Page 36 of Mistletoe & Magic
“Well, now you’ve seen me naked. There’s no need to tiptoe around me anymore. Wereallyknow each other now,” she teases.
My mouth drops open. “I don’t tiptoe around you.”
“Well, you don’t seem to like me, either,” she says, her face twisting in a nervous grin.
I step closer to her, reaching behind her to grab another towel, and she stills and closes her eyes as I come close to her face. “You don’t know what I like, Ivy.”
Then I take the towel, use it to dry my face and arms, and head down the hall.
I leave before I do something I can’t take back. Like kiss the hell out of her.
There is a stack of invoices on my desk and a dozen calls I should return before noon. Two wholesale orders need tagging. A baler belt that needs checking. I know every task waiting for me at the lot the way other men know the backs of their hands. Most mornings I feel the weight the second my feet hit the floor.
Today I don’t. Today I feel the pull of my kid in a snowflake sweater asking about hot chocolate and which tree we will cut, and I feel the quiet nudge of the woman who put cocoa on the shopping list without making it a thing.
Ivy moves through the house like she has always known where things live. She tucks mittens in Junie’s pocket and sets a thermos by the door. She catches my eye and smiles like she is letting me in on a secret. I think about yesterday, hauling boxes from the condo while Derek watched from the sidewalk, and how Ivy kept her chin level the whole time. I think about the way Junie slipped her hand into Ivy’s without asking and how some knot in me loosened.
I take a sip of coffee and make a choice. The farm will not break if I step back for a few hours. Tate has the crews lined out. He knows the rhythm of December. He knows when to radio me if the line at checkout snakes past the firs or if a tractor coughs wrong. I trust him. I need to act like I do.
“Tree first,” I tell Junie. “Then we can string lights.”
Her grin is bright enough to melt frost. She bounces on her toes. The dog sneezes and wags like she understands the plan.
A month ago, I would have been out the door before sunrise, coffee in a travel mug, mind already at the lot, body catching up later. A month ago, I would have told myself I was choosing responsibility. Maybe I was. Maybe I was also hiding in the work because it did not ask anything of me that I did not know how to give.
Now I look at my daughter and the woman by my sink, andI feel something I have not felt in a long time. Lighter. Like there is air where the grind used to sit. The work is still there. It will always be there. But today my kid gets a fresh-cut tree and a dad who is not just passing through the kitchen on his way to somewhere else. Today I let Tate steer for a while, and I stay where the good noise is.
A knock rattles the front door.
Junie races across the living room before I can set the mug down. She flings it open with all the force her little body can manage. Finn stands there in a neon green hoodie so bright it makes my eyes hurt.
“What are you wearing?” I cringe and look away as if he’s blinding me.
“Uncle Finn!” she squeals. “You look like a tennis ball.”
Finn groans, glancing down at himself. “What? No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” Junie insists with a huge, knowing grin. “And you better watch out for dogs. They’ll chase you. Like Lola.”
Finn gapes at her as if she’s just betrayed him. “Who the heck is Lola?”
I lean against the counter, biting back a laugh at hearing my five-year-old give Finn crap, which is one of my favorite things to do.
“Actually,” Junie adds with perfect seriousness, “Nana says you are a golden retriever. So it makes sense why you’re dressed like that. You’ll attract your fellow golden retrievers. And Lola is my new best friend, silly. But really, I think she’s mine now.”
I don’t laugh. The grin dies in my mouth. The coffee turns bitter on my tongue. Junie says she really feels like Lola is hers now and I feel the floor tilt. I picture that glossy black Audi and a man who would keep a dog out of spite, and my kid standing in a doorway with empty hands. The thought hits like a cold nail.
I set the mug down. “Hey,” I say, aiming for gentle and landing closer to firm, “we are taking care of Lola. She belongs with Ivy.”
Junie’s smile falters, small and confused. Guilt flares, but the line has to be there. I cannot let her build a world that someone else can yank away. I glance at Ivy. She reads me fast, puts a hand on Junie’s shoulder, and nods like we are on the same page.
“Lola is my girl,” Ivy says softly, “and you are her favorite person. That is a real thing.”
Junie brightens a little. I take my mug again and stare into it like it has answers. I hate how quick I am to brace. I hate that I have to be. But I will not let my daughter fall in love with something that is not ours to keep. Not if I can help it.
“Also, will you guys stop calling me that?” Finn protests, glaring at me. “I’mnota dog.”
Our mom teases Finn that he’s got the golden retriever trope in him, whatever that means. She’s tried to explain it a few times. But it makes Finn irritated, so that’s all that matters. And this is just hilarious.
