Chapter 50 The Festive-est Daddy
THE FESTIVE-EST DADDY
ROWAN
I toss another nutcracker into the red cart.
Then—what’s one more?
I head down the next aisle, scooping up handfuls of lights. Flickering ones. Colorful ones. Icicle lights. Blue. Red. All of them go in the cart. I grab a two-foot-tall red metal reindeer from the next shelf and shove that onto the bottom rack.
Around the corner, I spot some wreaths. I’m definitely going to need one for the front door. Hell, I’ll need one for each bedroom door. One for the deck door. One for the bathroom door. I count them off and load them up.
I probably need these Mr. and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shakers too. A couple more reindeer stocking hooks won’t hurt. And this snowman-shaped plate—perfect for serving pancakes to my whole family on Christmas morning.
Once the cart’s loaded up, I push it quickly through the big box store the next town over. I glance at the time. I’ve only got thirty minutes to get Mia, but that’s not a problem.
I slip into the self-checkout even though I’ve got easily more than the fifteen-item limit. I’m not supposed to do this. But then again, I’m not really supposed to slam another hockey player into the boards either. If a defenseman always played by the rules, he wouldn’t be any good.
No one stops me. Maybe because they all figure I’ve got the Christmas spirit.
And I do. I seriously fucking do. I have so much Christmas spirit it’s coming out the wazoo. Just look at my cart. It’s proof that everything is fine here. Nope. Everything is great. It’s maximum Christmas, after all.
A few minutes later, I’m heading to my car where I load it all into the back.
Would you look at that? It’s like Christmas threw up in my trunk.
I’m not only a single dad. I’m not only a super-dad. I am a festive-as-fuck dad.
When I get into the driver’s seat, I punch the satellite radio dials till I tune in to a Christmas station. And I blast me some “Run Rudolph Run” till I’m sure I’ll be pissing Christmas spirit tonight.
“Would you look at that?” I say as I hang the fifth—or sixth?—wreath.
Mia bounces. “It’s perfect.”
“Did you see the nutcracker? It’s guarding the fireplace, so when Santa comes down the chimney, he’ll be greeted by a nutcracker. What does the jolly man want more than to say hello to a nutcracker?”
Mia shoots me a skeptical look. “You know I know Santa is you.”
“Is he though? Or is he a magical guy who flies through the sky?”
And if Santa’s real, maybe he can fix the mess I’ve made of my life. But until then, I’m giving my daughter everything I haven’t given her for the last few years. She’s worth it. She’s worth everything.
When we’re done, I grab the gift from tonight’s Advent calendar. It’s not just one book.
No. Festive-as-Fuck Daddy doesn’t skimp.
I swung by the bookstore earlier too and picked up more books. Extra books. So many books. All the kids’ books. Including a new one about a griffin who defends a library, and it sounds perfect and perfectly distracting.
In fact, after Mia opens it, I say, “Why don’t I read it to you?”
“Really? I would love that,” she says, and yup.
I’m brilliant. All this maximum Christmas has kept her from asking again about Isla, inquiring what she’s up to, wondering if she’s coming over. The more I go full tilt, the less she’ll notice Isla is out of the picture.
We curl up by the fireplace, but the memories of last night flash by.
That won’t do.
But then again, I’m done retreating. I’m not gonna go hide. I’m gonna face shit head-on.
So I sit here, and I read. And I read. And I read.
Until Mia falls asleep with her head on my shoulder.
There. No questions asked, and everything is fine. Everything is just fine.
I tell myself that as I brush her hair back, kiss her forehead, and carry her to bed. Even though when I tuck her in, even with the wreaths and the nutcrackers and the damn griffin book, I’m still unhappy.
I wake to a message from Jason.
Jason: It’s not over till it’s over.
I squint at the text. Is that a threat? Does he know what happened with Isla yesterday? I sit bolt upright in bed, when another message lands.
Jason: Just remember—don’t use hockey tape to wrap them.
Oh, shit.
The competition. It’s not over yet. The final one is today. And the community center will be packed with the whole town that thinks we’re together. Which makes it the last place I want to be.
I’ll need to see Isla and be merry for the team and the town and the contest.
Which I now officially hate again.
I pull the pillow over my head. So much for ultimate Christmas. I’m the grinch again.
I should be, I don’t know, creative. Mia’s here cheering me on, after all. But beyond using old newspapers—I didn’t even know newspapers were still around—for this DIY wrapping competition hosted in the community center, I’ve got nothing.
Fortunately, Oliver is creative. “I brought all these old art journals,” he says, enthused as he shows us a treasure trove.
“They have gorgeous pictures of paintings from over the years. Here’s a Renoir, a Monet, a Toulouse-Lautrec too.
But I’m not just about dead white men. I’ve got a Frida Kahlo and a Berthe Morisot,” he adds sheepishly, “Aurora loves them. But don’t worry—I didn’t tell her what I had up my sleeve. ”
“Good,” I grunt.
And shit, I sound like Noah Lennox, the grumpy cowboy vet. I feel that way now. And really, what do I have to say to this creative, charming, friendly Brit who’s lucky enough to have the woman he wants?
I stay silent. Then I watch my team work. And I try not to stare at Isla as she coaches Aurora and Eloise on making the best DIY Christmas wrapping from Bon Appétit magazines.
I fail.
I stare.
And I wonder.
And I wish.
But when she steals a glance my way, I jerk my gaze elsewhere. Anywhere but at her.
As the guys keep wrapping, I count down the days till I can leave Evergreen Falls.
I’m thinking I’ll be out of town by the time the last bow hits the floor tomorrow.