Chapter 5
dax
“You?” I choke on the word. Not from disbelief of her abilities, but more so because she’s willing to take this on. Does she understand what I need? What the job entails exactly?
“Bad idea?” Clementine’s voice is filled with gloom. I don’t like how I’m the cause of it. “It was just a thought.”
I stand up from the couch, not prepared to have this conversation in front of the boys. I’ll unpack the reasons later.
The longer I don’t answer, the more she’s going to think I hate the idea, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I saw what she created for the Main Street Lights Spectacular. What do I have to lose if she’s offering?
I sneak into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
“Forget I said anything.”
“No. Wait. It’s not that,” I rush to assure her, doing a piss-poor job.
“I don’t want you thinking it’s a simple task and then realizing you can’t do it.
Because of the timeframe, not because I don’t think you can create something atrocious.
” At her gasp, I slap my forehead. “That’s not what I meant. ”
“I’ll permit you to try again.” Her words bring a kind of unfamiliar consolation, another statement to add to the unpacking list. Just racking them up with her today.
“Thank you.” I put the phone down on the vanity and hit the speaker button.
“I have an idea, but I’m not sure how it will transfer to a sweater nor how much time it will take to carry out.
I don’t want you to invest your time in something that might not be doable.
Your time is valuable. I have full faith in your abilities.
It’s simply the time crunch. That’s what I’m trying to say.
” There. Hopefully, she can’t poke holes in my explanation.
“Better,” she agrees, and I let go of the breath I was holding waiting for her answer. “Number one, I appreciate you valuing my time. That’s refreshing.”
Refreshing? My mouth opens, but she continues.
“Number two, how about I hear your ideas and assess if it’s something I think I can handle given the deadline? Or—”
“Or?” I interrupt.
“I sketch out some ideas I’ve come up with I’m certain can work and present them to you for your viewing and assessment.”
“You already have ideas for something I mentioned in the last ten minutes?”
“It’s the way my mind works. Constantly creating, even if most ideas never come to fruition.”
“That’s . . . amazing. And sounds busy.”
“Like you have no idea,” she laments, though there’s an undertone of pride layered in. “I can work up sketches for your perusal by tomorrow or the day after.”
“Cool. Send them my way. Email is probably best. Do you have mine?”
“Uh, no. But it’s not like I won’t see you to get it from you.” She chuckles, the jovial sound bouncing off the walls in the cramped bathroom, making it appear louder.
“Fair. So you’re having fun shopping?” I’m not sure why I ask, why the sudden urge to keep her on the phone is a need. “Got your new gloves?”
“You know what? Nope. What the heck, Clem? It’s what you came for.”
I can’t hold back my chortle. “Good thing we chatted. You would have left without them and had to go back.”
“Yeah, good thing. I’d better get them before I forget again.
We’re going to stop at the bookshop after here, if that’s okay.
I know you said you didn’t have any time constraints, but I’ve already been gone longer than I thought I would, so I wanted to be sure you’re cool with it. If not, Willa can go on her own.”
Her rambling is adorable. How have I never noticed it before?
Probably because you don’t spend a whole heck of a lot of time with her?
“Yeah, sure. Not a problem. We’re good here. Is there anything special they like for lunch?”
“Peanut butter and jelly or mac and cheese are always good choices. I’m not sure what else you can scrounge up. I tend to grocery shop on Mondays, so Sundays are a free-for-all.”
A sudden craving hits. “Do they like pizza?”
“Was Rudolph Santa’s favorite?”
I laugh again, shorter this time. “Ha, good one. I’ll order us pizza. What do you like on yours?”
“Eggplant or bacon and sausage when I’m in the mood for meat.”
Is it me or does her voice pitch higher when she says meat?
“And what’s today’s mood?”
“I’m feeling the meat today.”
“Great, meat it is. I’d better get back to the boys, and you need to get your gloves. We’ll be here when you get home. Take your time, Picassa.”
The nickname leaps off my tongue, and I don’t give her a chance to object to it. Nor do I wait for her reply, instead effectively ending the call.
