Page 7 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“You can’t. I’ve tried. I try so hard. Gracie—”

“I love her, but I don’t like her,” he says with a wince. “I don’t like my kid, Serena. She’s a nightmare to be around, and Peytonis picking up all her nasty behaviors with surprises of his own. He’s becoming a dick.”

“Thatch,” I widen my eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

“Right now, I absolutely do. We can’t pussyfoot around this, babe. They’re out of control.”

“I know Gracie gets some of her bad habits from me,” I admit. “I’m at fault for some of this.”

“Not that way, not that way, hell no,” he disagrees, and I take some comfort in his adamant refusal. “There’s a difference between being sassy, confident, opinionated, and being horrific. You’re not the latter. And I’m no saint,” he continues, “Peyton called the lady at the deli a cunt the other day, and you hate that word, so who’s the real MVP?” He points to himself. “But screw blaming ourselves forall of it, I refuse to. We’ve had dozens of talks with each of them about right and wrong and beyond. Enough that they understand what’s morally sound. They used to address me as Sir. Used their manners. Said thank you. Where the hell did that go? They have no respect because we’re not backing anything up or putting our feet down. If we don’t start right now, nothing changes.”

“Then after Christmas,” I suggest, and he whips his head back and forth.

“This is the perfect time. At this point, they have no other incentive to do better other than to behave before Christmas.”

“Thatch, we can’t take their Christmas away.”

“Baby, even Peyton knows our threats are empty.”

“So, what do we do?” I ask.

“Exactly what you said,” he delivers, “we’re quitting.”

“Yeah, right,” I roll my eyes, “be reasonable.”

“I am,” he states, his tone unwavering. “It’s time they realize how good they have it.”

“We can’t quit being their parents. That’s ... crazy, not to mention illegal.”

Standing, he grips my hand and leads me into the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he tests the water and turns back to me.

“So we’ll take a holiday. Did you know Peyton put hot sauce on my eggs this morning when I was on a conference call? Knowing how it affects me? I didn’t realize it until four bites in.” He shakes his head. “I was in the shitter fortwo hoursthis morning.”

I press my lips together, and he gives me a hard stare.

“Laugh it up, but what’s he going to do when he’s ten, slash my tires? Cut my brake lines?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say, and we share a sad smile.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

“I miss you, too,” I whisper back. “I swear, Thatch. I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“Same,” he shoots me a pensive look.

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“Tell me,” I insist.

“Sometimes, I miss the old us. Ride or die, no fucks given, make out on a whim—Thatch and Serena,” he says, startling me with his candor. He sees the surprise in my eyes and keeps going. “I know we grow up, change, and evolve. It’s par for the course, but we used to really have fun.”

He grips the back of my neck and presses his forehead to mine. “We’re in this thing for life. Who says it has to be all responsibility with absolutely no time forus?They.But theywho? Experts? Well, they say those thatcan’t do,teach, so maybe those experts don’t have fucking kids. This is our life. Our family,” he declares with a slightly mad sparkle lighting his green eyes. “Fuck date night once every two months—which we haven’t done inthree—and why?”

He presses in. “Serena, say it ... fine, I will. It’s because we don’t want to subject other people to them. Not even Whitney and Eli. That’s telling enough.”

“Where’s the truth serum, Thatch? You’re never this vocal about your feelings unless we’re fighting or—”

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