December 25th #3
My foot slips slightly on the damp walkway.
I catch myself, but my heart is already racing as I swing the door open and yell out, “Hey, everyone, my dad’s here.”
Thankfully, Uncle Van and Damon’s dad are now in the living room.
The immediate shift in tension is palpable.
“How did you get in here, Rocky?” Van asks my dad, his voice sharp.
“Jumped the fence and walked in,” my dad says from behind me. “Duh. Not like it’s a fortress or anything.” He glances around. “Gotta say, I can’t picture you living out in the country.”
“Why are you here?” Van asks.
“Just wishing my daughter a Merry Christmas.” Then, like it’s an afterthought, he adds, “And wanted to let you know that I’m going to sue you.”
Van blinks. “Sue me?”
“You. The family. For stealing my money.”
Van laughs out loud and doesn’t even try to hide it.
“Laugh all you want,” Dad says. “Just know I’m finally going to get what I deserve.”
“Let me guess,” Van says knowingly. “Your luck’s turned again?”
“A little,” my dad admits. “But nothing I can’t fix with one big win.”
It’s at that point that I realize my dad is truly an idiot. Why in the world would he bet against Damon and the team when they have been doing so well and are highly favored?
But then I remember him saying something about the odds. I don’t know a lot about gambling, but I do know that the lower the odds of winning, the higher the payout is. A long shot.
“Thought it was time we all moved on,” Dad continues, moving toward Van and trying to give him a hug. “Nice house you got here.”
“You need to leave now, Rocky,” Van says firmly but politely.
I remember Uncle Tripp saying that he and my dad always clashed, but that Van could reason with him sometimes.
“Really? It’s Christmas. You’re really going to kick me out of your house?”
“Yeah, I am,” Van says. He’s barely finished his sentence when I see red lights flashing outside the house and two policemen entering the home just as Tripp walks in the room.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” my dad mutters to him, flipping us all off as the police haul him outside.
The door closes behind them.
And no one says a word for a few minutes.
Finally, Tripp says, “What just happened?”
Damon’s mom speaks. “I was looking for Ainsley and saw that she was outside, talking to Rocky. I immediately called the police and told them of the situation.”
“And what situation was that?” Tripp asks.
“That a disgruntled family member who had turned violent in the past was trespassing on our property.”
“Smart,” Tripp says. Then he turns to Van. “I’d better go out there.”
We’re all quiet until he comes back inside and says, “All handled. Told them no need to press charges. They are going to take him to his car outside the gate and escort him out of the area.”
“What did your dad want?” Van asks me.
“Um, first said that he came to wish me a Merry Christmas. Told me that he is living in Vegas. Saw that I was pregnant. Said some not-so-nice things regarding me and Damon. Told me that he bet against Nebraska winning their bowl game. Thinks he’s going to win big.”
“Probably would,” Damon’s mom mutters. “Odds would be high if we lost.”
“He also said he’s going to sue you,” I add. “Something about taking money from his trust.”
“That’s rich,” Tripp says.
“Or not,” I say before I can stop myself, and I almost laugh at how ridiculous that sounds.
“Are you okay?” Van asks me, coming to stand by my side and putting an arm around me.
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “To show up here, on Christmas, uninvited, and say stuff like that …”
“What else?” Tripp asks.
“Um, he implied I hitched my horse to Damon because of his NIL money,” I say. “He looked at how much Damon earned.”
“Remember our chat?” Tripp asks.
“I do. I didn’t say anything. Not about the game. Not even that I’d be there.” I hesitate, then add, “He’d been drinking.”
And just like that, I’m back in the Ozarks again.
That same unease.
That same shift.
But then the back door opens, and Damon walks in carrying Weston, her head resting against his shoulder.
And I just start crying. I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because I remember how, in the Ozarks, he missed our date because she had fallen and broken her wrist and she would only let him hold her.
How he told me she’d clung to his neck and buried her head in his shoulder while they worked on her.
Made him sing to her. And how he said he’d cried more than she did.
“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, crossing the room.
“Her dad stopped by,” his mom replies. “The police escorted him out.”
He’s right in front of me now, his free hand coming to my face. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”
I let out a shaky breath, half laughing.
“Because you’re carrying your little sister,” I say, “and you look really handsome.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “That is not what I was expecting to hear.”
“I’m fine,” I say, wiping my cheeks. “Dad just …” I close my eyes for a second, shaking my head. “He’s an idiot. And I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
And I mean it.
Or at least, I want to.