The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 3

“Oh my DAWD!” Peyton erupts from the living room as I stir awake. A dozen scenarios play out in my head as I scramble to sit, then stand, fear thrumming through me as I do my best to come to. It’s the explosion of words from upstairs that has my shoulders easing.

“Oh my God, I’m so late! . . . Mom, why didn’t you wake me up?!”

Climbing back into bed, I palm Serena’s stomach and pull her to me, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. I press my lips to what skin is available at the neck of her plaid pajama top, or rather, mine. While we both got a little worked up last night in scheming up a way to get our sanity back, sadly, we both dozed after the adrenaline wore off. Suckling on her skin, I pop my mouth off and whisper a “good morning.” When she cranes her neck to look back at me, I’m met with a welcome . . . smile.

“Hello smile, it’s been a minute.”

“Yeah, but I kind of feel bad already,” she says through her grin.

“No, you don’t,” I chuckle as she nestles a little into me.

“I needed that sleep so badly,” she admits.

“Me too,” I say, glancing at the clock. Eight-thirty. Our first Christmas miracle.

“Daddy!” Peyton summons again, this time more in demand, which I ignore in lieu of memorizing my wife’s newly reborn smile.

“When we decide to be parents again, we have got to teach that kid to better use his G’s,” I drawl, running my fingers along Serena’s thigh. Her brow lifts in a clear sign of no-go as I bring them beneath the hem of her shirt to her stomach.

“I think he knows we think it’s cute when he mispronounces it and uses it to manipulate us,” Serena surmises. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

“I’m glad you did, damn . . . I think you’re right. Ready for this?”

She nods. “Ready.”

“Good,” I rake my lip, and her eyes follow. She told me she thought it was sexy once, and I do it often as a natural tick. Probably too often, which has had it losing its potency over the years. This morning, it seems to be working, which fuels my second decision. One I made before I drifted off last night, which is to woo and seduce my wife. To try to give her the version of me I’m sure she misses at times. The attentive version of me that showered her with affection without words. Words always being hard to come forth with for me. Something engrained early by my parents. Even so, I managed it other ways by putting her needs first. Now being the perfect time, seeing as how I’ve freed some up by ignoring the child screaming my name in summons. Just as Serena is feigning deaf to Gracie’s shrieks. It’s when the shouting threatens to go nuclear that Serena sighs and begins to pull away. Mentally blocking the havoc happening a room over, I keep her idle.

“Hold steady, baby,” I console before attempting to distract her. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking about? A lot lately?”

“What?” she hesitantly settles back into place, her eyes on mine.

“The night we met. An ingrained image of nineteen-year-old you filling your parent’s doorway. The second you burst through the front door, you started talking so fast, but I couldn’t register a single word. Not one. You were wearing a dark blue sweater that showed your midriff, a solid white scarf, and jeans that clung to you. And fuck, baby,” I murmur, running my finger down her cheek, “I thought I was going to die right there.”

Her lips part because as many times as I could have, fucking should have, I’ve never told her this. Not in this much detail. Not once in our decades together. It’s always been something I’ve held close to my chest. But maybe the appreciation should start here, between us. An example to set. Though the hoisted boom box-wielding—lovesick fool with a witty, breath-stealing diatribe—guy I’ll never be. Voicing sentiments like these is rare, few and years between.

Though now, and in gauging the look in her eyes, it seems I’ve saved this story all these years later, for this exact moment. A time where our kids collectively screech outside our bedroom door like the sky is falling while we batten down the hatches.

“When I saw you, I thought,” I pull her flusher to me, where I’m propped on my side. “Whatever she says after tonight, I want to hear it. Even though you were straight bitching, all I could see was how beautiful you were compared to the pictures I’d been walking past for months. Of how they didn’t do you justice.”

“Jesus for Christ, Daddy!” Peyton bellows, as my inclination to go to him builds, trying not to laugh at his misuse of the phrase because he treats it like a campaign slogan.

“I thought,” I continue, adamant about attending to the doe-eyed beauty I’m holding, “I want her, and everything that comes with her. Even the attitude, especially the attitude. I. Want. That. Girl.” What I don’t mention is the sinking feeling just after those initial seconds. That I wasn’t worthy of her and never would be.

“Dad?! Mom?? Where is breakfast? I am so late! And I still need twenty dollars!”

