Chapter 7
Harrison
The second I step inside, I call the kids.
It rings once. Twice.
Then, voicemail. “Hey, Connor. I was just calling to—”
Another call cuts in.
Connor.
I answer.
“Hey, Dad. Sorry, we were just wrapping something up.”
Wrapping something up? Since when did my teenager become a junior executive?
Or maybe he’s just being vague.
Then it hits me.
They were talking to Pix.
And, like an idiot, I just cut their call short.
They talk to her all the time. Twice a day, at least. I know because a few nights ago I heard Connor on the phone and figured it was a girl.
Curiosity got the better of me, so I hovered outside his door.
It was a girl.
My girl.
And I’m not sure what bothers me more. That I haven’t had the guts to call her myself… or that my kids feel like they have to hide the fact that they do.
The last time I loved a woman this hard, the universe buried her.
And some broken part of me still believes if I hear Pix say goodbye out loud… I won’t survive it.
“What’s up?” Connor asks.
“Just checking when you’re coming home,” I say, shifting gears.
So I can hide the gifts in peace.
Yes, there are already plenty of gifts under the tree, but two-thirds of my offspring still believe in Old Saint Nick.
So Operation Sleigh Ride is still very much a go.
“Almost out the door,” Mark hollers in the background.
Shit.
He thinks I called to rush them home.
“No rush,” I blurt.
Jesus, slow your roll.
“See you in a bit,” Connor promises.
With the way Mark drives, “a bit” could mean five minutes.
Gah! Why did we clear those back roads between our houses?
The call disconnects, and I bolt for my bedroom, ready to panic-dump everything in the closet.
Ever since Pix gave them that new gaming system, hide-and-seek lost its appeal.
I yank the door open—
—and stop cold.
A life-sized unicorn stares back at me.
Soft pink mane. A tail that looks like it belongs on a parade float. Stuffed and roughly the size of a mini fridge.
I stare at it.
It stares back.
What the—
Hannah’s words come back to me.
…we were hiding some gifts for the kids in your house. And they’re not from us.
The bookbag looped around its neck gives it away immediately.
I’m pretty sure I know exactly who this is from.
Still… I check.
I snatch the bag and dig through it.
Inside are three books.
Three of the most anticipated releases of next year. Not even in stores yet.
I know because Snooki’s already made me promise to take her the second they drop at our local book store.
A three-hour line I was not looking forward to.
And for each book, a matching handmade Velcro patch. The kind Snooki now insists she can’t read without.
Pink Unicorn Found a Horn has a tiny gold French horn.
For Pink Unicorn Ate My Popcorn, a red-and-white tub, overflowing.
And finally, with A Forever Home for Unicorn, a house that looks suspiciously like ours.
I glance up.
The unicorn returns a blank stare.
“I guess we’re keeping you,” I mutter. “Forever.”
The word sits there a second longer than it should.
Why can’t this be Pix’s forever home?
I reach for that last book and crack it open.
A note slips loose from the pages.
Princess Snooki Pie,
Merry Christmas.
All my love,
Ava
Something sharp and unwelcome tightens in my chest.
The more it builds, the faster I shove it aside and focus on the task at hand.
I try pushing jumbo unicorn aside.
It doesn’t budge.
And then I see why.
To her left, an electric scooter.
I don’t even need the note. It’s Ollie’s. The exact one he’s been talking about for months.
It’s also the exact one I have hidden under my bed.
Great.
Good thing I kept the receipt.
This time, I try shoving the pink monstrosity to the right.
Which is blocked by a vintage Spider-Man pinball machine. Full-size. Collectible.
And I know Connor’s going to lose his mind.
The tightness in my chest eases, just a little.
I drag in a breath, let it out slow.
I should call Pix.
At least say thank you. It’s the least I can do.
Right?
My phone’s in my hand before I finish the thought, thumb already postured over her number—
Bang!
The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the hall.
Crap.
They can’t see the presents from Pix.
Without thinking, I shove my phone in my pocket and yank the closet door shut.
And how many times have I told them not to slam that door?
“Dad?” Ollie calls.
I don’t answer. I’m too busy trying to find a place to hide a dozen gift bags.
“Where is he?” Snooki calls, her light little footsteps closing in.
“One minute!” I holler, grabbing the bags and not so delicately dumping them into the shower.
I rush out of the bathroom just as my pint-sized tornado barrels into me.
“What’re you doing?” she asks, already trying to peek past me.
I block her view, hands on my hips. “What does it look like? Using the bathroom.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Then why didn’t you flush?”
Observant as always.
“I… forgot.”
I duck back in, shut the door, flush the very unused toilet, and step out again, ready to shoo her along.
She squints up at me. “Did you wash your hands?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Who’s the parent here?
“Doing it now.”
I slip back inside and wash my hands. Thoroughly, because apparently I’m being audited.
When I open the door again, she’s still there, eyes wide, trying to peek around me.
Nice try.
I scoop her up, swing her overhead as I move us to the hall. “Hey, trouble.”
I nuzzle in, steal a quick bite at her neck, and she dissolves into giggles as I pivot us away, kicking the door shut behind me.
She laughs all the way down the hall.
Connor and Ollie are already in the living room, arms loaded with bags of food.
Jess never sends anyone home empty-handed.
It’s become a tradition whenever there’s a visit to Mark and Jess’s. Or Zac and Hannah’s. Or Mrs. D.’s.
The Evans family stays well fed.
And hey, a night where no one’s having a meltdown over what I made for dinner? I’ll take it.
Ollie beelines for the kitchen. “Connor had to clean reindeer poop!” he announces.
