Page 82 of The Art of Being Merry
The boys come to the table with their water bottles. I grab my beer from the counter, taking the first sip. It’s spicy, but the malt flavor is intense.
“What’s the verdict?” Dax asks, awaiting my opinion, invested like my answer holds the key to unlocking a mystery.
“I prefer Winter Warmer Holiday Ale.”
“Same. There’s something about that one not replicated anywhere else.” He looks at Atlas’s plate, his nose turning up at the cheese on toast cooked in the toaster. “Ace, what’s this?”
“Cheese on toast.”
“But why? Why would you want something so mundane when your mama made grilled cheese? Do you not like the gooeyness? The toasted butter? The cheese to bread ratio?”
I fold my lips to not let my amusement show. He’s selling this hard, but it’ll fall on deaf ears. Atlas isn’t about grilled cheese, no matter how many ways I make it “better.” His words, not mine. My grilled cheese rivals those at a restaurant.
Atlas shrugs, not comprehending how serious Dax is. “This is way better.”
Dax’s mouth opens, but nothing emerges because Atlas has stunned him silent. Instead, his head shakes from side to side in disbelief.
“Don’t waste your breath, Dax. Mama and me try every time, and he won’t eat grilled cheese.” Jace, my support system in the form of a five-year-old.
Dax’s attention turns to Jace. “So he doesn’t care that he’s missing out on the best culinary invention ever?”
“Guess not.” Jace digs into his sandwich and looks right at Atlas. “Delicious, Mama.” He gets a pass for talking with his mouth full of sandwich.
“Thanks, Jacey.” I take a bite of my sandwich, the cheese and bacon combining for a delectable masterpiece. How a few ingredients cooked in a skillet can be so delicious is beyond me.
“Exquisite, Clementine. Good call on the bacon. It elevates it to the next level.”
“The special bread, too,” Jace points out.
“Sourdough?” Dax guesses.
“Yeah. The local bakery makes a good one, better than anything store-bought.”
“Have you ever made your own?”
“We’re not talking about that.” I’m a decent cook, but a bread baker I am not. Couldn’t even keep the starter alive for three days, let alone attempt to make the dough.
“Have you had my mom’s sourdough?”
My gaze meets his. “Yep. It’s delicious. So light and airy but so flavorful. I was almost tempted to try mine again, but I wasn’t in the mood to fail.”
“Wait until you try the challah rolls on Christmas Eve Eve. Your taste buds won’t know what hit ‘em.”
Despite how good I’m sure they’ll be and Dax’s exuberance, I can’t tell him we may not be here to celebrate with his family. Keith insists the boys be home for Christmas, and we’re slated to fly out that night. I wouldn’t have taken him seriously and told him to fuck off, but my lawyer suggested it would show good faith on my part to give him this for the first year. Considering the stunt I pulled last Christmas Eve and moving them to Winterberry Junction, it’s my last act of kindness toward the man before the marriage gets dissolved. He’ll always be their father, but after the divorce is final, the custody arrangement will look different. I’m prepared to give up every Thanksgiving and Easter to have them with me every Christmas.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Looking forward to them.”
I haven’t yet told the boys we won’t be here for Christmas, though Willa and my parents know. Every time they FaceTime with my mom, she almost spills it, but she’s managed to keep it a secret. For how much longer, I’m not sure.
The rest of the meal continues with chatter about school, the upcoming holiday, what’s on their Christmas lists, and for Atlas, eyeing each of our sandwiches. He’s got the look of someone who wants to try a bite but is afraid to ask. Until he does, I won’t offer.
When we’re done, Dax forces me out of the kitchen while he and the boys clean up. From my spot on the couch, I sneak a picture of the three of them working, all smiles. It’s not something I should dwell on, but for this one moment in time, I’m allowing myself to consider the possibility of this as an everydayoccurrence. Maybe it’s not Dax, but another man who’s willing to help and spend time with my kids not because he has to, but because he wants to.
Is that too much to ask?
The many hints I give Dax to leave before I put the boys to bed fall on deaf ears. It’s not that I want him to leave. I don’t trust myself to be around him after they go to bed. I don’t have the willpower to deny any advances he’ll try to make.
If any at all.
