Chapter Eleven Lily #2
I cut him a quick sideways glance and was surprised by how exhausted he looked at the topic shift. It was human nature, to want to know more about what had happened between him and his ex. The kids didn’t talk about her much, and I didn’t want to pry.
That was a lie. I totally did.
The important part was that I had restraint and, like a mature adult, I managed to use it when it mattered. Sort of.
As oldest, Bryce went first. The gift was meticulously wrapped, shiny silver paper and a black ribbon crisscrossing over the top. He took his time opening it at the edges, until Maggie groaned.
“You’re so slow. Just rip it.”
“I don’t like ripping it,” he argued. “Rip your own.”
Inside the box was a button-down dress shirt with a designer pattern, the brand expensive enough that my eyebrows lifted of their own volition. That shirt probably cost five hundred dollars.
Bryce put on a brave face, lifting it up out of the box. The pattern was a large repeat of the brand logo. I rolled my lips between my teeth, imagining Bryce, the kid who always wore sports T-shirts and jerseys and athletic pants, throwing that on before school.
He winced when the shirt was fully exposed. “It’s . . . nice.”
Maggie fell over in helpless giggles. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”
Barrett rubbed the edge of his jaw, eyeing the shirt. “Maggie, enough. Maybe he likes it.”
“I really don’t,” Bryce said under his breath. Then he set aside the shirt and saw a five-hundred-dollar bill on the bottom of the box. “Whoa. I’m rich.”
Next to me, Barrett let out a barely contained sigh. “I’ll put that in your bank account, bud. We’re not going to keep that much cash for your wallet.”
“Aw, why not?” At the look his dad gave him, Bryce sighed. “Fine. It can go in the bank.”
“You can still buy something. It’s your money, but we just want to make sure we take care of it.”
Bryce perked up. “Whatever I want?”
“Within reason. You come up with a list, and we’ll talk it over.”
That seemed to appease him.
Neither of the kids commented on the lack of card with the present, so maybe they were used to it. But I noticed, and it plucked at some sad little chord inside me that I preferred to stay . . . unplucked.
It was Maggie’s turn next, and as she started tearing into the wrapping paper, I said, “Just to temper your expectations, I did not slip five hundred bucks in there.”
She breathed out a short laugh, and even though I could feel the weight of Barrett’s gaze on the side of my face, I ignored it. Maggie carefully opened the envelope attached to the top of the box, her eyes skimming the card.
The moment awareness hit, I saw it in the widening of her eyes, her mouth going slack. The card was carefully set aside, and then she took a deep breath and ripped off the final piece of paper covering the label.
Maggie squealed when she saw the picture on the side.
“No way,” she breathed. “It’s yellow?”
“How else are we going to know it’s yours?”
Barrett leaned forward as his daughter unearthed her present. Carefully, she pulled out the first layer of Styrofoam until the pale yellow of the mixer was visible.
“You got me a real baking mixer?” she said, eyes filling immediately. She dashed at her cheeks when tears spilled over, and I felt a pinch of panic in my chest that I’d overstepped.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
She shook her head furiously. “You didn’t.”
Then she launched herself into my lap, and for a stunned second, I looked helplessly over at Barrett as I rubbed his daughter’s back.
He stared down at the mixer, his brow furrowed.
My hands felt tingly. Bad tingly. Really bad tingly—anxious what the fuck did I do tingles, and a few deep breaths did not make them disappear right away.
Maggie sniffed and pulled back, color high in her cheeks. “I love it, thank you,” she whispered.
My heart was in my throat when I answered. “You’re welcome. It’s going to take practice to figure out how to use it. You’ll make a few messes, but that’s why it’s good to have your own. You get the feel for it.”
She nodded, immediately pulling out the different hooks and attachments. “Will you show me what these do?”
“If your dad’s okay with it,” I said, not willing to look over at him again.
“Daddy, can she? Maybe after Christmas?”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered. His voice—that deep, goose bump–inducing timbre—gave nothing away. “It’s time for bed, kids.”
They groaned, but with a simple look from Barrett, they stopped. Which . . . highly impressive, if you think about it.
I stood, feeling a little self-conscious that I was still present for the whole “bedtime routine” part of the night. The day had been so much easier than I’d thought it would be, and in some ways, a lot fucking harder.
It was being part of someone else’s family traditions that had the inevitable effect of making you think about your own. Or lack thereof. Of the consequences of moving around so much that you didn’t have time to create traditions somewhere.
My only tradition—for any holiday, any part of the calendar—was movement.
There was an emptiness present in my life that was filled by theirs, especially in moments like this. Watching movies and playing games and eating cookies. Yes, I could do some of those things on my own, but wasn’t sharing it with someone else what made it special?
I wasn’t sure there was a clear answer. If that empty space didn’t bother me, then it wasn’t wrong. Just like forcing yourself to be part of someone’s traditions wasn’t automatically right. But I hadn’t been forced into being here.
I’d chosen it. And after giving the kids a hug, wishing them a Merry Christmas, thanking Maggie for the invite, and then watching Barrett walk them down the hallway and up the stairs, I knew I would’ve chosen it again.
I thought of my bags and suitcases, tucked away in a closet at Scott and Patty’s, and the weariness of having to fill them again made my entire body feel heavy. Tired. Could I do this forever?
I wasn’t sure anymore. And for so damn long, it was all I’d wanted.