Eyes locked, Serena palms my jaw, her eyes misted due to my sentiment. “You never talk to me like this. Not really.”

“I know, but I should, and I want to. I—” I falter briefly, “—you know it’s never been easy for me to put a voice to how I feel.”

“Thatch, you show me every day—”

“Twenty-two years together,” I interject. “You deserve the words,” I run my finger over the bite mark on her arm. “You deserve better from everyone in this damned house.”

“Thatch,” she draws out, shock clear in her expression as I condemn myself for letting her go so fucking long without words she does deserve. Words that, no matter how close we get, have always been so hard for me to articulate.

“I want to kiss you right now,” she says, cupping my neck lovingly, “but my breath reeks.”

“Who gives a fuck,” I utter a second before I crush her mouth. An instant later, our bedroom door pops open before the handle is smashed into the drywall. I wince at the probability of some damage now behind our door. Hard and now pissed, I snap my attention toward my son, who is standing in nothing but his underwear, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Daddy!” Peyton demands. “Mommy! I have been calling you to come!”

“Well, we were busy,” I clap back in irritation. When Serena goes to move, I keep her where she is, dragging my knuckles along her stomach. It feels wrong touching her this way with my son so close. A little forbidden in a sense, but the goosebumps that form in my wake on her skin are telling. Knowing I’m getting too close to a full salute, I reluctantly drag my touch over her smooth skin one last time before I pull them away to draw a line in the sand.

“Son, you will knock before you come in this room from here on out. This isn’t the first time I’ve said this.”

“I know, Daddy, but—”

“If you know, then do it. Shut the door right now, knock, and ask permission to come in, and if you slam it open again, you will spend today learning how to patch dry wall. Now,” I order.

“But I’m already in here,” Peyton whines, “and—”

“Peyton, now,” I command.

“Oh, my Dawd, Daddy, I’m trying to tell you someone stolded our Christmas tree!”

“What did I just say?” I hold my ground and feel Serena tense next to me in wait.

“But Daddy!” Peyton cries, a meltdown brewing in his voice as I dig in.

“Go out that door, knock, wait until we answer, and tell you it’s okay to come in.”

Peyton drags the door behind him, yelling through the gap as he closes it. “Someone stolded our tree!”

Ignoring every word, I gaze down at Serena before dipping and stealing another morning breath kiss. A beat later, another knock sounds outside the door, a split second before it pops back open.

“Peyton,” I bark after ending our kiss abruptly. My eyes still on my wife as her chest heaves as she stares up at me like I’m a different man. Resignation sets in again at the look of her. For her, I’ll replace more words. For her, I’ll fight our two screaming hellions back into some sort of bearable submission.

“What?” He feigns ignorance.

Shit. Maybe he gets it from me.

“Did we ask you who it was?”

“You know it’s me, Daddy. I told you!”

Walking over, I push his tiny chest so that he’s clear of the threshold and snap the door closed in his face before locking it. Serena’s breath catches audibly behind me as I hold my palm in the air beside me in a gesture of holding steady. As fucking ridiculous as it is, we’re declaring war today. So today, I fear, might be the hardest. We’ve failed at disciplining our children enough that they refuse to obey the smallest of orders, which is the most dangerous part of all of this. It’s the added image of Peyton in the Lowe’s parking lot last week that keeps me firmly behind the door.

“Daddy, someone stolded our tree!”

Biting my tongue as Serena lets out a nervous laugh, I cross my arms until a knock sounds.

“Daddy?”

Silence.

Knock. Knock.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I come in to tell you someone stolded our tree!”

Serena’s muffled laughter sounds before she utters, “we’re going to hell, Thatch.”

I grin over my shoulder. “Yeah, well, we’re taking them with us.”

She shakes her head and drops it back to her pillow, clearly amused, as I unlock and open the door.

“Now that you have knocked and I have answered, you can come in and talk to us.”

“Daddy,” he gazes at my irritated junk, “why is your pee-pee jumping?”

Wincing, I hear Serena’s muffled laughter. “Because I have to go to the bathroom, and I haven’t had a chance due to you screaming. State your issue, Son.”

“I told you five times already, stupid Daddy, gah!”

I push Peyton’s chest gently back out of the door and shut it in his face, locking it a second time.

“I knocked!” He belts through the wood.

