Chapter 9
BELLA
“Mom! MOOOOMMM!”
I come tearing down the stairs running toward his voice. “Isaac? Where are you?”
“In here! You have to see this!”
Turning the corner, I come face-to-face with my thirteen-year-old who, in the past few days, has magically eclipsed me by at least an inch in height. “What is it?” I ask, clutching my chest, willing my heart to stop racing. “With the way you were yelling, I thought it was an emergency.”
He steps back, ushering me into the bathroom by grabbing my shoulders and moving me directly in front of the toilet.
The putrid smell assaults my nostrils first. But it’s what I see when I look down that has me nearly about to dry heave. “Oh my God. Oh God. Is that your turd?”
I am going to throw up.
When I turn away—because how the fuck can I look at that baby arm trying to claw its way out of the toilet?—I gape at him in wonder. How did this skinny little body make that?
“It was a one-wiper,” he says proudly.
I am done. Done with the conversation. But against my better judgement, I continue to engage him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know. A one-wiper. It’s when you only have to wipe once and the toilet paper is clean.
Isn’t it funny how it takes two wipes to know it’s a one-wipe turd, but it takes one wipe to know you’re going to go through a whole roll just to get clean?
I hate those ones when it feels like you’re wiping a marker. ”
I stare at him dumbfounded, clamping my mouth shut so no more of this stench gets inside. “Are you seriously referencing Parks and Rec right now?”
“It’s a classic. Wipe, a little bit of poop. Another wipe, still a little bit of poop. Wipe again, a little bit more poop. You keep wiping and wiping like you’re swiping at a marker. You know.”
I speak out of the side of my mouth so I can’t taste the smell of his bowels still permeating the bathroom.
“I wish I didn’t know what you were talking about.
But I do know that Santa will not step foot in this house if you keep making smells like that.
Now move. I’m not going to continue standing in this outhouse that you’re trapping me in and listen to you give a dissertation on wiping your ass. ”
“I bet Dad would think it’s cool. I mean, the head is poking out of the water.”
I push my way past him, into the hall, moving into the kitchen with him hot on my heels. I turn around and pull him into a hug.
“You know, you have this annoying way of calling me an asshole, and I’m not sure I like it.”
“Wasn’t trying to,” he says, trying to hide his emotions, but I can hear it in his tone and feel it in the single hitch of breath he lets out.
We stand there for several seconds as he lets me hug him. I can’t remember the last time this kid let me hug him this long, but I can guarantee he wasn’t almost my height, and his little body was a lot squishier and not so gangly.
“I don’t want to go to Dad’s for Christmas,” he mumbles as he pulls out of the hug and stalks over to the cupboard.
“Oh?” I try to play it cool, but inside my heart is dancing like that meme of Oscar from The Office.
“Yeah. I mean, Aspen sounds cool, but I kinda wanna stick around here.”
I deflate a little, realizing he’s probably just wanting to hang out with his friends.
“I’m working on this gift for Avery,” he admits quietly.
“You are? What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.” He shoves a handful of pretzels in his mouth, and I know he’s done sharing, and I watch him saunter up the stairs to his room. When I walk by the bathroom, I look in and notice his turd poking out of the water.
“You didn’t flush!” I scream after him, and he nearly falls down the stairs, grabbing the banister as he slides on his socks and darts into the bathroom to flush it.
“Sorry, my friends are waiting for me, and I’m AFK right now.”
I don’t understand half of the shit that comes out of his mouth lately, but when I look over at the toilet, I see the water slowly rising and realize it’s clogged right as the doorbell rings.
Fuck my life.
“Come in!”
“Bella? We’re still meeting today, right?”
“Hardy! I forgot you were coming. Don’t come in here!”
His large body fills the doorframe, and I turn to look at him, plunger in my hand, ready to attack the beast.
“Holy shit, what is that smell?” he asks.
“It wasn’t me. I need you to know it wasn’t me. I mean, I know everyone poops and poop smells, but these odors didn’t come from my body. Actually, that’s not true. They came from the human that came from my body, so I guess in a roundabout way, they did come from my body.”