Nervous energy had me pacing into the kitchen, unable to leave the mess I’d helped create. I moved quickly, stacking cookies into a plastic container and then soaping up a washcloth to wipe down the island. There was still a bit of flour on the floor, but I was able to get that wiped up too.
The cookie sheets, washed and dripping, went onto the drying rack to the right of the sink, and I searched through a few drawers until I found clean dish towels so that I could dry and put them away.
There were still muffled noises from upstairs, so I knew I had time to sneak out before Barrett made his way downstairs.
My mind conjured the image before I could stop it.
Running into him in a dark kitchen, without the kids to distract us.
My stomach pitched with nerves, a persistent fluttering behind my ribs that really pissed me off.
That was the last thing I fucking needed.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to bolt, and I dug my proverbial heels in when the question of why poked at my subconscious.
Everything about him—them, really—had me feeling a little off-kilter.
Did he hate me? I wasn’t sure anymore. On my end, at least, there’d been no flirty energy, because honestly I did not need those kids picking up on any subtext.
Knowing Maggie, she’d Parent Trap the shit out of us.
Find some clever way to lock us in the house together for a weekend, hoping I’d emerge with a ring on my finger and her dad hopelessly in love with me.
I snorted, drying the last cookie sheet and tucking it away in the correct cupboard. The counter was clean again; no dishes remained in the sink after I’d loaded everything into the dishwasher. With a quick exhale, I folded the towel and hung it neatly over the handle of the oven door.
My bag was empty save for my unused cookie cutters, and when I slung the handle over my shoulder, I paused before leaving the kitchen, looking back at their tree.
A Christmas Story was playing on TV again, and when Ralphie opened his Red Ryder BB gun, his face reminded me of Maggie seeing her mixer.
It was too much, I scolded myself. The present went too far for a temporary babysitter.
A temporary neighbor. Bryce would love his gift too; I’d found a vintage jersey of a British football team he’d told me he loved.
But I couldn’t deny that Maggie’s gift was different, that I’d picked it out for her knowing exactly how much it would mean.
And that maybe, maybe, a small part of me would be remembered after I was gone.
It was the first time that particular thought was allowed to take root in my head.
After a decade of movement, a decade of outrunning my own shit, I was thinking about what would be left behind.
Selfishness took many forms, and that withered part of me that missed companionship blossomed under the self-centered thought that maybe, just maybe, someone would miss me when I was gone.
Maybe Maggie and I could maintain a friendship . . .
Maybe this time, I could keep in touch with someone. I could find postcards at a new location and have a place to mail them. Write down more than just my favorite things and hide them in a book. I could share a piece of my life with someone.
My hands were trembling, my head down as I started to walk away.
Leave. Leave now. You say you don’t want to get caught, but you are a cookie-eating, Scrabble-winning liar, Lily Marie Townsend.
I blew out a slow breath and paused, closing my eyes while I tried desperately to ignore the truth of that while it blared in my head. When my eyes opened, I found myself face-to-face with Barrett in the arched entrance to the room.
“Oh,” I said on a shocked exhale, my heart banging around inside my chest. “How are you so fucking quiet when you walk around?”
His eyes moved over my face. “Been holding on to that swear word all night, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, mouth softening. A little. “I suppose this means our truce is over.”
I cleared my throat. “I suppose.”
Barrett didn’t move away. Neither did I.
Then he moved, just half a step. Closer, though, not farther away.
The sudden nearness of him had me jumpy, my hands unable to fidget properly because they were empty, and I didn’t think he’d appreciate me using his soft-looking sweatshirt as an outlet for my repressed sexual energy.
Besides, what was I going to do? Yank on the front until he was two inches away? No thanks.
Knowing my luck, he smelled even better the closer he got; then what would happen? Chaos. Anarchy. Probably some really great sex, if he’d let himself relax long enough to break a few rules.
My skin tightened at the thought, adding to the unrelenting noise in my head that I couldn’t get a handle on. It would be good. There was no doubt in my mind that it would be incredible.
Biting kisses. The kind that felt like a fight.
Torn clothes. Slow wouldn’t happen, not between us. It wouldn’t be reluctant or hesitant.
Knocked-over furniture. Held up by walls and tables because moving to a bed would take too long, would allow for second-guessing and more rational heads to prevail.
Sex that allowed anger to hold the reins. Attraction that pissed both of us off, because I was quite sure neither of us wanted to be attracted to the other, but it was there, had been there from the moment I slammed the door in his face, and we both fucking knew it.
This was something I could leave behind, too, a different sort of legacy, comprised of dirty words and greedy hands and Barrett’s undoing in a way that felt like another win.
Even thinking it caused a rapid-fire deterioration of my verbal filter, which had been firmly in place after the regrettable daddy comment.
There were no kids watching now, and yes, there was a teensy little devil on my shoulder—wearing a Santa hat and looking a little bit like one of the elves from the movie—and that little sucker was begging to be heard.
To see if Barrett felt even an iota of the leashed energy I had coursing through my veins.
Proximity to him, it seemed, was the impetus for all my worst impulses to come out to play.
“Lily—” He paused, seemingly searching for words. Then he looked up. “Oh.”
“What?” Then I looked up, too, my heart lodging itself right in my fucking throat. “Oh.”
Hanging directly above us, in an inconspicuous little bundle of bad decisions and inevitable regret, was mistletoe. My lips curled in a pleased smile.
Perfect.