The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 19

“May the Lord be with you,” the priest finishes.

“And also with you,” the congregation replies in unison as the music begins filtering in, concluding midnight mass. The crowd begins to disburse, and Gracie and Serena file out of the pew along with the rest of the family. Searching for my son, I replace Peyton standing in the middle of the aisle, blocking traffic, staring at the priest who’s greeting people before they start filing out of the church.

“Come on, Peyton,” I usher as he keeps his eyes glued to the priest, his intrigue confusing me. He turns to me suddenly, wide green eyes earnest.

“Daddy, I need to speak to him,” Peyton says. “Okay, Dad—er, Sir?”

I bite away my grin at the way he’s addressing me as I look over to see the priest surrounded.

“I mean,” I swallow, “He’s pretty busy. So you might—”

Peyton turns as if on a mission, and I’m on his heels when he stops a good five feet away and turns back to me. “Daddy, is I respect you if I ask you not to come?”

“What?” I cringe at the idea of my four-year-old son approaching a Catholic priest, which starts to sound like an opening line for a joke, with a punchline I’m pretty sure will humiliate me.

“He’s busy. Maybe I can help you?”

“No, no,” Peyton shakes his head adamantly. “Can you twust me, Daddy?”

“Uh.” No, no, no, please, no, not in your house, God.

But it’s my son’s shaky voice and wide eyes that have me hesitantly giving in. “Okay, but please mind your manners.”

He’s already turned again as he walks over, his voice nowhere near church level as he instantly starts to yank on the priest’s robe.

“Excuse me, Sir. Please, Sir, are you Jesus’s friend?” Peyton asks, glancing back at me to make sure I’ve kept my respective distance as I sink where I stand. My gut tells me to stop this as my son’s eyes plead with me to let him go through with whatever exchange is about to happen.

Most of our family is already out of the cathedral, and I can feel Eli’s eyes on the two of us—forever the protective, doting uncle, even from where he idles far enough away to give us this moment. As the church continues to empty, Peyton’s voice carries more clearly back to me. Dressed in a suit that Eli got him as a present, I can’t help but notice how adorable he looks. Eli even styled his hair tonight, slicking it back in a modern-day Pompadour. As I admire his dress, my nerves fire off as my heart starts to gnaw at me for the things I’ve done in the last week. The fear is real that I’m about to get in trouble in the house of the Lord if my kid rats me out. The feeling sucks, and maybe I deserve it. I don’t have long to mull it over when the man is cut abruptly from his well wishes by the blunt and overly polite demands of my loud kid.

“Sir, excuse me. I respect you, Sir, but excuse me, I weally need to talk to you!”

The priest glances down at Peyton and smiles, his eyes drifting over to replace his parent—me—before he diverts his attention back to Peyton. He looks a lot younger than the norm, and I note he’s probably only a decade older than me, at most.

“Hello, young man,” he bends down to make up their difference in height, “how can I help you?”

“I,” Peyton dawdles as I move to intercept him, but the priest holds out his hand to let me know his patience isn’t thinning. Swallowing, I gaze on at my boy with longing in my heart. It’s then I realize I miss him. Just as much as I missed my wife’s absence, and the sting becomes harder as it starts to lodge in my throat.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I don’t know. Can I ask, are you Jesus bess friend?”

“I like to think I am,” he replies, clearly entertained.

“Is it okay if Jesus comes to my Grammy’s house tonight?”

“Sorry?”

“Rudolph’s not coming,” Peyton proclaims as if it’s already a fact. It’s the acceptance in his voice that has the ache increasing tenfold. I’ve convinced him, and nothing about that sits well with me.

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ve been bad. I’m on the naughty list,” Peyton admits easily, ratting himself out as a lump grows unbearably while my curiosity grows at his request for a visit from the messiah himself.

“So, you want Jesus to come instead?”

“Jesus job is for miracles to work?”

“He’s a miracle worker,” he nods. “That’s right.”

