blue, bright and beautiful. And sometimes cold as all get-out, depending on her mood—or more accurately, how much I’ve ticked her off.
It’s safe to say I made her plenty mad when we were kids, but I have no desire to push her that far anymore. Rile her up a little, sure, loosen her up a bit, absolutely, but not make her angry. I’d like to think I’ve mellowed, matured even…though that might be a stretch.
“You want me to cry to you about my current relationship?” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. “That’s what you want?”
I frown, but I’m too busy mulling over her words “current relationship” to answer.
“You don’t have to fix me, Isaac—I’m not broken.”
“Why did you call me yesterday?”
Her face goes blank, and she looks out the windshield, which is already covered in a thin blanket of snow. Her silence is telling. Something big is gnawing on her, something she’s embarrassed to admit. The girl has never been one to show weaknesses, never wanted to admit she couldn’t shoulder everything herself.
But I’m patient enough to wait her out, and she knows it.
Finally, she gives up. “Rock passed this week.”
10 Ways to Survive Christmas with Your Ex: A 27 Ways Novella (27 Ways Series Book 3) Page 3