Page 9 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“When we decide to be parents again, we have got to teach that kid to better use his G’s,” I drawl, running my fingers along Serena’s thigh. Her brow lifts in a clear sign of no-go as I bring them beneath the hem of her shirt to her stomach.

“I think he knows we think it’s cute when he mispronounces it and uses it to manipulate us,” Serena surmises. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

“I’m glad you did, damn ... I think you’re right. Ready for this?”

She nods. “Ready.”

“Good,” I rake my lip, and her eyes follow. She told me she thought it was sexy once, and I do it often as a natural tick. Probably too often, which has had it losing its potency over the years. This morning, it seems to be working, which fuels my second decision. One I made before I drifted off last night, which is to woo and seduce my wife. To try to give her the version of me I’m sure she misses at times. The attentive version of me that showered her with affection without words. Words always being hard to come forth with for me. Something engrained early by my parents. Even so, I managed it other ways by putting her needs first. Now being the perfect time, seeing as how I’ve freed some up by ignoring the child screaming my name in summons. Just as Serena is feigning deaf to Gracie’s shrieks. It’s when the shouting threatens to go nuclear that Serena sighs and begins topull away. Mentally blocking the havoc happening a room over, I keep her idle.

“Hold steady, baby,” I console before attempting to distract her. “Do you know what I’ve been thinking about?A lotlately?”

“What?” she hesitantly settles back into place, her eyes on mine.

“The night we met. An ingrained image of nineteen-year-old you filling your parent’s doorway. The second you burst through the front door, you started talking so fast, but I couldn’t register a single word. Not one. You were wearing a dark blue sweater that showed your midriff, a solid white scarf, and jeans that clung to you. And fuck, baby,” I murmur, running my finger down her cheek, “I thought I was going to die right there.”

Her lips part because as many times as I could have, fucking should have, I’ve never told her this. Not in this much detail. Not once in our decades together. It’s always been something I’ve held close to my chest. But maybe the appreciation should start here, between us. An example to set. Though the hoisted boom box-wielding—lovesick fool with a witty, breath-stealing diatribe—guy I’ll never be. Voicing sentiments like these is rare, few andyearsbetween.

Though now, and in gauging the look in her eyes, it seems I’ve saved this story all these years later, for this exact moment. A time where our kids collectively screech outside our bedroom door like the sky is falling while we batten down the hatches.

“When I saw you, I thought,” I pull her flusher to me, where I’m propped on my side. “Whatever she says after tonight, I want to hear it. Even though you were straight bitching, all I could see was how beautiful you were compared to the pictures I’d been walking past for months. Of how they didn’t do you justice.”

“Jesus for Christ, Daddy!” Peyton bellows, as my inclination to go to him builds, trying not to laugh at his misuse of the phrase because he treats it like a campaign slogan.

“I thought,” I continue, adamant about attending to the doe-eyed beauty I’m holding, “Iwant her, and everything that comes with her. Even the attitude, especially the attitude. I. Want. That. Girl.” What I don’t mention is the sinking feeling just after those initial seconds. That I wasn’t worthy of her and never would be.

“Dad?! Mom?? Where is breakfast? I am so late! And I still need twenty dollars!”

Eyes locked, Serena palms my jaw, her eyes misted due to my sentiment. “You never talk to me like this. Not really.”

“I know, but I should, and I want to. I—” I falter briefly, “—you know it’s never been easy for me to put a voice to how I feel.”

“Thatch, youshowme every day—”

“Twenty-two years together,” I interject. “You deserve the words,” I run my finger over the bite mark on her arm. “You deserve better from everyone in this damned house.”

“Thatch,” she draws out, shock clear in her expression as I condemn myself for letting her go so fucking long without words she does deserve. Words that, no matter how close we get, have always been so hard for me to articulate.

“I want to kiss you right now,” she says, cupping my neck lovingly, “but mybreath reeks.”

“Who gives a fuck,” I utter a second before I crush her mouth. An instant later, our bedroom door pops open before the handle is smashed into the drywall. I wince at the probability of some damage now behind our door. Hard and now pissed, I snap my attention toward my son, who is standing in nothing but his underwear, his eyes wide as saucers.

“Daddy!” Peyton demands. “Mommy! I have been calling you to come!”

“Well, we were busy,” I clap back in irritation. When Serena goes to move, I keep her where she is, dragging my knuckles along her stomach. It feels wrong touching her this way with my son so close. A little forbidden in a sense, but the goosebumpsthat form in my wake on her skin are telling. Knowing I’m getting too close to a full salute, I reluctantly drag my touch over her smooth skin one last time before I pull them away to draw a line in the sand.

“Son, you willknockbefore you come in this room from here on out. This isn’t the first time I’ve said this.”

“I know, Daddy, but—”

“If you know, then do it. Shut the door right now, knock, and ask permission to come in, and if you slam it open again, you will spend today learning how to patch dry wall.Now,” I order.

“But I’m already in here,” Peyton whines, “and—”

“Peyton, now,” I command.

“Oh, my Dawd, Daddy, I’m trying to tell you someone stolded our Christmas tree!”

“What did I just say?” I hold my ground and feel Serena tense next to me in wait.

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