“Go tell some other stupid Daddy five times.”

“Thatch,” Serena draws, and I shoot her a warning look over my shoulder.

“How do you want me to tell you?!” Peyton shouts in exasperation before calling for backup. “Mommy!”

“Nope,” I cross my arms on the other side. “She’s not going to help you.”

“Mom,” Gracie joins in outside the door. “Where is breakfast? You didn’t wake me up, and I have five minutes! And why did you take the tree—”

“Gracie, we’re talking to Peyton. Quiet,” I snap.

“Gah, I just said that I don’t have time!”

“And now, you’ve lost item fourteen.”

“Dad, that’s almost all of it!” She shouts.

“Did you just yell?” I counter as the bathroom sink runs behind me and turn to see Serena smiling around her electronic toothbrush. She’s so digging this, and sadly, so am I. Turning back toward the door, I bark out my command. “Wait your turn, Gracie.”

“Hurry up, Peyton,” she snaps.

Knock. Knock.

“Daddy,” Peyton whispers. “Someone stolded our Christmas tree, and all the decord is gone.” A small thud sounds, and I bite my laugh away because I know he’s now got his face plastered to the wood. “Please, Daddy, I need you to come see.”

Opening the door, I stare down at my frazzled children, and a sick satisfaction thrums through me. Maybe I am going to hell.

“Better, Peyton. It’s a shame it’s gone. I guess Rudolph knows you get sad faces from Mrs. May every single day.

Peyton’s eyes widen. “He knows?”

“Oh, my God,” Gracie says, poking her head into my bedroom.

“No one gave you permission to enter, Gracie,” I say, tugging her arm and ushering her into the living room, where not a trace of Christmas décor remains. A pang of guilt hits before I catch my twelve-year-old’s vicious side-eye. Jesus.

“I wonder if he took the tree in Triple Falls, too,” I respond to her cutting glare.

“Oh my dawd!” Peyton exclaims. “We have to call Grammy right now. Daddy, call her!”

“Nope, she’s sleeping,” I say as both follow me into the kitchen.

“Mom,” Gracie starts the minute Serena clears our bedroom threshold. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I’m late.”

“You have an alarm,” Serena replies instantly. “That’s what it’s for.”

“But you always wake me up.”

“Not anymore,” Serena says, flashing me a heated look, which temporarily stuns me before I shoot her one right back. Is this turning us both on? Are we evil? Are our apples not falling far from the tree?

“Mommy, look, the tree and your dectorations is all gone!” Peyton exclaims as Serena lines up next to me, a fellow soldier armed up.

“Huh, wonder where they went?” Serena asks, feigning ignorance about the situation.

“Did you know that I knew I was going to fall in love with your mother the minute I saw her?” I tell both kids, giving Serena more honesty. “I knew I had to make her mine.”

“Gross,” Gracie spouts, “I don’t want to hear that. Dad, Gemma is going to be here any minute, and I’m not ready. I need twenty bucks to buy a Friendsmas basket. No, I really need forty bucks. I think we’re doing more this year.”

“Sorry,” I shrug. “Fresh out of cash, and you don’t deserve it.”

“It’s okay,” she ignores me entirely. “Mom can give it to me.”

“You didn’t take out the trash,” Serena says. “So, no allowance this week.”

“No, no,” Gracie counters quickly, manipulation in full effect with her next practiced technique. “This isn’t for me, this is Friendsmas, remember? Allowance isn’t included.”

“Guess you should have saved it,” I utter.

“All parents give for Friendsmas,” Gracie says, cocking her hip.

“Yeah, I really don’t care,” I counter as Gracie’s mouth drops. “Do you, Serena?”

“No,” she says matter of fact, “I don’t think I do.”

“I wouldn’t say love at first sight,” I continue, “but I knew something real had just happened, was happening. It was right before Christmas, twenty-two years ago this month,” I declare to both our kids as we hold our gaze.

“Dinner was good, but later that night was better,” she replies.

“We didn’t even kiss, but it felt like we did, didn’t it?”

Serena nods, keeping my gaze a second longer.

“I don’t care,” Gracie retorts, “I’m talking to you about Friendsmas.”

“And I’m talking about your mother and the fact we’ve been together a long time. Because that’s all that matters to me right now,” I say, taking Serena’s hand and pushing past our kids to escort her to the kitchen. “Cereal, babe?”

