Page 36 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Fuck, you feel so f-d-damned g-good,” he utters, his tone a little dreamlike as I chuckle at his delivery. He grimaces before glowering at me. “You’re an asshole, Collins.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“So much sass from that mouth,” he utters, one side of his own mouth lifting. “Which I definitely like more when you’renottalking.”

“Then kiss me quiet, Handy Man.”

“Nah,” he strokes my lower lip. “I better go,” he gently lifts me from his lap like I weigh nothing before standing. He adjusts his clothes as I glance up at the clock, gaping when I read the hour. Because hours is how long we’ve been kissing. Body tingling, it’s then I realize I’m equally a mess, my clothes rumpled, my panties soaked, nipples sore from being hard for so long. I’m physically aching for relief as my body buzzes, alight—for him.

“Wow, I—” Turning when I feel his absence, I see he’s already lingering in the door of the shed, watching me carefully. The look in his gorgeous green eyes stuns me speechless before he drops them and disappears out the door. But I don’t call after him in question or wonder if he’s coming back tomorrow—or rather, tonight—because his kiss and that look said it all.

Dayone, and merehours in, Peyton screams before dropping dead in the center of my mother’s kitchen, which was formerlyGrammy P’s. Two generations of women who would not put up with this shit and didn’t. Both of which would have probably already figured out a way to stop it as I fail them while watching my son flail his arms and legs as every adult in proximity recoils in utter horror.

Thankful we’re not in the grocery store like last time—but no less mortified due to the number of eyes watching his latest meltdown—I continue whipping the fresh cream for the chocolate icebox cake as Peyton’s screams increase. His audience having everything to do with the strength of his performance, I shoo Conner out of the kitchen to spare her as the glass door in the den slides open before Thatch appears with an armful of wood. I search his face helplessly as he glances down at Peyton, his sigh visible before he gives me a reassuring wink.

Eli at his back, his own arms full, he too stares down at Peyton as they pass. When both men have dropped their wood haul at the hearth, Thatch stops Eli from approaching by palming his chest and adamantly shaking his head. Feeling the urgency to make it stop by everyone surrounding us, I decide to continue to take my cues from Thatch, who steps over our flailing son, straddling him between his legs.

“Useyour words, son,” Thatch bellows, and I know it’s out of contempt for judgment of all adults within range. Even if they don’t understand his reasoning for it, I do. Thatch looks up to me just after, solidifying that it was more for me and that we’re on the same page before he takes a knee, repeating his request to Peyton as instructed byThey. The experts, the teachers, the ones who dole out what the disciplinary rules are.

“Peyton, please use your words,” Thatch gently coaxes, “and tell Daddy why you’re upset.”

“Or pop his ass,” my dad utters, shaking his head in both pity and irritation.

“Daddy, no,” Whitney gently scolds. “Times are different. They’re doing what they were taught.”

“And we were taught to use our words,” Thatch answers as if unaffected before addressing his son. “Peyton,use your words.”

Peyton’s screams increase as my husband makes one last attempt, our son’s wails like thousands of nails dragging across my skin. I can feel Whitney’s stare on me as I do my best not to react. Resisting my urgency to stop the noise and give in. Anything to make it stop.

“Peyton O’Neal, I need you to use your words,” Thatch says more sternly, but to no avail. I continue whisking rather than acting on the urge to pack my family up and take them home, if only to stop the humiliation.

Gracie chooses that moment to pop her head in from the living room and add her unhelpful two cents. “Oh my God, Peyton, shut up!”

“That’s not what we were told to do,” Thatch states, again for everyone within range in an attempt to make them understand—in hopes they’ll see why we’re in this stalemate with our kids. While I know their opinion shouldn’t matter, I can’t help the flush of embarrassment that covers me as I look over to my daughter.

“Say another word, Gracie,” I manage to warn through Peyton’s piercing noise, “andwe aregoing home. Want to test me?”

Gracie stalks off as my mom speaks up.

“This is because I didn’t let him lick a beater,” she tells Thatch grimly through Peyton’s cries. Just after, Wyatt runs in, looking for a limbless child, one who is bleeding or some other emergency that warrants the meltdown happening in the kitchen. His eyes widen when he sees his older cousin flailing like a fish with no visible wounds.

“Peyton, please, son, use your words,” Thatch orders one last time as Brenden enters the room, fish-mouthed, his expression just as baffled. Briefly, Thatch drops his own head before lifting his eyes to every single onlooker, his words echoing through the kitchen. “Are we clear?”

Ruby, Whitney, Erin, Allen, and Brenden all nod before Thatch shifts his gaze to an utterly mortified Eli, whose expression has morphed into one of heartbreak.

The two brothers share a strained look before Eli dips his chin. Not a second later, Thatch scoops Peyton up and carries him out of the kitchen. His cries echo up the staircase, just as piercing until they die out with Thatch’s retreat. My guess is that he took him all the way up to the attic, now deemed Whitney and Eli’s Raggedy Ann and Andy Room.

“Holy fuck,” my sister whispers mutely for me, her complexion paling rapidly. “You’ve been dealing withthisforhow long?”

“I don’t know anymore,” I whisper back, releasing a tear that rolls down my cheek. “I don’t even know, Whitney.”

“Jesus, Serena, I’m so sorry,” jerking the mixing bowl out of my hands, she pulls me into her for a hug. “Yeah, no, this has to stop. I see it.”

I pull back and kiss her cheek. “Thank you for getting it.”

“Girl,” she stares back in the direction Thatch fled. “We’re at Defcon 1, and so I say it’s time for a juice box. We’re upping juice box night to tonight,” she announces. “This is an emergency.”

“‘Tonight is your night, bro,’” Erin chimes in, letting us know she’s down by sounding our motto. One Whitney and I stole from an old movie, “Twins,” and use to announce when we’re ready to behave badly. Our new tradition of girl’s night—pre-Christmas edition, started years back and has turned into an annual bitch fest. One in which we drink far too much and have no-holds-barred convos. Just after Mom and I set the cake,Whitney pulls out her keys and nudges me. “Get your boots on, sis. We’re about to stock up.”

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