Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was trying my absolute best not to let that moment in my car three days ago affect Christmas dinner. I was basically pretending it never happened. Like I didn’t shoot Deacon down and tell him to stop looking at me, talking to me, and flirting with me.
I drove home, cursing myself out for handling things the way I did.
Yet, no matter how I tackled it, I couldn’t come up with a different way—a way I should have dealt with it better. I was as gentle with him as possible. I didn’t want to hurt him. However, I knew I did. The pain in his eyes gutted me to the bone.
It was beyond the point now where his attraction to me was all in my head.
Even though he didn’t actually confirm his feelings, I knew they were there.
He didn’t deny them either. I gave him every opportunity to be like, “Sorry, Greta, if I gave you the wrong impression, but I don’t see you that way. ” He didn’t, though.
My bruised divorcee ego liked the attention, but my smarter mom-brain knew better.
She knew that this was a slippery slope and, ultimately, Kira would be the one to get hurt.
I needed to stop thinking with my vagina.
I’d already connected with a few men on the dating app Jeanie set up for me, and so far, the conversations were going well.
I set my age preference as thirty-two to forty-five.
That was reasonable, right? Not too much younger than me, and not old enough to be my dad.
I wasn’t ready to go on any dates yet, but the flirtatious chatting was nice.
Things had been going smoothly since Deacon arrived. Light and friendly banter, with Kira as a safe buffer in the middle. But then I went and opened my damn mouth regarding him driving—or more accurately, not driving home—in this weather. The look in his eyes said it all.
It would be foolish to send him home in this weather; it really would.
But we were also in a two-bedroom townhouse.
He could sleep on the couch, but even upstairs in my bedroom, I’d know he was just a closed door away, probably sleeping in boxer shorts with his eight-pack abs, zero percent body fat, and winning personality.
Thankfully, Kira—still none the wiser about what was going on in the surrounding air—saved the awkward moment, and made it all the more awkward. “We have a couch Coach Deacon can sleep on. And I just got a new toothbrush from the dentist I haven’t opened yet that he can have.”
Deacon’s and my eyes met, but neither of us said anything.
“Let’s just get through dinner first, sugarplum,” I said, laying out the turkey meat on the platter. “Will you poke a fork into the Brussels sprouts, please? I think they’re done.”
Kira nodded and did as I asked. “They’re done,” she said.
“Okay. Pull them out, cover them with foil and move them to a heat pad. Deacon, do your potatoes need to be warmed up?”
“Couldn’t hurt to plunk them in the oven for a few minutes to warm them,” he replied.
Kira did that while I cleaned my hands and the knife, then covered the uncarved half of the turkey.
“You know, one thing I’ll never understand is on television and in movies how they bring the entire, massive, uncarved turkey to the table,” Deacon started.
“I don’t know anybody who does that. Everyone I know, every Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner I’ve been to, the turkey is carved in the kitchen, then the platter of meat is brought to the table. ”
He understood the assignment and was actively trying to soften the tension that had strung itself tight in the room a moment ago.
I smiled at him. “I have thought the same thing several times. Kira and I were even talking about that when we watched a Christmas movie last night, how they brought the massive bird, all brown and beautiful, to the table.”
“Mom was like, ‘That’s way too messy of a job to do there. What game are they playing?’”
Chuckling, I removed the foil from the stuffing and scooped half of it from the casserole dish into a bowl. “I swear sometimes that television and movies make a point of making things as unrealistic as possible, just to get people talking.”
“You might be on to something,” he mused, taking the bowl of stuffing from my hand—our fingers only brushing for a moment—and bringing it over to the table. “My mom constantly fusses about how unrealistic they make pregnancy and childbirth on television.”
I nodded emphatically. “Yup. Babies come out looking three months old and clean as a whistle.” I glanced at Kira. “Your face was smooshed as hell, and you were covered in gunk.”
“Lovely,” Kira said blandly, taking the green bean casserole over to the table.
“Still thought you were the most beautiful baby alive, but you weren’t clean by any means.”
How the hell did we segue into talking about babies and birth? Did I do that? Why? Why did I do that?
Luckily, Deacon didn’t look too uncomfortable.
He accepted the pan of roasted yams from Kira and took it to the table.
I moved all the Brussels sprouts to a smaller bowl, and last but not least, the mashed potatoes came out of the oven.