“Sounds good,” she says as I pour us each a bowl and table the milk. As we begin to eat, I feel both our children’s expectant gazes on us.

“Daddddy,” Peyton drawls. “You didn’t pour my cereal.”

Gracie starts to frantically brush her hair, and I glance over to see her calculating eyes flitting between the two of us.

“Daddy,” Peyton says softly because apparently whispering is behaving now. “I need cereal.”

“Oh, my bad. Here, buddy,” I say, pushing the box his way.

Peyton laughs nervously, and Serena’s eyes implore mine as I issue my silent order.

Hold the line, baby.

“I can’t pour the milk! It’s too heavy!”

“Oh, well, that’s too bad,” I say, taking another bite. “You get the Emerson’s billed, baby? They’re leaving for Hawaii—”

“Done and dusted,” Serena says as Peyton struggles to pour his milk.

“You’re not going to help me, Mommay!” He pushes out, the may at the end, only used when he’s flustered, or a command he’s issued isn’t followed to his finite specifications. How did we let it go this fucking far? Feeling Serena’s inner turmoil from going against her maternal instinct, I grip her hand over the table. “She’s busy, Peyton. Do it yourself.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, you managed to swing from a ceiling fan with some help,” I shoot Gracie a pointed look, “so I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Mean Daddy!”

“That’s right,” I snap, “Mean stupid daddy is here to stay,” I taunt as he fists his hands at his sides. “Until you start to behave and use your manners.”

Grabbing the box, Peyton struggles to pour his cereal as Gracie continues to stare at us, waiting for us to give. A long minute later, the click of her loafers sounds on the hardwoods as she pours Peyton’s milk.

“Okay,” Gracie starts to try to reason with us. “I’m sorry about the fan, but he wouldn’t shut up. You don’t have to do all this. I know you’re mad, Daddy. I’m sorry. But Friendsmas is important. If I don’t get Gemma a basket, she won’t get one.”

“That’s too bad,” I state as Gracie slams the milk on the table.

“Please, I’ll be so embarrassed,” she pleas as a car horn sounds.

I look over to my daughter, who is seething mad, her face reddening, and shake my head. “Like how embarrassed I was when you humiliated me in checkout at Target last week?”

Serena looks between us in confusion as Gracie gawks. “Dad, I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did,” I state, taking another mouthful as my wife sounds up in support.

“My parents watched us like hawks all night,” she says, tightening her hold on my hand. I hadn’t told her that my daughter had humiliated me and utterly degraded me during checkout last week. Just as Serena hadn’t told me that Peyton had bitten her. Pathetically, and seemingly before last night, I think we were too embarrassed to admit these things to each other. Which only adds more ammo to our growing pile. A silent understanding passes between us as I nod.

“We were probably so obvious,” I utter.

“I loved your name,” Serena chimes in. “Is that weird?”

“Only because I still hate it,” I shake my head.

“Can I please have the money?” Gracie asks, panic clear in her voice.

Serena and I continue our banter. “You looked so beautiful that night.”

“It was jeans and a sweater,” she drawls.

“One that showed your navel,” I wink. “And your belly button ring.”

“Er my gawd,” Gracie sighs. “Fine, please, I’m sorry, okay? I’ll take out the trash and do extra chores when I get home. I’ll even watch Peyton.”

Another honk sounds.

“It was your name and the red in your hair. I never saw myself with a redhead. But I’ve never seen hair like yours before or since.”

“I have hair like Daddy’s,” Peyton says, feeling ignored. “. . . Daddy, pour me more milk,” he orders when neither one of us acknowledges him.

“I don’t take orders, Son.”

“What?”

“You have to ask politely,” Gracie states. “And Rudolph didn’t come last night, Peyton. Daddy took the tree down,” she spills in contempt.

“Bye bye Bum Bum cream,” I spit dryly as Peyton gapes at me.

“Great, so I get nothing for Christmas,” Gracie scoffs.

“That’s up to you. And for a smart girl, you sure are acting pretty stupid.”

“You can’t say that to me,” she gasps.

“I just did, daughter dearest.”

“All right, fine, Daddy, fine. I get it. I know you got mad last night when Mom got so upset, and I’m sorry. Peyton is, too, but you didn’t have to take down our tree and take our presents back. We can be sorry, can’t we, Peyton?”