Peyton leans in. “Grammy says we need a miracle to make Christmas better.”

“What kind of miracle?” The priest asks as the burn in my throat spreads to my chest.

Peyton quickly glances over his shoulder before leaning in. “I need him to—” I strain to hear but to no avail. Frustrated, I take a step forward just as the gut punch is delivered by the way of the priest.

“Why would Jesus need to bring your daddy back to you? Is your father not behind you?”

“He’s not my daddy anymore. He’s not nice to me because I was too bad for too long, and he’s over it.”

I’m going to hell.

“I see. Well, Peyton, the truth is that Jesus is everywhere in spirit, so you can ask him anytime.”

“Right there,” Peyton says, pointing to the cross on the wall, one I know he’s terrified of and purposely avoids looking at during service every year.

“Right here,” the Priest fires, pressing his palm to Peyton’s heart as my eyes burn with the sting. “But, from what I’m hearing you say, you are the one who can bring your daddy back.”

“I dunno, Sir . . . am I respect you and be polite?”

“Very,” the priest nods.

“I’m trying very hard!” Peyton declares in watery exasperation, that has my heart cracking dead center.

“Then that’s all you can do.” The priest shoots me a look, one of reassurance, as I softly call Peyton’s name.

“You better run along, Peyton, but remember, you can talk to Jesus at any time if you want him to visit.”

Peyton looks up at the graphic cross, thorns, and blood, and I see it the instant he makes his decision before he stalks toward the twelve-foot, bloodied messiah and bravely starts to shout at him. “Jesus, if I promise to be nice, can you please send my daddy back?!”

“Very good,” The priest says, knowing his message didn’t quite get received, but mine did. My son just had a figurative and literal come to Jesus moment—for me. Bursting at the seams and desperate to get my son in my arms, I stalk over and make it to him just as he turns to me, his eyes brimming with tears.

“I’m right here, buddy,” I assure him.

“Not you,” his lips quiver. “Not you,” he cries, face twisted in anguish.

And with that, I crack clear in half. Scooping him into my arms, he cries loudly as I pass Eli, my eyes spilling over as reality sets in. I fucked up. Badly. I’ve scared my son, my boy, my baby. My behavior doing nothing but intimidating him into becoming an overly polite asshole.

“Peyton, I’m right here, buddy. I’m right here,” I whisper hoarsely as he pushes at my chest to free himself of me as I continually break. I’m furious with myself for thinking there was any other way through this than plain old parenting. No shortcuts to fast results will do over patience, guidance, and example. There’s no quick fix, and I was a fucking fool to think otherwise.

“Not you,” he pushes at my chest again and again, adamantly trying to wiggle out of my arms. “My other daddy,” he accuses as his palpable heartbreak sears my chest raw with a hellfire I’ve rarely felt. His cries cracking me wide open as I stalk down the aisle and push through the doors. Stepping outside into the brisk night, I glance toward the parking lot, lifting my finger to Serena and Gracie who sit in wait in the idling SUV.

Stalking out of the way of the passersby, I round the corner of the sidewalk.

“Peyton,” I say, sitting him down to stand on the side of the church, the sight of his tiny wingtips rawing my heart out further as I take a knee in front of him. “Buddy, I’m sorry.”

Peyton’s face twists in anguish as he cries openly in front of all of the church traffic, and I replace myself giving no shits who lays witness. I caused this and deserve whatever they hear.

“Daddy’s been bad this week,” I rasp out. “But he just wanted you to understand that all little boys don’t get the things you get. My daddy didn’t do the things I do for you. He wasn’t my best friend, Son. He was really mean to me, and I just want you to know that, so you try to be nice to your mommy and daddy, who try so hard to be nice to you.”

He cries a little longer, his words breaking as he finally speaks.

“So you s-say sorry, then we can be n-nice again to each odder, D-Daddy?” his voice drags with his soul-deep plea. “Please, Sir? If I promise to try really hard to be good every day?”