The cast-iron pot was hot, so I had to carry it with two hands in oven mitts over to the table, plunking it on a hot pad.
“All right, let’s wash up, then we can eat,” I said, catching myself from calling them both kiddos before even half a syllable was uttered.
I ditched the apron, so now Kira and I really were twins in our matching pajama pants, socks, slippers, and black fuzzy sweaters.
I wasn’t sure she’d want to match her mom.
Twelve-year-olds were so hard to predict.
But she seemed tickled pink when she opened up her matching outfit to mine this morning, and promptly changed into it right there in the living room.
“This all looks amazing, Greta,” Deacon said, taking a seat across from me. “Thank you again for inviting me.” He scrunched his nose. “Or I guess … letting Jeanie talk you into hosting me.”
“Jeanie’s a pushy one, that’s for sure. But her heart’s in the right place.” I took a sip of my wine and moaned. “Oh, that’s good.”
“It was the zealous swirling,” he teased. “Had to be.”
My lips twitched against the rim of my glass as I took another sip. “Dig in, everyone. Don’t let it get cold.”
We filled our plates and ate our fill until nobody could take another bite.
“I didn’t bake pies,” I said. “I hope you weren’t pining for pie.”
“I can’t even think about pie without throwing up a little in my mouth,” Kira said. “I’m so full.”
“There are gingerbread cookies in the tin on the counter, but that’s all I have in the way of dessert, I’m afraid.”
Deacon shook his head. “Honestly, I’m not here for the cookies. Stuffing will always be my first choice. And yours is delicious.”
“Thank you.” I probably had three or four more bites left on my plate, but I couldn’t fathom finishing them. Besides, didn’t a lady always leave something on her plate?
Deacon stood up and started clearing the table.
“Oh, leave that,” I said. “You’re the guest. I don’t expect you to clear the table.”
“You cooked the entire meal. Just relax.” He set a few bowls on the counter, then came back for his and Kira’s plates. “Are you finished?” he asked me, his hand covering next to my plate.
I nodded, unable to argue with him. The turkey yawns were fast-approaching. “I am. Thank you.” I took another sip of my wine and closed my eyes.
Kira’s father had yet to send a gift, text, or call. It was as if his daughter didn’t even exist, let alone matter to him anymore. Was he seriously punishing her for her text message to him? The one where I called him out and said that he didn’t deserve respect since he didn’t respect her?
A small part of me thought he’d do some stupid, grandiose gesture like fly up and knock on our door unexpectedly.
That was a very Damien thing to do. Make it all about him while pretending it was all about someone else.
So the snowstorm eased that tendril of fear that he might do that, because he was scared shitless of flying in bad weather, so he’d never step foot on a plane or drive in this.
Kira got up from the table, and she and Deacon finished putting the dishes away, and moving the leftovers to smaller containers for the fridge. “Do you want me to finish carving the turkey?” he asked, pulling me from my tryptophan coma.
I popped open my eyes and spun around to face him, marveling at the tidy kitchen. “No, no, you don’t have to do that. I’m sorry. I must have dozed off for a second.”
“You were full on snoring, Mom,” Kira said with a giggle.
“I don’t snore.”
Deacon grinned.
“Sure,” was all my child said.
“I don’t mind carving it,” Deacon replied. “I’ve carved a few turkeys in my day. Been told they weren’t hack-jobs, either.”
I was very comfortable in my seat. The turkey and wine had created a cocktail of drowsiness I wasn’t altogether hating. So I nodded and smiled. “If you want to.” Then, I closed my eyes again.
When I woke up, the kitchen was completely clean, the turkey was carved and put away, and the sound of Deacon and Kira in the living room laughing pulled me out of my chair and down the hallway to the living room.
They had the movie Elf on in the background while they played a game of cribbage.
I didn’t even know Kira knew how to play cribbage.
“Hey Mom, good nap?” Kira asked with just a hint of cheekiness in her voice.
I yawned and ran my hand over the back of her head. “Who taught you to play cribbage?”
“Deacon just did,” she said, glancing up at me with a smile. “There’s a math component to it, and I love math.”
“Where’d you find my old board?”
“In the cupboard with all the other board games. You don’t mind, do you?”
I sat down next to her on the couch. “Not at all.”
“You can play the next round with us if you want,” Deacon offered, smiling at me with nothing hidden or flirty behind his eyes.