She sneers. “It’s just a baby doll.”
I whip out my phone, doing a quick internet search for “baby doll.” “This is a baby doll,” I argue, holding it out for her to see.
Her response is one hell of an unimpressed eyeroll.
“Think you could build him a bed?” Priss asks, batting her lashes, with one hand layered over the other on my right knee.
I snort, ripping the box open for her and fighting with all the little twisty bread tie thingies. “Tell ya what…I’ll build him a jail cell, how ’bout that?”
“You’re so drama,” she says, snatching her new friend out of my hand as soon as it’s freed from the packaging.
“Open mine next,” Hank insists, digging around under the tree, then tossing a box to his granddaughter.
Her face lights up when she opens it to find a brand-new black hoodie that reads, “I put the fun in funeral.” Immediately she slips it over her head. “Thanks Paw! I love it.”
My grandmother gives me wide-eyed look. If “Are you fucking kidding me,” had a face, hers would be it.
I shrug. I wasn’t kidding when I told the woman Prissy was a different brand of princess. Maybe she thought I was exaggerating. She’ll soon learn those odd quirks are what make her so damn precious.
Just like I did—hell, I don’t even think I liked kids all that much before this one. Not that I’d had much experience, but I definitely never wanted to be around them all the time. Well, most of the time—certain activities call for a little privacy.
“Can I go next?” I ask, anxious to see her reaction to the gift I spent the past month agonizing over.
“You got me a present too?” Prissy skips back to the far side of the room where I’m still seated on the stool I drug in from the kitchen.
“Duh,” I answer, using one of her most favorite words. “Merry Christmas, Miss Priss.” I hand her a giftbag, since my wrapping skills are lackluster at best.
“Don’t you know unwrapping the gift is the best part?” Mimi chastises while Prissy flings wadded-up tissue filler to the floor.
“I do now.”
When she pulls the worn leather case from the bag, my pulse races and my palms begin to sweat.
“You got me eyeballs!” she screams, rushing to show her Paw-Paw the collection of five porcelain prosthetic eyes.
“Not just any eyes,” I say, warming inside over her excitement. “They all date back to the early twentieth century. There’s a sticker with a code on the bottom of each. If you go back to the seller’s website, you can read the story of the original owners.”
“Well, I don’t even know if I wanna give her my gift now.” My poor grandmother is looking a rather unhealthy shade of green.
“I’m sure she’ll love it,” Whitney assures her.
“Thank you, Wyatt! This is the coolest thing I ever got!”
“You’re welcome, sweet girl.”
By the time she finishes opening her Santa gifts, the entire floor is covered in trash and that little girl has more creepy shit to occupy her time than you could even imagine. It’s like Hot Topic threw up all over their living room.
“All right, ma’am,” Marie says, retrieving a huge black yard bag from the utility closet and shaking it open. “Time to get all this garbage up before you run off to play with your new stuff.”
“Wait,” Whit says, “she didn’t open the one from Mimi and Pop yet.”
“It’s just a little something,” the old woman mutters, clearly setting herself up for a disappointed reaction.
Prissy couldn’t be more gracious when she climbs up in between my grandparents to unwrap her final gift.
“Yes!” she shouts, leaning over to kiss Mimi’s cheek, then moving to Pop to do the same. “I got my very own makeup, Momma!”
She is selling this hard. Bless her soul. I learned at Thanksgiving just how much she doesn’t like wearing the stuff. Thankfully, my grandparents are none the wiser.
“That’s awesome, Priss.” Whitney mouths her thanks from across the room.
“Momma doesn’t let me play with hers. Now I can practice for when I’m a mortician!”
Hmm. Maybe she’s not faking after all.
“Maw-Maw…Mimi…think I could practice on y’all after breakfast?”
And. I. Am. Dead. She actually just asked the two oldest women in the room if she could use them as guinea pigs to hone her mortuary makeup skills.
This kid is fucking brilliant.
“Sure,” Mimi says, still glowing over how well her gift was received and not connecting the dots on why the gift is exciting.
“Now you listen here, Priscilla Louise, you think cuz we’re old and wrinkly you can just use us for your own entertainment?” Marie, knowing exactly why Prissy chose the two of them, is rightly offended.
The little girl nods. Her confusion over her grandmother’s reaction is a reminder of her innocence. It’s easy to forget how young she is. “Well, most of the bodies we work on are old and wrinkly, Maw-Maw.”
“Kid has a point,” Hank says between wheezing guffaws. The old man is about to keel over he’s laughing so hard.
“Mimi wants to go first,” I offer, on my grandmother’s behalf.
“Why I gotta go first?” she complains, having just been schooled on the reason her darling new granddaughter wants to play makeup with her.
“It was your gift.” I shrug. “Plus, you have the most wrinkles.”
“Keep that shit up boy,” she warns, pointing a crooked finger at me. “Don’t think I won’t take off my shoe and bust your tail in front all these people.”
The woman talks big, but while she’s hootin’ and hollerin’, she’s sinking down into the couch, making herself comfortable for her mortuary makeover.
“Almost forgot,” I say, reaching into my coat pocket. “I have a little something for you too.”
When I hand Whitney the little blue box, I’m pretty damn sure every adult in the room stops breathing.
“What’s this?” Whitney’s fingers tremble over the ribbon.
“Not that! Breathe,” I say. “Just open it.”
She takes a long drawn-out breath before lifting the lid and removing the white gold charm bracelet. “I can’t decide if I should kiss you or punch you,” she says after examining each trinket: a hammer to represent yours truly, a makeup brush for her, a little combat boot for Prissy, and my personal favorite and the one that has her so conflicted…
“Why’d you give that girl a bracelet with a dumpster on it?” Pop asks, fixing his glasses on his nose to examine it further.
“You son of a bitch,” Hank howls, slapping his knee.
“Dayum, Whit.” The fire in Wyatt’s gaze as he looks me over in my shimmery silver mini dress and matching stilettos has my blood running hot and warmth pooling between my legs. Or maybe that wetness stems from how delicious he looks in his three-piece suit. Hubba hubba. “We could skip the party and stick to the original plan…head back to my place?” His teeth scrape over his lower lip ever so slowly while he backs me up against the door, his fingers slipping just inside the low V that ends at the small of my back. “Make our own fireworks…”