“Yes, that’s all your Daddy wants. So much. Mommy does too, I swear,” I say before he plasters himself to me, his little chest heaving. Feeling every bit the asshole I am, I try to soothe him with words of comfort, running my hand over his thick hair and down his back. “I’m sorry, buddy. I never wanted to be mean to you. I’m just trying to make you understand and I didn’t do it the right way. Sometimes, daddies aren’t good at their job, and I’ll do better, too. I promise.”

“I hated it when Rudolph stolded our tree,” he airs his grievances in a shaky voice. “I hate it Mommy won’t eat cereal with me. Mommy is so mad. You are so, so mad and distapointed. I don’t want to be in trouble anymore, Daddy. Is that okay?” he sniffs, “Sir?” he whispers pointedly in my ear, which singes me to ashes.

“Peyton,” I croak, holding him tightly, clutching my beautiful boy with my arms along with the whole of my heart. For the baby who stared right back at me just after making his entrance into the world. Seconds from his birth, capturing me utterly. “I’m so sorry for not being nice.”

“It’s okay, Daddy.” He pats my shoulder, consoling me as I realize I’m crying just as hard as he is.

“I want you to listen to me and listen good, okay?”

He nods.

“Yes, you’ve been very naughty, and you’ve done some naughty things, but I love you so much, Peyton O’Neal. More than anything on this earth. And you might not be a good boy all the time, but you’re my boy, and I’m proud of you. Mommy is too. No matter what, okay?”

“I’m proud of you, Daddy . . . Sir, oh my dawd,” he laughs, palming his face nervously. A hint of fear in the gesture but a recognition of authority. Healthier fear and recognition than none at all. One that might have him stopping in the parking lot when I order him to do so. With that image forever in my mind, I try not to guilt myself over it. Whatever damage I’ve done with my fucking stunt, I’ll do my best to rectify if need be. Peyton holds me for long seconds, well, longer than the usual three before I speak up.

“Can I tell you something?” I ask him.

“Uh huh,” he whispers, his full focus on me.

“When you ran in the parking lot when Daddy told you not to, I’ve never been so scared in my life, Peyton.” My vision blurs as the images resurface. “That truck almost hurt you,” anguish fills me at the sight of the truck whizzing by a second, two at most, after I snatched him into my arms. A vision I’ve been trying to outrun since it happened. “I’ve never been so scared in my whole life. Daddy would never be okay if anything happened to you. Mommy would never be okay, either.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“I’m glad you are, but please, please don’t ever do that again,” I croak. “Don’t ever run from me like that, okay? You’re my whole world, my whole life. I can’t do this without you, okay?”

“Okay, I won’t ever run in a parking lot again.” He holds out his tiny hand to keep his promise, and I swallow, doing my best to keep my shit together as I take it.

“Thank you.” As we start to walk toward the SUV, I glance down at him and see his chest bounce as I whisper my assurances. “It was just a bad couple of weeks, buddy. Okay? That’s all this was. We’ll have more bad days and bad weeks—that’s just the way it is, but if you want, we can start making it better right now.”

“It’s okay if Rudolph gives my toys away.” He gives me his puppy dog eyes as he rambles on. “I really, really want that Rail Ride, but I duderstand I’ve been bad.”

And there’s my wide-eyed, manipulative boy. I can’t help my grin at his arrival.

“Maybe Rudolph heard you apologize,” I wink.

He nods, his little chest heaving from the strength of his cries. Unable to help myself, I scoop him up, kissing the tear lining his little cheek. “I love you. Big hug.”

“Big hug,” he parrots, squeezing me tight as I release a few relieved tears of my own, knowing I’ll never be able to erase or outrun the image of my baby nearly losing his life. Seconds, mere seconds. When he pulls away and shoots me my own smile—my little replica—I melt, deciding if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make his Christmas special. He’s been put through the wringer and is starting to deserve it.

Fuck it, he’s mine to spoil and discipline.

