Page 12 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“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 agothis 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 mattersto merightnow,” 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 pourmy 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, themayat 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?”

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