Departing the bathroom, the house is quiet except for the noise from the TV. My hackles rise, realizing I’m the adult here, the one in charge, and I spent a significant amount of time hiding out in the bathroom instead of attending to their needs.
However, I find both of them in the same spots on the couch as when I answered the call.
Atlas looks at me. “Who was that?”
“Your mom. Who wants pizza for lunch?”
Jace’s hand shoots in the air. “Me. Is it lunchtime already? Mama’s been gone a long time.”
“Not yet, but I’ll have to order it. What’s your favorite pizza?”
“Plain.”
I look at Atlas. “And you?”
“Pepperoni. How about you?”
“I’m feeling bacon and sausage today.”
“That’s Mama’s favorite. I’d bet she’d be sad to miss out. Maybe you can save her a piece?” His countenance is stoic, and he shrugs a shoulder. Clementine’s in trouble with this mastermind and all his plans, his way of manipulating people. It’s surely working on me.
“Is it? Whaddya know? I’m sure we can save her a piece, though she might be gone past lunchtime.”
Atlas tilts his head at me, his calculating expression searing into me in a challenge. For what, I don’t know. “Think it’s time to try Minecraft now?”
“Sure. Let me just order the pizza.”
“I’ll allow it. Me and Jacey will set up the game.”
They both scurry from the couch over to the TV cabinet, revealing a gaming console behind a sliding door.
I’m not sure what I’m in for, but it can’t be too hard, right?
Atlas is all too happy to give me a crash course in the game. Except his patience quickly wears thin when I don’t pick up on everything he’s teaching me. Apparently, there are “rules” everyone knows even if they’re unwritten. Or something to that effect is what I think he implied.
I tell them it’s more fun to watch—which is a partial lie because there’s nothing “fun” about this game, but at least the criticizing ends—and look for ideas for an ugly sweater Clementine’s going to help me create.
She texts again in the middle of my research.
We are finally leaving Target and heading to the bookshop. All good on the home front?
Besides the fact I suck at Minecraft, yep
Ah, don’t feel bad. Definitely need a creative gene
I don’t read too much into her text message.
You play?
Before I let Atlas get into it, I had to learn it for myself. I don’t get it at all, but he’s obsessed. I limit him to like an hour a day, otherwise he’d be on it every waking hour
today notwithstanding. He can play as long as he wants. Not worth your headache of listening to him bitch at you
I can be the bad cop if needed
I’ve never been in the scenario of having to be the disciplinarian to anyone other than Shania, but how hard can it be? He’s smaller than me, and his life experience is way less, giving me a total advantage.
Let’s not let it come to that. Text you later when I’m on my way home
Okay. Have fun
A notification from the app announces the pizza will be here in about five minutes. I scour the kitchen for plates, nearly ripping one of the cabinet doors off in my search.
“Whoops.”
The game pauses, and Atlas appears by my side, staring at the hanging cabinet door.
“That’s been broken since we moved in. It’s on Mama’s list to fix, but it’s a long list.” He scratches his head, his gaze swirling back to me.
“I’ve never seen the list, but she’s always mumbling something about one. ”
“Is she now?” I assess the damage. The screw is loose, but the hinge is so rusted, no wonder it’s broken. “Pizza will be here in a few. Go wash your hands.”
Atlas stares at me. “Did Mama tell you to remind us to wash our hands?” There’s something off about his question, but I can’t tell what.
“No.”
“So how did you know it’s one of her rules?”
“Because it’s what you do before you eat. Wash hands. Everyone knows that.”
His eyes squint, and he looks like he wants to say more. Thinking better of it, he turns around and heads to the bathroom. Score one for Dax.
Making a mental note to grab a new hinge the next time I’m at the hardware store, I find a stack of paper plates and grab a few. I doubt the boys will want to wait for Clementine to get home to eat, so I turn on the oven to low and will put hers in to warm.
My phone alerts me the pizza’s on the front steps, and when I come back from grabbing it, the boys are seated at the table.
