Chapter 2 #2
Rationally, I know that I should’ve stomped on his foot, punched him in his light scruff covered face, and informed him that I’ve been taking care of me as well as Oakley basically all on my own for the past four years – Jake didn’t even bother trying to get home to see his only son be born – so I don’t need anyone else’s help to save him or myself.
Irrationally?
We’re talking Santa please grant me my asinine Christmas wish of starring in a Halmark movie featuring an exhausted single mom medical examiner who finally finds love in the mall – of all places – after walking in on her ex-husband fucking his neighbor’s wife because he begged her to bring his son by for a couple hours to open gifts.
I knew I didn’t belong trapped in Kolby’s arms and yet…for just a microscopic snowflake moment…I didn’t wanna be trapped anywhere else.
All of a sudden, the most heartwarming voice I could ever hear calls out, “Mommmm!”
Leaning slightly forward to look past Kolby reveals to me a much better Christmas miracle than the made for TV one I dreamt about for thirty seconds earlier.
“Oakley!!!!!” There’s no hesitation to scramble off the bench and sprint the short stretch over to where he’s being carried by Slater.
The instant I’m within reach, he stops playing with the Play-Doh in his hands to wordlessly request I hold him instead.
“Ohmygod,” is mumbled in breathless repetition during the transfer; however, as soon as his tiny navy-blue sweater covered arms wrap around my neck I tearily croak out, “I’m so glad you’re okay! ”
“Your new friend saved me!” Oakley cheerfully declares prior to pulling back to show me the contents of his hand. “And look what he gave me!”
I sniffle away the remaining tears to enthusiastically say, “Play-Doh!”
“Sparkly hockey green Play-Doh, Mom!”
Cutting my watery gaze over to Slater is done at the same time he offhandedly shrugs. “Tis the season and all…”
“Big bro,” Kolby cautiously begins upon his approach, “do you really jus’ walk around with Play Doh in your pocket?”
“Yup.” The man who kept his word lets his attention transition over to the male who is now standing beside me. “Part of always bein’ prepared.”
“I must’ve missed that lesson at Scouts.”
“You weren’t in the Scouts.”
“Neither were you.”
“I know some PJs that might disagree,” Slater jokingly scolds with a small grin.
Well…would you look at that.
If the two were a little closer in age, they could probably pass for fraternal twins.
Slater redirects his gaze back to me and takes a more professional tone, “The man who attempted to apprehend your son is currently bein’ handled.
To my understandin’ – courtesy of a mild interrogation that occurred while Oakley was buildin’ a Christmas tree with his Play-Doh – this was not a traffickin’ related incident. ”
Adjusting my hold is done in tandem with me asking, “Then what the hell was it?”
“All I could get out of him was that someone paid him to take the kid.”
“Who would wanna pay someone to kidnap my son!?”
“Speakin’ from experience?” Slater folds his bulky arms across his rustic-colored flannel shirt.
“Usually exes. Or family members of exes. Or once in a while the new spouse of the aforementioned ex. ‘Ish like this – someone hired for a particular child – is usually jus’ custody case related. One parent goin’ to extreme lengths to prove the other isn’t fit or isn’t capable of completely managin’ the child on their own.
There are also times when one parent forcefully acquires custody of said child and relocates them to another country where the other parent can’t find them or even if they can, they can’t legally gain guardianship or get them sent back to their rightful country due to said country’s international abduction laws, which is then when the men that I train get hired to handle things. ”
My jaw cracks open, yet not a single word flutters free.
No.
That’s not…that’s not what was about to happen here, was it?
Jake is an asshole, yes.
But the spineless type.
The one who circles around the block again and again while blowing up your phone because he sees a car he doesn’t recognize in your driveway and feels he has a right to know who it belongs to.
He’s not the other kind of monster.
At least…I don’t think he is.
Perhaps hope might be a better word until I get more definitive answers.
“I need to fill out a bit of paperwork,” Slater politely announces after allowing my silence to carry on for too long. “Make a couple calls. Swing by the store and pick up those gifts I dropped. But you two have a very merry Christmas, alright?”
Rapid nodding precedes a quiet, heartfelt, “Thank you again, Slater.”
“No thanks needed.” He softly beams and locks eyes with Kolby for a second time. “Why don’t you walk ‘em to their car? Make sure they get settled safely?”
“Already ahead of ya,” the man lingering at my side insists.
“Can we paint cookies first?!” Oakley pushes up his falling glasses. “Please, Mom?”
The request is instantly met with reluctance. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“But Mom…” he unhappily whines. “You said we could. You said we could paint cookies for Santa.”
That was before he was momentarily kidnapped.
And definitely before having to entertain the idea it might’ve been his father who had it arranged.
“Mom,” Kolby casually interjects, collecting my attention along with a furrowed brow, “what if the three of us decorate cookies and then I walk you to your car? I think it’s a good play. It might even be the best play I make all season.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I cautiously investigate. “I mean it is Christmas Eve.”
“Sounds like Big Bro is gonna be a min,” his hands are innocently thrown in the air, “so I’ve got some time to kill.” They find their way to his jean pockets. “And of all the people I could crush a couple appies with on Christmas Eve, I wouldn’t mind it bein’ you…”
Despite doing everything I can not to blush, I do. “Should we really consider Christmas cookies as an appetizer?”
“They are for Santa.”
“They’re a dessert.”
“Let’s meet in the neutral zone and say snack.”
Snickering is accompanied by a good-natured headshake. “You’re lucky I speak your lingo.”
“And I’m even luckier this little guy is wearin’ my lingo.” Kolby kicks his chin in a parting nature to his brother before pointing to the design on Oakley’s sweater. “Is that Claus usin’ a candy cane like a hockey stick, bud?”
“Yeah!” He proudly states and thrusts his chest forward. “He’s using an ornament ball for a puck!”
“Maybe we should go paint him ornament ball cookies then? Help him celly all the ginos he’s gonna be puttin’ on the scoreboard when he finishes deliverin’ all the presents?”
“Yeah!” My son joyfully tosses his curled fists into the air, Play-Doh pieces flying everywhere. “Celly!”
“Yeah, bud!” Kolby echoes in both excitement and movement. “Celly!”
Their infectious attitude is impossible to deny, which is what prompts me to lovingly cave. “Alright boys, let’s go paint Santa some cookies for his big, delivered all the presents around the world, celebration.”