“Yeah, Daddy, we can be sorry,” Peyton echoes promptly, nodding. “Really sorry.”

“Uh huh,” I say, taking another bite. “I’ve got to run, babe. I’ve got to get that check from the Rasors to cover payroll.”

Serena nods as I stand. “Love you.”

“Love you,” she answers as I turn to ready myself and do a one-eighty, stalking over to my wife and taking her mouth in a borderline inappropriate kiss. When I pull away, she stares up at me, slightly stunned.

“We made out for weeks,” I murmur, “kissed and talked for hours and hours.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it talking,” Serena shakes her head as if dazed.

Have I really been so silent all these years?

“More like bickering,” I say.

“Because you were infuriating,” her weighted gaze follows me when I scoop up my bowl to rinse it.

“I didn’t want you to know—”

“Anything,” my wife counters.

Gracie stares between us as we ping-pong back and forth, seeming just as bewildered by our affection and banter before she speaks up. “Okay, the joke is over. I need the money,” she panics. “We’re going shopping after school.”

“Tough shit,” I state.

“Tough shit,” Peyton parrots, knowing better.

“No Playdoh set,” I tell Peyton.

“Jesus for Christ, Daddy!” Peyton shouts in scold.

“Gracie, go to school,” Serena jumps in, standing as Peyton doles her his order.

“No, Mommy, you eat with me.”

“No, I think I’ll get ready,” Serena delivers before walking out of the kitchen. Peyton gawks at her.

“But I don’t want to eat all alone!”

“You don’t need me to eat with you. You don’t like it when I talk to you. You bite me.”

“I was just playing,” he calls after her.

“I don’t like playing with biters,” Serena tosses over her shoulder before shutting our bedroom door.

“I sorry, Mommy! I won’t today,” Peyton yells to the closed door as Gracie stares after her. It’s then I feel genuine unease start to roll off my daughter—the gravity of what’s happening as she scrutinizes me. It’s then that I finally give her my attention while delivering the raw truth.

“You think I haven’t been onto you? You think I’m clueless? I’m not, Gracie. Never have been. I just hoped the manipulative side of you was a phase. A warring hormones type of moment in time. Something that would eventually fall away as you aged and grew out of it, but you know what? You’re just not nice. At all. I’m surprised you have friends.”

Gracie gasps as the horn sounds again.

“So you’re really not going to give me the money?”

“Case in point,” I shake my head. “You don’t care about anything that matters.”

“I care about my friends getting a basket.”

“So you can get yours,” I state. “Go to school, Gracie, because if you miss your ride, I’m locking you out of this house.”

“Mommy!” Peyton barks in order.

“Enough,” I bark back. “You bit your mom. You can eat alone.”

“You’re going to be mean to a baby?” Gracie jabs, and it lands, but I manage to counter.

“Nice try. You going to let a baby swing from a rope?”

Thirty seconds later, Gracie slams the front door so hard the walls rattle. It’s then I deduct present nineteen and text her as much. Then I remember her phone is in the safe. Guess she’ll replace out on Christmas.

“Why is she so mad?” Peyton asks.

“Because she knows her parents aren’t going to put up with her being bad anymore.” I narrow my eyes on him.

“What?” he asks, chewing slowly.

“I think you’ll get the idea really soon, my boy.”

I walk out, leaving Peyton at the table, stopping behind the wall just out of sight as he finishes his breakfast alone. Heart aching as he mumbles to himself, I resign myself to the fact that this is for the better—for the long run. To set a new standard. Truth is, we have failed as disciplinarians. When things got significantly better for us financially, we went overboard. Maybe we got too busy maintaining the new business that we started to give in to them. But there’s no excuse for their behavior. None justifiable enough to have me rethinking this. Especially with Gracie’s reaction.

Day one, Thatch. Day one.

It’s not the image of Serena the first time I saw her that sticks out in my mind anymore as I eventually join Peyton and wash out my bowl. It’s the image of her this morning. The feel of her against my fingertips. The smile that greeted me. For the first time in years, I feel present. I feel like I’m actually living my life. And though this sting is uncomfortable from the stunt I just pulled, taking action feels right.

I want that smile back. The one that says her whole life is in front of her. And more importantly, a smile that says my wife has the life she wants.