Page 102 of The Art of Being Merry
“This isn’t something I’m going to regret, right? I shouldn’t be allowed to make grown-up decisions because all they do is backfire in my face. Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”
She slips her hand over mine. “I’ve never seen you so happy, so alive, as you are when he’s around. I’ve never seen Dax so committed to someone other than himself, not that he’s selfish, but more of a . . .”
“Lone wolf,” I provide, remembering one of our earlier conversations.
“But not with you and the boys. He’s invested—time, mind, body, and soul. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”
“But it’s been so short a time. What if things are only good because it’s the beginning? What if?—”
Willa shakes her head, silencing me. “Thinking like that will lead you nowhere good. What if he’s the man you’re supposed to be with? What if he’s the man who steps up and gives your kids a father figure they deserve? What if he’s the partner young Clem always talked about? The one she’d go on and on and on about?”
I chuckle, memories from our childhood surfacing at what she mentions. I never gave him a name or a description, but this mysterious man was always floating around the surface, just out of reach, a figment of my imagination, a childhood pipe dream.
When I met Keith, I knew it wasn’t him. It never felt right, but life circumstances changed, and I settled.
With Dax, I wouldn’t be settling. And hell if it doesn’t feel right.
Since the moment I met him, frazzled and exhausted, an electricity buzzed around me, a voice from deep within, speaking a language I couldn’t understand but paid attention to anyway. A voice seeming to say, “It’s always been him.”
Is now the time to trust the voice? Trust my gut and follow where it leads?
Or do I play it safe for fear of making the same mistake again?
Except Dax isn’t Keith. Not even a little. And from the start, our relationship has been different, stronger, more in sync.
“What if he is?” I finally say on a deep exhale, truly believing for the first time it could all work out. Excitement bubbles up at the possibility, and suddenly, his idea of a quickie is something I can’t deny.
Not here, but later.
“Tonight at some point, I’m going to give you a signal. You’re going to make sure my boys are occupied for a short amount of time. You got me?” I hold out my hand.
Linking our pinkies together, Willa’s not even fazed. It’s a twin thing. “I got you so you get yours.”
With that arranged, I enjoy the rest of the holiday breakfast.
31
dax
“I didn’t cheat.”My arms cross over my chest, a flood of anger washing through me.
“You didn’t make the sweater,” Beck claims. “Rules state it’s homemade or store-bought.”
I glance at my father, who wrote the “ugly sweater contest” rules years ago. He shrugs. “Hell if I can remember what the rules say. Or even if they’re written somewhere.”
“As the official judge, what he says goes. And he says I won.”
The only person giving me a hard time is Beck. Because he wanted to win three years in a row, the bastard. It’s purely for fun, but since my sweater won, I want to claim the victory, damn it. I haven’t been in the winner’s circle for a long time.
“But you didn’t make it!” he protests.
“Beckett, let’s not make this a big deal,” Mom says calmly, motioning her head to Atlas and Jace. “Let your brother have the win.”
For a minute, I don’t think he’s going to give in. He’s pissed, which is so stupid. Sure, his is ugly and homemade by him, but mine’s uglier. Clementine created the ugliest and winningest sweater ever, bringing to life the creation she sketched out. It’s even uglier in real life, with 3-D objects hanging off it.
“Fine. Dax wins,” he intones in a toddler voice. “But for next year, if it’s not homemade by the person wearing it, it doesn’tcount. I’m writing it down so we all remember.” He stomps off, and Willa follows him.
My brother-in-law, Lenny, steps up to Clementine, already having shed his sweater. “This is amazing. If we can get Beck to change his mind about rewriting the rules, I’d hire you to make mine next year.”