That’s the job. Loving him is the easy part. Parenting is the rest.

“Let’s go home and hurry to put some carrots out, okay?”

“Yes!” Peyton shouts. “We have to hurry, Daddy!”

“Let’s go.”

After I get him buckled in and take the wheel, I glance over to Serena, who sees my reddened eyes, splotched face, and tense. “Oh my God, baby. What is it?”

I open my mouth to speak when my little mouth piece explains for me.

“I runned in the parking lot and almost got hit, Mommy. Daddy cried and asked me never to do that again.”

Serena grips my hand tightly in hers as I wordlessly beg her to forgive me. I told her about the scare, but I hadn’t told her how much it fucked me up. But I allow her to see it now and let her fully in. The way I always have. In her return gaze, I see nothing but trust, understanding, and the love and strength I’ve come to rely on for half my life.

“Let’s go home.”

“Yes, all buckled, Daddy Sir. We have to get the carrots and hurry!” Peyton rings out as Serena’s eyes widen, and she mouths a “wow.”

I nod, leaning over to take her lips in a brief kiss. “I love you, Brat.”

“Love you too, Handy Man,” she whispers as we both wait for the comment that doesn’t come and instead freeze when something else entirely does.

“Merry Christmas,” Gracie whispers, and I glance back in the rearview to replace her expression sheepish but sincere.

“Merry Christmas,” Serena and I parrot, my wife’s smile hidden from Gracie so as not to make her amusement too obvious. But it’s because I know my wife felt it, as I have—the slight shift in our family dynamic. Small or big as it might be, it’s perceptible enough to have a little pride running through me. We’re nowhere near perfect, but we’re not where we were a week ago, and that’s enough. Plenty.

“Merry Christmas,” Peyton rings out last as I take in the sight of all three of them before putting the SUV into gear and pulling out of the church parking lot. Clicking on The Wiggles as we hit the mile mark, my son’s joy is worth the torture, a balm to my stinging heart.

Not long after, with carrots on the fireplace, Serena and I usher Gracie onto the couch in the living room. I toss a few logs on the fire as Serena sits next to our daughter, whose eyes are darting between us as if she’s waiting for her verdict.

“You’re grounded for three months,” I state before turning around. “There won’t be a single exception for any reason. You’ll go to school, come home, do your homework, and your chores. You’ll be limited to internet and other things, but you won’t be going anywhere.”

“No worries there, I don’t think I’ll ever be invited anywhere again,” she says, her lips wobbling as she turns to Serena. “I’m sorry.” She looks up at me. “I’m sorry, Dad. I know you don’t believe me, but I really am. I just didn’t want to be the only one without a basket. It’s so stupid. And now, God, I’m so embarrassed. The way they looked at me after I got caught. I don’t even want to go back to school,” she palms her face and cries for a few seconds. We both stand by to let her process it before she pulls her hands away. “Daddy, I know this is the one thing that you can’t forgive me for—”

“Not true. I come down on you hard and talk to you about theft often for good reason, Gracie.”

“You hate thieves,” she states. “You said it a million times that there’s nothing you hate more than a thief—than someone who takes what others work for.”

“It’s the truth, but there’s very little I won’t forgive you for,” I tell her honestly. “We all make mistakes and screw up, but your mother and my main concern right now is who you’ll become if you continue to think you’re owed everything. No one, not even your parents, owes you anything. But our love is free. There’s a reason I hate thieves, Gracie, and I think it’s time I tell you about the day I met your grandpa.”

She looks up at me as my chest starts to burn. “It was one of the scariest days of my life, the worst and the best.” I kneel down in front of her to make sure she doesn’t miss a word. “You haven’t asked too much over the years, but there’s a reason you’ve never met my parents or my brother and never will. But you’re old enough now to know the truth, and your mother and I think you need to.” Serena stares at me, concern marring her features. Gracie does the same, her expression more of curiosity as I kick open a door I’ve long since shut.