Page 20 of Ho Ho Oh No

Okay, I totally influenced them. You caught me elf-handed.

But can you blame me?

Ever since Sammy and I got together, holidays are so damn magical. Before her, I used to dread the annual reminder of my loneliness. And now, I cherish every moment, wishing I could make it last forever.

Growing up in the foster system, I didn’t know what I was missing. I suspect I’m making up for lost time.

I’m planning to spend the rest of my life spoiling my princess and our babies with over-the-top celebrations. Not just for Christmas either. We’re going big for Halloween, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and more. All of them!Hell, I’m even planning on dressing up as Lincoln for Presidents’ Day. Naturally, I’ve been perfecting what I can only assume his accent would have been. And yeah, I’ve memorized the beginning of the Gettysburg Address. It’ll be a laugh riot. Can’t wait.

And everyone knows costumes are an essential part of any holiday celebration. So I was elated when the ladies decided the partygoers had to dress up like a character from a holiday movie, wear an ugly Christmas sweater, or don a traditional holiday themed costume. If any of the attendees fail to dress up, they don’t get in. Period. No exceptions. We should have everything from Frosty to Clark Griswold. I can’t freaking wait for tonight.

My knee won’t stop bouncing under the table as Sammy and I finish lunch in the break room at Redleg. Well, asIfinish lunch. She’s merely picking at the crust on her turkey sandwich.

“What’s the matter, princess? Aren’t you hungry?”

Her hand flops to the table, and she flays me with a set of pouty lips and sad eyes that could make a grown man cry.

It’s me. I’m the grown man about to cry because of how sullen she is.

Instead of answering audibly, she shakes her head. Despite the laws of physics, her lower lip juts out even farther.

Aww, my darling wife is utterly miserable this late in the pregnancy. She’s only got another week before the doctor will induce her if she hasn’t gone into labor on her own yet. Our twins will be here in a week or less. And yet, an air of hopelessness wafts around her so thick I’m tempted to bat it away for her so she can breathe.

I pop the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth while contemplating how to ease her discomfort. After a swig of my coffee, I ask, “Want to rest in the bunk room? I’ll rub your back.”

“That would be nice. Can you send in one of those chair things and a bunch of guys to carry me? Like Cleopatra. What are those things called?”

“A litter or sedan chair, depending on the country,” I answer, barely pausing to think.

She scoffs. “How thehelldo you know that?”

On the off chance the story might elevate her mood or at least provide a distraction, I explain how it went down. “About two years ago, Klein, Shep, and I were on a job guarding the royal family from Brunei.”

She shifts back in her seat, propping her feet on the chair beside her. A haggard sigh escapes her rounded lips from the exertion required.

Rising quickly, I shuffle to that seat so I can massage her lower legs while I finish the story. Her beautiful, albeit slightly swollen, face softens in contentment when I start massaging her ankles in soothing circles.

“One of the Sultan’s daughters was a beast of a woman,” I continue. “Not big or anything. It was her attitude. We’re talking raging diva meets bridezilla meets spoiled rich teenager with a heaping helping of narcissism thrown on top like free sprinkles. You get me?”

“It’s okay if you saybitch,” Sammy quips. “Some women deserve it. Some men, gays, and theys do too. I won’t judge you for calling a spade a spade. She sounds like a turbo bitch. And I’d know since I’ve been one myself at times.”

“No, you haven’t. Don’t talk shit about yourself.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. “Coping via dark humor is still coping.”

“Fair. But you get the picture about this woman without further adjectives.”

Her eyes flutter closed when I dig my thumb and forefinger into the fleshy space surrounding her Achilles tendon. “Mmm. Continue, please. Mega royal bitch. How do we get to you knowing what that chair thing is called?”

“Well, one afternoon me and the boys were joking about how we wouldn’t be surprised if she started asking us to carry her around from room to room.” My chest shakes at the vivid memory unfolding. “You know how I love my practical jokes, right?”

Facetiously, which is my favorite version of Sammy, she lays her flattened palm across her chest and gasps. “You do? Oh, I hadnoooidea. Wish I had known before getting knocked up and hitched. Do you think this affliction is hereditary?”

Her teasing reminds me of something, so I take a quick break from the story. “Speaking of getting hitched, did you give any more thought to the name change now that you’re my wife?”

I’d giggle after saying that if I wasn’t a tough, macho man.

But I am. So no giggles. Well, noexternalones. I can giggle inside. And I do.

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