I keep my face carefully neutral.
“Dad,” Snooki says in hushed tones, “they poop bigger than me.”
“Bigger than your poop,” I ask, tapping her nose, “or bigger than you?”
“Both.”
I nod, gravely. “That’s… impressive.”
I nod and clap Connor’s shoulder. “Good work, man.”
Connor stands a little taller. “Thanks, Dad.”
I’m just hoping he didn’t track any souvenirs in on his shoes.
Considering they’re still very much on his feet.
He trails to the kitchen as Mark steps in, carrying another enormous container.
“How much do you think we eat?” I ask, laughing.
“This isn’t for you.”
“Huh?”
I pop the lid and stare down at a bunch of round, oat-covered… things.
“What is this?”
“Reindeer food,” he says, grinning like he’s proud of it. “Snooki wanted to make sure they have enough energy. Since they’ll be pulling an all-nighter.”
“Ah.” I nod, dead serious. “Can’t have underfed reindeer on Christmas Eve.”
“If they get tired, they might not visit Princess Luna.”
I swallow back the sudden ache, shifting Snooki higher on my hip. “We can’t have that.”
“She’s eight million miles away,” she explains, hands wide.
It definitely feels that way.
“The reindeer will be very grateful,” I say, pressing a kiss to her head before setting her down. “Go get cleaned up. Tell your brothers dinner in twenty.”
She takes off, hollering at the top of her lungs, “Dinner in twenty!”
I shake my head. “I could’ve done that.”
Mark’s smile stretches wider.
I know that look.
Not the big, bad CEO of a global intel empire look.
Not the brotherly I get it look.
No. This is the I’m about to get all up in your business look.
And I’m already rolling my eyes.
I grab the container from his hands and head for the kitchen. “What?”
“I heard you might have a… big conversation at dinner.” His mouth quirks.
Seriously? “Is there a group chat I’m not in?”
“Hannah told Jess. And what Jess knows, I know. And vice versa.”
“Really? Does she also know you’re color-blind?” I gesture at his red-and-green flannel print shirt.
He glances down, offended. “Jess picked this.”
I shake my head. “Tragic.”
We start unloading the bags, Mark calling it out as he goes.
“Honey-glazed ham, sliced thick. Roasted turkey. Mashed potatoes. Glazed carrots. Green beans with bacon. Yams. Stuffing. Dinner rolls. And dessert.”
Which he immediately tucks into the fridge.
“There’s enough here to feed Connor’s entire school,” I say. I hold up the extra container. “And their reindeer.”
I’m not entirely sure what to do with that container, so I set it aside and grab some dinner plates.
He pops the tops on two beers and hands one to me.
“Are you going to see her?” he asks.
I shut the cabinet a little harder than necessary. “Why is everyone asking me that?”
“Because you’ve been moping around for weeks.”
“I don’t mope,” I mutter, taking a sip.
His brow lifts high.
I exhale, dragging a hand over my jaw.
“Fine. Maybe I have. But it’s not like I can just go see her right now.”
“Why not?”
Why not? Is he serious? “Oh, I don’t know. A little thing called Christmas Eve.”
He takes a slow sip of his beer, and leans back against the counter. “If the kids weren’t in the equation, what would you do?”
I shoot him a glare. “They are in the equation.”
“Work with me.” He points at my chest. “If nothing else mattered… what do you want?”
I let out a breath.
“To see my girl.”
There.
I said it.
With my outside voice.
“Then go see her, Harrison.”
“It’s not that easy.” I shake my head. “There are no flights to California on Christmas Eve. And… maybe that’s for the best.”
That stupid grin of his returns in spades. “So you looked.”
God, he’s a butthead.
“Yes,” I mutter. “In a moment of weakness and questionable sanity… I looked.”
“Welp, you’re in luck.” He tosses his bottle cap in the trash. “I have a jet. Remember?”
“Technically, you have six,” I say, counting them off on my fingers. “Two transatlantic. Four transcontinental. I helped you negotiate that fleet contract. How could I forget?”
“Then the way I see it…” He points his beer at me. “I’ve got six ways to get you there.”
He lifts one finger, like he’s about to make a profound point.
“And you’ve only got one ass.”
I blink at him.
“If you ask me,” he goes on, taking a sip, “you’ve got everything you need.”
“Wasn’t planning on asking,” I mutter.
He sets his beer down. “All I’m saying is…” He blows out a slow breath. “Maybe, for once, you and Ava get what you want for Christmas.”
Bzzz.
My phone breaks the silence.
Thank God.
I pull it from my pocket, glance down, then turn it facedown on the counter.
Mark, the nosiest man alive, notices. “Who’s that?”
“Nobody.” I drain the rest of my beer.
He grabs the phone and checks for himself, then lets out a low whistle. “For the record, Mr. Henry Bloom, Esquire, is not a nobody. He’s the most expensive attorney in Manhattan.” He wags the phone at me. “What does he want?”
“For all I know?” I shrug. “To serve me with divorce papers.”
Mark frowns. “He said that?”
I rub the back of my neck. “No. But he’s called every day for a week. Why else would he call?”
He blinks at me. “So that’s the plan?” he asks. “Just… avoid Henry?” A beat. “And your wife?”
I stare at the label on my empty bottle. “What if she wants a divorce?”
“Tell me,” he says, “is jumping to conclusions a pastime, or are you thinking of going pro?”
I don’t answer.
Mark pulls out his phone, already dialing.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure the pilot’s on standby first thing tomorrow. Just in case.”
“In case?”
“You can’t keep your head buried up your butt forever.”
I can on Christmas Eve.