Setting the boxes down on a counter, I ask them, “What do you like to drink?”
“We drink milk or water with meals,” Atlas explains, which catches me off guard that he’s so honest about it. ‘Cause I would have thought he’d be one to push for something he’s not allowed to have. That’s what I would have done at his age.
“Great. Which do you want?”
Jace pushes from the table and returns with two empty water bottles in his hands. He hands them to Atlas, who unscrews the tops, and then Jace takes them to the fridge—the only brand-new appliance in the kitchen—and fills them with water.
Carefully so he doesn’t spill them, he carries them to the table, screws on the tops, and slides one to Atlas before sitting down, impressing the hell out of me.
I love how Clementine’s teaching them to be independent even in her absence.
I plate a piece for each of us and join them at the table.
“So, how are you liking Winterberry Junction so far?”
“It’s very snowy.”
“And cold,” Jace adds, pretending to shiver. “We can’t go anywhere without heavy coats, gloves, and hats. But the lights are pretty. Mama did a super job.” Pride oozes out of him whenever he talks about his mom. I get it. I feel that way about my mom, too.
“We get a lot of snow, so be prepared for that, but this is the best time to be here. We have a lot of Christmas activities, even a parade on Christmas Eve.”
“I sure hope Santa can find us this year. ‘Cause we moved again.” Atlas shares his opinion, his shoulders slinking.
“You can write him a letter. There’s a special mailbox on Main Street for Santa only. If you’re lucky, he’ll even write you back.”
Both sets of eyes go wide, their innocence shining through.
Their faces are exactly why I help with the town’s holiday breakfast, the parade, and any other town activities involving the kids.
To experience their joy and wonder and to keep mine alive.
I’ll have to find out who’s in charge of the Santa letters committee this year, see if they need another volunteer.
Jace bounces in his seat. “Oh, I hope I’m lucky this year. I’ve been good.” He scratches his head. “I think.” He looks at his brother. “Have I been good?”
“Yeah, mostly. You’re always listening to Mama.” He takes a bite of his pepperoni slice, waiting until he’s done chewing to continue. “Though you still cry a lot. I don’t think Santa likes crying.”
Jace peers at me. “Does Santa like crying?”
“I’m not sure, Jinglebug. Maybe it depends on the reason for the crying.” I’m in over my head, pulling the answers from my ass, and also, another nickname. Where they’re coming from, I haven’t a clue. Jace doesn’t seem fazed by it, so I’m rolling with it.
“I didn’t want to leave Daddy, but Mama said we had to, and that he couldn’t come with us to live in Aunt Willa’s new town. I’m sad ‘cause I miss him.”
I don’t know much about their dad except he’s a douche, which Willa has corroborated. I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have your dad in the picture, even if he’s horrible. Kids don’t always see their parents for who they truly are.
“I’m not sad. He wasn’t a good dad.” I almost drop my pizza slice at Atlas’s harsh words.
“He never played with us or took us places, and he was never home. And when you were a baby, he let you cry a lot when Mama was out at the store. He’d yell at you to stop, but it made you cry more.
But you don’t remember ‘cause you were a baby.”
Damn, what dreadful memories to have as a kid. I can’t remember a time my dad wasn’t around or willing to do something I asked. And if he yelled, it was only because we were misbehaving. I can’t picture him yelling at a baby to stop crying. Who does that?
“Yeah, but he’s the only dad we have,” Jace protests.
Atlas opens his mouth, but shuts it quickly, any retort dying on his tongue. After a minute, he mumbles something sounding like, “Dads are supposed to love their kids.”
My heart nearly cracks in two, being an eavesdropper in their conversation. I don’t doubt Clementine can’t act as two parents to them, but they’re still getting the short end of the stick with only one parent. Especially as boys. Growing up without a father figure won’t be easy.
No doubt Beck will step up to the plate for them, be the kind of uncle they need in their life. Like he’s done for Shania. Well, we both have.
I can do that, too. It’s the least I can do—be a pseudo-uncle.
Decision made, I tuck into my pizza, already pondering ways to help.