Page 12 of The Art of Being Merry
“That one is new to me. If you want to play, you’ll have to teach me.”
“Do you like to color?” Jace asks. It’s his favorite activity, and it warms my heart. He’s always been above average with artistic skills, staying within the lines way sooner than kids his age. Heck,Atlas still has trouble, though I think it’s more his personality than lack of artistic skills. At least it’s what I tell myself.
I chance a peek at the table. Dax scratches his head, mussing his already rumpled hair. Like he didn’t bother running a brush through it this morning. I don’t focus on how the length is the longest since I’ve known him, or how I itch to run my fingers through the thick strands. Nope, not thinking about any of it.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve colored, but that can be added to the list. What else?”
“We should go see the lights.”
“It’s daytime,” I prompt.
“And we don’t have a car,” Dax pipes in.
“Ah, shucks. So we’re stuck here all day.”
“I’m sure your mom won’t be gone all day.” I can’t decipher the emotions behind his statement, how he would feel if I stayed out all day. Not that I would. I won’t take advantage of his kindness.
“Nope. One errand and I’ll be back. Probably before lunch.”
“No rush.” At Dax’s comment, I peer at him. Like earlier, his expression is unreadable.
“I’m thinking there’s only so much time one can spend roaming aimlessly at Target.”
“Huh. That’s not the impression I get from my sisters. They can definitely spend all day at the store. Two, if someone let them.”
“You don’t say.”
Besides when the boys are at school or I’m working, I have little experience with “free” time to myself. Certainly not for a shopping day at Target.
The mall? Sure.
A day at the spa? If the opportunity arose, sign me up.
But Target? I’m failing to see how more than an hour, two at the most, could be wasted there.
As much as I’m excited to spend a few hours on my own, it’s a luxury I’m never afforded.
This should be interesting.
After breakfast, I take a quick shower and get ready. When I emerge from my bedroom, the boys cuddle next to Dax on the couch, the remote in his hand, all their attention focused on the TV. It’s a scene I should be familiar with. Swap out Dax for their father, and it shouldn’t be so shocking. But yet it is.
One, because Keith isn’t the dad who cuddled with them on the couch. When he was home, he was usually on his phone or reading a magazine. They had to beg him to spend time together.
Two, because I never pictured Dax Nicholas as the kind of man who so casually cuddles with other people’s children other than his nieces. Not that he’s ever come out and said it’s not his thing, but I’ve gotten the impression from Willa he’s more of a “keep to himself” kind of guy.
I fight the urge to stealthily snap a photo. I have no excuse for why I’d need it.
I stand off to the side of the TV. “Okay, I’m leaving now.”
Jace slithers off the couch for a hug. He squeals in my arms when I lift him in the air, the sound one of my absolute favorites. So much so, I have it saved as an audio recording on my phone for the days I need a pick-me-up.
When I set him down, he scrambles back to the couch, tucking himself into Dax’s side. For his part, Dax shuffles his arm to make Jace more comfortable.
It’s like I’ve entered an alternate universe or the Twilight Zone.
“Bye, Atlas.” At the age where he’s too cool to hug his mom, he waves in the vicinity of my voice.
Dax’s brown gaze meets mine. “Have fun. Indulge. Take your time. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
