“Don’t get excited,” Laiyla tells her. “Only the hot part matters to KT.”
Chloe lifts her hands as if to say whatever. “So how did it go? What’s he like? How many kids does he have? What happened with his wife? Is he divorced?”
“Slow down,” Laiyla tells Chloe. “She can’t answer all those questions at once.”
“It went great,” I say. “He has three daughters, and unfortunately, he’s a widower.”
Laiyla and Chloe gasp in unison.
“Oh, no,” Chloe says.
“With three girls?” Laiyla adds. “Ouch.”
“How did she die?” Chloe asks.
“Cancer.”
Laiyla groans, and Chloe’s expression is truly pained.
“How long ago?” Laiyla asks.
“Three years. It’s pretty heartbreaking,” I admit. “But we all deal with whatever life hands us, I guess, though it sure doesn’t seem fair in his case.”
We all drop into comfortable but saddened silence.
“You didn’t tell us what he’s like,” Chloe finally says, a little more subdued.
“He’s…” I search for the right words. “Charmingly beta.”
“Beta?” Laiyla smirks. “When have you ever gone for a beta? A pretty beta at that.”
“He’s pretty?” Chloe says with a frown. “You don’t like pretty.”
“She also hasn’t had sex in six months,” Laiyla says.
“Good point.” Chloe shrugs. “Pretty beta works.”
I laugh. “Thank you for your approval.”
“What was the present you put together?” Laiyla asks.
“It was the cutest bed I’ve ever seen. It was a white wood bunk bed, but it was designed as a playhouse. It had a pink roof and pink window shutters with pink curtains. Seriously adorable. And he might be an amazing doctor, but he doesn’t have the ability to visualize, at least not on man-made structures.”
When I look up, both Laiyla and Chloe are frowning at me. Laiyla tips her head. “What’s happening here?”
“Nothing is happening other than me going the extra mile to better my possibilities of a hookup. That’s it.”
Chloe’s eyes narrow on me before she glances at Laiyla, who returns the skeptical look.
“So, you didn’t hook up?” Laiyla says.
“No.”
“You just invested hours of manual labor to his personal endeavor? While you have stitches in your arm?” Laiyla says.
“You’re making it sound like I’m normally selfish.”
“No,” Chloe says. “But you are usually brutally direct.”
“I was. I mean, at the end when he asked me out, I told him I don’t date, but that I’d consider a hookup.”
Laiyla’s brows lifted. “And he said…?”
“He didn’t. I think I blindsided him. And I stayed because he was trying really hard for his kids, and he needed a little help.” My gaze goes distant, and a deep cord pulls inside me. “Every little girl deserves a perfect Christmas morning, and every dad deserves to feel like a hero once in a while.”
I don’t notice the quiet that falls until I come out of my own thoughts and find Chloe and Laiyla staring at me like I’m growing horns.
“Stop,” I say with a shooing motion. “Get out of here so I can sleep. We can talk all about the wedding at dinner.”
I can’t help myself from grabbing Laiyla’s hand and looking at the ring again. More than the flashy diamond, I see it as a symbol of belonging. It feels like Levi has circled the wagons around Laiyla, standing up for her by telling the whole town she belongs, and if anyone has a problem with that, they’ll deal with him. “This is so cool, Laiyla. I’m thrilled for you. I really am.”
After another round of hugs and kisses, they leave, and I curl back under the covers, lulled toward sleep by the soft sway of the water. But I can’t drift off right away. I’m annoyed by a dissatisfied burn in the pit of my stomach. The one I sometimes get when I’m lonely. When I miss my dad. Or my crew. Or my domain in the engine room.
I should feel like I belong here, but now that Laiyla’s engaged, it feels like I’m on the outside looking in again. Like it’s me against the world.
Logically, I know that’s not true. I know Laiyla and Chloe are committed to this project. And I know that I’m not just jumping on board, but providing a crucial, elemental, and vital service to make our joint dream a reality. I also know they love me, heart and soul, unconditionally, which has always felt like the glue that’s held me together through the tough times over the last seven years.
So I don’t understand this new sense of…what? I’m not even sure how to categorize the feeling. I search my mind for a reference to try to understand it. Longing? Joy? Anxiety? Loss?
I drop my forearm across my eyes. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Maybe it’s just the holiday melancholy after talking about my dad with Ben last night.
My cell phone dings with a text, and my reflexes react so quickly, I fumble the phone and drop it on the floor. “I’m such an idiot.”
I turn to my side and fish the phone from the floor, then roll to my back and find a message from Ben. It’s a video. I catch my lower lip between my teeth and press Play.
There is an image of a closed door, then Ben’s voice saying, “Okay, you can come in.”
The door swings open, showing a little girl standing in the doorway. She looks a little subdued, expression blank. It takes her a second to absorb what she’s seeing, then she gasps, covers her mouth with both hands, and jumps in a circle, squealing.
“My bed,” she screams, laughing and crying. “Santa brought my bed.” Lots more screaming, Ben laughing, other girls joining in, and another little voice, closer to the phone, saying, “This proves Santa is real.” There is a little defiance in her voice, which probably means it’s the middle daughter. I think eight is around the age belief starts to fade. “We know Daddy couldn’t put this together himself. He needed the help of all Santa’s elves.”
I break out laughing. Jazz is climbing all over the mattresses Ben must have put in after I left, then up the ladder, only to pop her head out the window on the end. Still screaming.
“Needless to say,” Ben says in the background, his voice deep and sexy, “Jazz sends her thanks for your help.”
The video stops, and my body is bubbling with something foreign and uncomfortable. I replay the video three more times, until tears slide down my temples. And I text back. That made my week. Merry Christmas.
4
Ben
My mother’s living room is in utter chaos, wrapping paper and bows and boxes over every square inch of the floor. My very spoiled girls are running around mom’s house with new toys, mostly playing, occasionally fighting. I’m deep in the sofa, stuffed from dinner, exhausted from the day, and completely distracted by memories of KT.
Thankfully, Mom, my sister Jackie, and her husband, Raul, are debating politics, which I never get involved in. They’re also giving me a pass because they know how draining holidays can be for me.