“I’m an EMT and a firefighter, Bella. Shit doesn’t scare me. A turd on fire wouldn’t scare me.”
He peeks over my shoulder and glimpses the shit monster, and his eyes go wide.
“Okay, that thing is fucking scary. That came out of Isaac?”
I nod, trying to hold my breath so I don’t have to inhale the fumes.
“Gimme that. I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you get set up with the Santa stuff?”
Blowing out the breath I was literally holding, I don’t give him a chance to change his mind as I thrust the plunger at him and head to the kitchen to wash my hands, proud of the fact that I let someone help me instead of insisting I could do everything myself.
Even when I was married, hyper-independence was my go-to coping mechanism.
It got me through the grief of losing my mom, and it was a hard habit to break.
After he washes his hands, we settle in at the kitchen table.
“I’ve come up with a detailed list of all the things we’ll need to do to collect the donations, inventory and price items, all the way down to when we can get into the gym to set everything up.
Since Thanksgiving is next week, it doesn’t give us a lot of time to find volunteers to help with setup, take down, wrapping gifts, and running the shop.
Once we get back from Thanksgiving, we’ll have about a week and a half to get everything done.
But I think we can do it,” I say. I can feel the small line forming between my brows as the stress of all this overwhelms me.
But I’m going to prove that I’m not the fuckup Amber thinks I am. She may not believe in me, but I do.
“The guys at the firehouse can help,” Hardy offers.
The look on his face is so earnest, so sincere that it takes my breath away as it hits me. For the first time in my life, I want someone’s help. And not just that, I want his help. The way he’s been showing up for me and Isaac makes me believe that he is someone we can count on.
“That would be great!” I nod as I flip through the papers, making calculations in my head. “This could totally work.”
“What about the other thing?” he asks timidly.
“Are we still talking about you needing to see Righty? I can whip them both out now if you ask nicely.”
“Jesus.” He drops his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m not going to take advantage of that, but I was talking about the private coaching for the Santa stuff.”
“I know, but it’s more fun to fuck with you. I actually have a list planned out for that too, and it all starts with the tree. You’ve put one up already, right?”
His blank stare is almost comical.
“Hardy Williams. This is unacceptable. I’m going to need you to stay after class and receive your punishment.”
The way his eyebrows jump, nearly meeting his hairline, is almost better than the flush on the tips of his ears.
I love getting a reaction out of this man.
After hearing his heartbreaking confession the other night, I’m determined to bring him as much laughter as I can.
Plus, it’s hilariously sexy watching this man try to hide the bulge in his pants.
That trouser snake is not small, and I mentally pat myself on the back every time I see him adjust himself.
“Seriously, though, Hardy, you need a tree. Preferably a real one, and you better hurry because the good ones get snatched up before Thanksgiving.”
“I am not putting a live tree in my house. That’s a fire hazard.”
“That’s fair. What about a fake one? You can get one that’s pre-lit, so you don’t have to fool with all the lights.”
“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. We had one like that, but the lights burned out and it was too close to Christmas to get another one. It was another thing I ruined last year.”
“But you tried, and that’s what matters. Avery sees that.”
He offers me a small smile, scratching the back of his neck. I notice he does this when he feels self-conscious.
“What’s the ornament situation?”
“Uh, we have them?”
“Is that a question?”
“No, we definitely have them,” he insists.
“Do you have any traditions with them? Special ones? Sentimental ones? Do you make new ones to add to the tree? Does Santa bring you new ones and hide them?”
I’ve lost him. The look on his face tells me that not only does he have no idea what I’m talking about, but I’ve overwhelmed him with things he’s never considered.
“It’s okay. I’ll come to your place on Saturday and we’ll get everything sorted. Your job is to buy a tree before then and gather all the ornaments you have. I’ll do some recon with Avery to see what she remembers. Sound like a plan?”
He nods, the relief on his face evident. “Thank you.”