Chapter 12 Harrison
Harrison
“Love you,” I say, blowing a kiss at the screen.
Not that my three hellions notice.
Connor, Ollie, and Snook are too busy losing their minds in the kitchen with Delilah Donovan. Or, as she’s affectionately known worldwide, Mrs. D.
They’re making her legendary voodoo brownies. A recipe that, once assembled with ice cream, cocoa-dusted whipped cream, and slightly charred spaghetti noodles, is supposed to resemble a voodoo doll.
In theory.
In practice, the blue-ribbon recipe has gone full volcanic aftermath. Chocolate lava coats the counters. Cocoa fogs the air.
Even their faces are streaked with chocolate. Less accident, more game-day war paint.
They wanted to make welcome snacks for Gabe’s sister, and who was I to say no? Especially since I won’t be there to greet her.
My goofy kids are too busy to notice I’m still on the phone. They’re playing, grinning like they just pulled off the heist of the century. And damn it, I’d give anything to be there right now.
I clear my throat.
“I said, love yooouuu.”
Ah, yes. The wounded battle cry of the ignored parent.
“Love you, too!” they shout in unison, voices tangled in laughter as an all-out chocolate war detonates.
I don’t even have the heart to tell them to settle down and behave.
Not when Mrs. D. clearly fired the first shot.
The call abruptly dies. The screen goes black.
Silence.
Just me. And the faint echo of their laughter still ringing in the room.
FOMO hits hard and mean, settling somewhere just behind my ribs, where it tightens.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that a single parent of three couldn’t use a night off.
I just… miss them.
Which is ridiculous, right?
It’s one night.
And leaving them with Mrs. D shouldn’t twist me up like this. Delilah Donovan is family in all the ways that matter.
When Zac and my sister finally cuff themselves together on Valentine’s Day, that’ll just make it official.
After spending years oceans apart in the name of duty, honor, and country, a familiar ache tightens in my chest.
Every second without my kids reminds me exactly how much I hate it.
It’s bad enough I work at all hours. Weekends are my one non-negotiable.
I only let them go for sleepovers. Or when I don’t have a choice.
Like when my appendix tried to take me out and the morphine drip had me forgetting my own name.
Or when my trio decided “indoor baseball” was a thing.
For the record, it’s not.
Both the flatscreen and my nose can vouch for that.
I lean back, thumb tapping the edge of my phone like I might call them back.
The voice in my head gives me a sharp flick to the forehead.
Get a grip and enjoy the night off.
They’ll make you crazy soon enough.
Speaking of things that make me crazy...
Hannah-BananaHead
No frowny faces, Harrison Evans.
The kids are fine.
Suspicious, I scan the makeshift dressing room. It’s buried under so much Christmas chaos, it looks like Mrs. Claus set up a she-shed.
Me
Wow. Like I said when we were eight… and last week… stop spying on me.
Hannah-BananaHead
We’re twins.
I don’t need to spy.
Mrs. D. does my spying for me.
She said you had those “missing my munchkins” puppy dog eyes.
Was it that obvious?
Me
Those puppy dog eyes were for the brownies.
I’m fine.
Hannah-BananaHead
LIAR!
I’m totally lying. I miss my kids more than a SEAL misses his oxygen tank at forty feet underwater. Hell, I’m half tempted to ditch this place and go play with my chocolate covered brood.
Me
Shouldn’t you be, oh, I don’t know… working?
Hannah-BananaHead
It feels much less like work when I’m plotting your blackmail album…
You. A tux. All eight degrees of frowny face.
Priceless.
Why are women so vicious?
Me
It’s less of a frown and more of a scowl.
Hannah-BananaHead
My mistake.
Scowl all you want.
The bidders will love it.
That’s it. I’m tapping out.
Blackmail material is one thing.
Being paraded like a champion goldendoodle is another. And there’s only so much sisterly hazing a guy can take.
Keys, keys… I pat my pockets, then remember I didn’t drive.
Brian insisted on picking me up so I couldn’t bail early.
Ha! Joke’s on him.
Because one, have Uber, will travel.
And two, the tux I’m supposed to be wearing is still safely tucked away at home.
And since I can’t exactly get auctioned off at a fancy schmancy charity event without it, I have no choice but to leave and retrieve it.
Is it my fault if the Uber driver takes the scenic route?
My phone erupts with a K-pop demon-hunter battle cry. Snooki’s idea of the perfect ringtone for her aunt. I swear Hannah calls just to lodge it in my brain and let it haunt me for hours.
I answer. “Yes, BananaHead.”
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Her voice walks a thin line between accusation and panic.
The thing is, I’ve never been able to lie to Hannah. Not convincingly, anyway.
I puff air into my cheeks. “Just getting a little fresh air.”
It’s enough truth to get me out the door and as far away from here as I can.
I don’t say that with my outside voice. Not that I have to.
Between Hannah’s suspicious mind and the very real chance she’s tracking my phone, I’m pretty sure my minutes are numbered.
“You have to be on stage in half an hour,” she reminds me. “The vets are depending on you.”
It’s sweet how she thinks she can guilt-trip me.
Please.
As if I’d ever leave my brothers and sisters in arms hanging. A healthy Venmo to Jess’s veteran charity will happen.
Anonymously, of course.
“Roger. Half an hour. Gotta go. Love ya, sis.”
See?
No lies. No promises. Just my thumb ending the call as I reach for the doorknob.
I am not getting sold like a prize steer.
I know three back corridors that can get me out before anyone starts imagining me in nothing but an apron, delivering breakfast in bed.
That’s not romance.
That’s a hostage situation.