Page 1 of The Sleight Before Christmas

Twenty-One Christmases Ago. . .

Back to the fire, calloused hands palming the air behind me, the blazing flame’s warmth begins to blanket me as mouthwatering smells waft in from the kitchen. Gazing upon the brightly lit twinkling lights and glittering ornaments strung on the tree feet away, I sink into the atmosphere—this vibe in stark contrast to any memory of my own home.

A blink later, my serenity is splintered when the front door bursts open. Turning, I’m met with a tornado of snow flurries and platinum blonde hair. Instant chatter erupts from the creature as she rambles about mixed grievances and announcements while I drink her in. In the next instant, I recognize her, all the while becoming utterly fucking stupefied by the living, breathing vision of her. A fully animated version against the stationary images I’ve observed in passing over these last months. Images that fail in contrast to the utter ...chaosthat is Ruby and Allen Collins’ oldest daughter. Chaos, wrapped in the most beautiful package I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Lengthy blonde hair lays in snow-dampened waves over her shoulders. Her sweater, dark blue and hugging every bit of her perfect frame. The hem hovering inches above her jeans, showcasing her insanely toned midriff. One accentuated by a glittering, diamond belly button ring. Her dark, slightly tattered jeans hugging the abundant curve of her hips down to her toned calves. The perfection finished off with short-cut black boots with silver buckles on the sides. Boots similar to the ones I’m wearing. After my first thorough sweep, I instantly go in foranother hit of her. This one far more intoxicating as I explore her slightly heart-shaped face, rich doe eyes, and lengthy painted black lashes. Her features utterly perfect and accentuated by thick, highly glossed lips.

Fuck me.

Frozen where I stand and utterly mystified, when the rambling suddenly stops, I’m met with an equally arresting stare. It’s when she cocks her hip, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny—even as they light with mischief as she rudely addresses me—that I bite my smile back. A grin I fight hard to keep at bay because it becomes obvious in those seconds that I’ve been set up. At the sight of her, not one bit of me is bothered by it. Not in the least. Because I already know I want that chaos and everything that comes with it.

Present Day

“STOP IT PEYTON!” Gracie screams an octave above her normal ear-splitting volume as the woman formerly known as my wife fumes in front of me. Hair full of suds, her glaring left eye starts to involuntarily twitch. Not long ago, I’d be racking my brain for a clue as to why. Though my wife is vocal enough about her grievances, she sometimes keeps them bottled for long stints. That’s when things tend to get scary.

Though I’ve never been a man of many words, less than a handful of years back, we found ourselves unable to speak to one another without offense or resentment setting in. Those run-ins followed by days of tense silence. Been there, done that, and since our blow-up that Christmas, I’ve started communicating a bit better, which had us getting somewhat back in sync—just like the good old days. So, as I gaze upon my gorgeous, simmering, soap-covered wife, I silently commend us both on our abilityto communicate better. Even as I physically see her decision to verbally berate me.

“Love you,” I shoot out preemptively just as she opens her mouth to deliver my ass to me. My sentiment has her pausing a millisecond, her eyes losing a smidge of theirterrorize himsheen. A small win.

“Repeat after me, Thatchalamewl,” she draws out one of my more ridiculous pet names. At the arrival of it, I take it as a sign my strategy wasn’t completely ignored. Though, I used to find this name far more endearing when it wasn’t the equivalent ofmiddle nameserious. Ah, these little games we play.

The trash bag I’m holding grows heavier in my hand as I tense due to the sudden silence upstairs. Too quiet. Something’s afoot. If I had to guess the culprit—Peyton. His accomplice—our baby girl, Gracie. Though far from a baby now. So far, that I shield my eyes from her wardrobe choices—daily—to try to keep the memory alive.

It’s the growing confrontation in my wife’s rich brown eyes that has me flitting my focus back to her as I soak in her state. I see it the second her demeanor shifts tomiddle nameserious. The tiny lines around her mouth deepening with her frown. Disappointment. Words of said emotion forming on her tongue as a handful of suds from her head slide down her slender neck and disappear into her robe.

