Page 17 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Mewery Christmas,” Peyton echoes in parting before I guide him down the hall and out of the school.

Silent minutes in the truck follow until Peyton finally starts to brave a conversation. That’s the thing about kids. They can sense a parent’s mood and the seriousness of all situations. Only blind to it when they’re truly at play. But they know. The truth of that irks me as he speaks up.

“Am I inbig trouble,Daddy?”

I bite my tongue, absolutely refusing to entertain this shit again because I meant every word I said. We’ve had these useless talks. One too many times.

“Daddy, I asked you a question!” Peyton shouts as I ease to a stop and lock eyes with my son. As the seconds tick by, he laughs nervously, and I keep my expression grim. Normally, this is where I would chime in and put him at ease because I hated that feeling when I was a kid. The tense seconds before my father’s explosions always got my nerves so frazzled I was a jittering fucking mess. Something I wanted to spare my own children from, but mine seem to be utterly lacking any healthy amount of fear as of late. The image that’s been haunting me nonstop for days slams into me as I stare at him. The cold sweat the memory induces covering me as I rattle from within. It’s then I know it’s not just their behavior that has me taking these measures. It’s more. Much more, and it’smy fearthat’s part of the catalyst.

“Daddy, why are you not talking to me?” Peyton asks, his eyes dimming slightly as he tries to figure me out. Ignoring the sting in my chest, I keep at our stare off until the light turns green.

“Wiggles,” he demands, dismissing me and what just transpired. Programmed, I immediately thumb the station button on the steering wheel to obey and stop myself. I don’t take orders anymore.

Grinning, I flip through the stations until I hit classic rock, specifically a song I’m all too familiar with. In hearing the opening, I’m granted a nostalgia kick and take it as a sign I’m on the right path. Cranking it up to deafening, I ignore my son’s roaring protest the whole ride to pick up the check. Exhausted from the day already, the second we hit the garage, my cell rings, and I frown when I read the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Daddy, you didn’t play Wiggles!” Peyton shouts as I exit the truck and slam the door on his berating.

“Is this Thatcher O’Neal?”

“Yes, how can I help you?” I ask, stepping back and opening Peyton’s door to see he’s already unbuckled himself, arms raised for me to get him down as he continues to air his grievances.

“Sir, this is security at Tree Hill Mall,” the man says as my stomach drops. I pause, hoisting Peyton, whose shoes hang in the air between the garage floor and the cab of my F150.

“Daddy, let me down!” Peyton orders.

I cut my eyes toward my son, and he quiets enough to let me catch the ass end of what’s being relayed over the line. “—caught your daughter shoplifting at Victoria’s Secret and have detained her here at the mall.”

“She . . . was stealing?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Feeling kicked, I stand utterly stunned while mixed emotions start to war for dominance as crimson threatens my vision.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I manage to reply, utterly gutted as I re-load Peyton into his seat, shutting the door on his newly barked order as blood starts to whoosh in my ears. Idle in the garage, I lean back against my truck for long seconds while absorbing the latest blow. I’ve had moments as a parent that have leveled me over the years. Downright debilitating moments. One of which I had last week—the worst one to date. This one coming a close second. After calming myself enough to get behind the wheel, I bend, pressing my forehead to it as I give myself a few more needed seconds. I don’t want to drive this upset with Peyton behind me.

“Daddy ... why did you buckle me? Are you crying?”

“Peyton,” I rasp out hoarsely. “I need you to be quiet right now.”

Ignoring his backtalk, I restart my truck, and just as we start to pull out, Serena pulls into the driveway. Pressing the brakes, dread fills me at what I’m about to have to relay to her. While at the same time thankful for the sight of her. For the reminder that we’re in this together as we both roll down our windows.

“Hey,” she greets before reading my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Mommy! Mommy, come get me!” Peyton shouts.

“I saw I missed a call,” she sighs. “Ms. May?”

I nod, and she winces as Peyton roars behind me.

“Want me to get him?” Serena asks.

“Yes, but we don’t take orders anymore, and it might do him some good to see his sister in handcuffs.”

Serena’s eyes bulge. “What?”

“Yeah, our tween has decided to make her shoplifting debut at Victoria’s Secret,” I manage to push out.

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