Chapter 26
twenty-six
I don’t pretend to have any artistic ability. And the five littles assembled at Clay Makers are definitely more interested in playing with the wet goo than they are creating masterpieces.
Cynnie, Aggie, Yumiko, and Sammi look like they’ve taken mud baths. Even Emily, who I so rarely see get messy, has gray goop up to her elbows, all over her pink overalls, and smeared into her dark curls.
Warrin turns out to be the artistic dark horse among the daddies.
He makes tiny figurines of all the littles’ stuffies (kept safe from the clay in a plastic bin at another table) that the “Clay Maker,” a twenty-something with hair pinker than Emily’s overalls, bears off to the kiln with a smile.
I attempt a hive for Cynnie’s bee, but it comes out looking more like the poop emoji, provoking a worried expression from the Clay Maker as it disappears into the back.
Logan creates something he says is a rainbow with clouds at either end; Jack immediately christens it the “boob bridge.” The Clay Maker puts it on a shelf to “dry,” which I guess means she’s not dignifying the boob bridge with a trip through the oven.
Amid the mess, the squees and giggles, and extremely questionable handicrafts, Logan and I quietly discuss De Leon with Jack, Warrin, and Bravo. Jack and Warrin look pensive after we explain who he is and what we know about him. But Bravo, who is nearly as scary as De Leon, starts smiling.
“Yes,” Bravo says.
“Yes, we should find a reason to send him out of the country before next playgroup?” I ask.
Bravo chuckles. “Yes, let him come. I’ll make sure he doesn’t put a foot outta line. But he won’t. I met Yummy before Ginger created the playgroup, so none of you know what I used to be like. This fella sounds as closed-off as I was before I met my little. I’ll steer him right. Don’t worry.”
I glance at Logan who shrugs.
“I still think he needs a shit-ton of therapy before he tries to be a daddy,” I say.
Warrin nods. “Aggie and I work with a kink-friendly therapist. Happy to point this guy in her direction if he’s open to it.”
“Not everyone clicks with a little as fast as you did,” Jack murmurs. “It could be a long time before De Leon even has a chance to be a daddy.”
Logan and Warrin slant their eyes at their giggling, gooey littles.
“Don’t count on it with the Little Matchmaking Bureau in operation,” Logan says.
We all chuckle.
The conversation turns to the upcoming trip to Niagara Falls and I trade speaking glances with Logan, who nods reassuringly.
Feeling much more settled than I did when we arrived—not only have I done my duty to the playgroup, but this collection of good, caring men who share my particular interests don’t just accept me, they welcome me—I wander over to check on Cynnie.
There are a number of misshapen, gray lumps on the littles’ table, but nothing the Clay Maker has deemed worthy of the drying shelf, much less the kiln.
Cynnie’s examining her lump with dismay.
I take a packet of wet wipes, itself liberally smeared with clay, from the center of the table and start wiping off her hands.
“Oppa, I dizn’t make anything good.”
“Did you have fun?” I ask.
She nods enthusiastically. I wipe clay off her chin, cheek, the lobe of her ear. How did she get clay in her ear?
“That’s all that matters. Warrin’s made everyone a souvenir and we should check out the gift shop, too. See if there’s anything in there you’d like?”
That gets the attention of all the littles, who start to migrate out of the clay room, towards the front of the store where there are several displays of ready-made clay items. Before they can daub goop on every surface, they’re corralled by their daddies.
It takes practically every wet wipe in the place before they’re clean enough to unleash on the gift shop.
Cynnie picks out a smiley-face pin and I get two mugs painted with cherry blossoms. Entertaining warm imaginings of Cynnie cuddled in a nest in front of the television, drinking hot chocolate out of one of the mugs, I take our selections to the register to pay.
Where the pink-haired Clay Maker had nothing but smiles and encouragement for the littles, palpable disgust rolls off the older man behind the register as Cynnie and I approach.
She shrinks against my side.
“Lo, can I get an assist?” I call over. Logan looks up from where Emily’s showing him a string of pink and yellow clay beads. As he’s extricating himself, I drop a kiss on Cynnie’s head. “Baby, go over with Emmy, okay?”
She nods and slides away from me, her head down, her whole body radiating mortification.
I shift my gaze back to the man who made my bumble feel that way. I put our selections on the counter next to the register and set my hand on top of them.
Logan moves up beside me. “Wind your neck in,” he growls at the man.