“I, Thatch,” she drones on as I debate on Smart Pop and soft-core porn in our newly finished basement after everyone is lights out...ora quick, stress-relieving tug in a hot shower. As selfish as the thought of sex may be in this moment, I’ve been unsuccessfully attempting to shift from our cozy pajama setup—me bottoms, her tops, and TV reruns—to the action arena starring the two of us sans the flannel sometime before the morning whistle blows. And by whistle, I mean the symphony of our children’s mixed screams.

Lately, I miss touching her intimately and that touch being welcome.

I miss her sounds, her skin, her moans, and connection. Her full attention. In some form other than “honey do, did you, will you?” and “why did you, do you?” It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the “do that, so good, do it again” area.

One I’m getting desperate to get back to. As far as typical men think in the number of sexual thoughts a day, I feel like I’m below par in the depravity department. But the last time we got truly intimate, the leaves hadn’t fully turned. There wasn’t a hint of snow on the ground. Now that our driveway is salted and the foliage is dusted white, I can feel myself coiling up due to pent-up frustration.

“I, Thatch,” I mumble in feeble attempt to get somewhere between the two territories at some point in the next week.

“Do solemnly swear,” she prompts, her command sounding like the growl of a small dog. Like a terrier or maybe a Jack Russell. I’ve always wanted a Jack Russell, but they’re known to be a hyper breed, and we’re all stocked up on hy—

“Thatch,” Serena snaps, bringing me back.

“Do solemnly swear,” I continue, as sweat starts to bead at my temple—not from fear but because I can feel her slipping further away. Marriage has its phases, and after two decades and counting with Serena, I know this truth all too well. I live it and very intentionally endure it because the hard-earned sweet spots are so fucking worth it. Tonight, that shift seems to be getting further out of reach, and I know there are two distinct reasons why. Two eerily quiet reasons upstairs. Too quiet.

“To never again bother my wife while she’s bathing,” Serena finishes, her hair still dripping rapidly where she stands in our kitchen. Which is ironic since it was she, herself, who interrupted the rest ofher own bathto bitch me out.Theysay it’s always the ones you love most that you take aggravation withlife out on, right? Well, from what I can tell at this moment, my wife loves me more than anyone in the history of fucking ever. Which would be flattering if affection truly played a factor in any part of this bullshit.

No, this, what’s happening right here, is part of the buildup that started just after Thanksgiving. The animosity rolling off her in thanks to the stressful weeks leading up to the main event. The pressure cooker state of mind that all spouses experience during the period coinedthe holidays.Daysmy ass. I prefer to think of them as hell on earth—weeks. Weeks in which peace is anywhere but on planet Earth for any ringed man equipped with a cock. The proof evident in the task list I get bombarded with annually that no male, even in his prime, can undertake successfully. A list I swear is meant to purposely set up this cock wielding, peaceless man for failure. Hellacious weeks in which the tiny woman in front of me—who I would and often do walk through hellfire for—evolves into my own personal terrorist. That is, until the blinking lights disappear, the scent of pine goes back to its designated cleaner bottle, and the last shred of tinsel is sucked up by our Dyson.

Maybe I shouldn’t discriminate and include the single but attached guys. It’s been a while for me, but I bet they’re just as battered down during this time by their would-be wives. I bet a few of those ringless guys are reconsidering the diamond they bought right now due to the state of their significant others. Though in truth, it’s not their fault, it’s the pressure—

“Thatch!” Serena summons, knowing how squirrel my thoughts get when I’m knee-deep in my wife’s disappointment.

“Jesus, baby, okay. Get it over with.”

“To never again bother my wife while she’s bathing,” she repeats, as the image of the first time I laid eyes on her shutters in. The vision having helped greatly in recent weeks. A reminder of the girl I first laid eyes on and fell for as quickly as thesnow surrounded her in those life-changing seconds. Surprising myself when I stuck. Even all these years later.

“Unless someone is bleeding or nuclear war breaks out,” she continues as the trash bag grows heavier in my hands.

“Unless ...” I quirk a brow with my suspense-filled pause. “You know what,” I shake my head. “I’m calling bullshit, babe. I think we should turn this into a negotiation.”

“Now’s not the time,” Serena dismisses.

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