“This is a family place,” the man sneers.
“You’re looking at my family,” I say. “Your website says you welcome potters of all ages. Unless you want me to report you for age discrimination and false advertising, and make sure your Google ranking plumets to one star, you will treat every member of my family with respect.”
Both Logan and the man look faintly shocked. Where did that cold, smooth threat even come from? Certainly not the pool of awkwardness I usually drown in.
Maybe it came from that new place of Daddyness inside me.
The man lowers his eyes and meekly rings up our purchases. I stand like a sentinel as the other littles bring up their selections. My presence ensures the man never once lifts his eyes higher than the top of his register.
The pink-haired Clay Maker comes out with our fired creations while Jack’s paying for a collection of “world’s best dad” mugs that Sammi’s picked out.
The Clay Maker, at least, is all smiles as Warrin directs her distribution.
The pieces have come out surprisingly well; the glazes fired to bright colors.
There are a half-dozen, smiling, yellow and black-striped bees for my bumble.
Even my hive looks pretty good, or so I think until Sammi peers over my shoulder as I take it from the Clay Maker.
“Mister Max, is that a poop emoji?”
The other littles break into peals of giggles while their daddies crack up. Even Logan laughs, although he tries to hide it behind his hand.
I give in. “Yes, Sammi, that’s exactly what it is.”
Cynnie slides her arms around me. “Oppa made my buzzies a hive. Izn’t it cute?”
That gets the littles cooing as I wrap up the bees and the hive in paper the Clay Maker hands me.
Their daddies herd them out of the gift shop and toward the street while I turn back to the register to pay the balance on our “premium clay experience.” After an exchange of loaded glances, the older man disappears into the back of the store and the Clay Maker takes his place behind the register.
She checks me out efficiently and I give her a tip on top, since she was great.
She hands me the receipt and says, “I heard what you said to him. I’m really sorry. You’ve been a great group and I hope you come back.”
“We’d like to,” I say. “Maybe on a day he’s not working.”
“Call ahead when you want to come again and I’ll make sure of it.”
I thank her and follow my family out into the street.
Cynnie’s waiting for me at the door, all smiles and snuggles.
That small unpleasantness hasn’t ruined her day, but it’s a good reminder that the world’s not a safe place for littles.
I looked over Logan and Emily’s incredibly detailed contract, and Googled a couple of others, while I was in England.
Time to hammer out a contract, or at least a list of rules, for my little to keep her safe.
A barbeque with the daddies and littles who went to Clay Makers, a long, playful chase of my bumble around Logan’s basement, another good night’s sleep with Cynnie in my arms, and a greasy breakfast after I walk her to the subway, leaves me ready to face what’s waiting for me back at my apartment.
I unpack first, then go through my snail mail, expecting nothing more than advertisements, since I get all my bills online.
The pictures that slide out of a plain brown envelope that doesn’t have a stamp or a return address are, therefore, a big fucking shock.
A couple are clearly drone footage. Me in my apartment. Me walking down a city street, probably to Logan’s. Me and Mac out running. But no drone took the picture of me getting off De Leon’s plane. Or Mac hugging me. Or Mac climbing onto his death trap on two wheels.
I don’t even look at the other phone where I expect there to be a slew of angry messages from Ness. I grab my main phone and dial Mac.
It goes straight to voice mail. I flip over to our message string and type out an only slightly panicked message.
Where are you?
It shows as delivered but not read. The dots don’t bounce.
I scramble into my rig. I haven’t put a tracker on Mac’s phone.
I haven’t wired his fucking bike. We haven’t chipped him.
Because, until a few months ago, Mac was in the Navy and it would have been against the interests of national security.
Why didn’t I wire him for sight and sound as soon as the ink on his discharge was dry?
While my tracking program’s running, I call Logan.
“I think they might have Mac.”
“What?” Logan doesn’t sound panicked, just incredulous.
“There was a package waiting at my apartment. Pictures of me, of me and Mac running, of Mac meeting me at De Leon’s plane. The last picture is of Mac getting on his bike. I can’t reach him—”
“He doesn’t answer his phone when he’s riding,” Logan says. I hear him murmur, probably to Emmy, and then begin moving. “Hold on. I’m conferencing Manny in.”
I’m more than a little surprised he knows how to do that.
Manny picks up with his customary, “Yo.”
“The guys after Max might have snatched Mac,” Logan explains. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“He took a flight to Florida last night.”