Before I Called You Mine

by Nicole Deese

  I ignored her and smiled at Marcus instead. “Marcus, maybe you can tell us a few facts about alpacas? I bet Iris has some questions she’d love to ask you.”

  New plan: Keep the farmer talking until my dad asked for his second beer and my mom started throwing dishes into the sink like Frisbees.

  My niece chewed thoughtfully, careful to keep her lips closed before swallowing. “What is an alpaca? Are they the same as llamas? Like in your funny book, Aunt Lauren?”

  “No,” Marcus said dryly. “Alpacas are superior to llamas in nearly every way.” He reached for a few leaves of lettuce and a scoop of my fruit salad, avoiding the turkey altogether. “Although the majority of the world thinks they are synonymous with each other, they most definitely are not.”

  Strike one: weird sweater. Strike two: not good with kids. Strike three: vegetarian.

  Sometimes I wondered if my sister’s only criteria for matchmaking was male and breathing.

  “I’ll admit, I’ve wondered the same thing.” As in ten minutes ago. “Would you mind enlightening us on their differences?”

  “Llamas are isolated creatures,” he said with the same disdain I’d use to describe a bloated dead rat. “But alpacas have been known to die of loneliness. They need friends and social communities. Similar to humans.”

  Austin coughed out a short laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You think they’re like humans?”

  Based solely on the pinched look of Marcus’s face, there wasn’t a kidding bone in his body. “They are better than most humans I’ve met, actually. They have a gentle nature and are extremely sensitive to their surroundings. People could learn a lot from their peaceful existence.”

  Austin and Andrew exchanged a look that failed to conceal their amusement.

  “Boys,” Lisa reprimanded while Trent shoved a loaded bite of stuffing into his mouth. “Don’t be rude.”

  Iris reached toward Marcus, her wiggling fingers outstretched. “Can I pet your sweater? The white fur looks just like my grandma’s cat.”

  Marcus jumped back, nearly toppling his chair to the floor. “Whoa, absolutely not! This sweater is not made of fur! It’s made of fiber. From my prize-winning alpaca, Herbert. And it’s too delicate to be washed.”

  Game. Over.

  The boys exploded with gut-shaking laughter, rocking the table and completely annihilating what was left of my sister’s short fuse. No matter how she tried to regain control over the evening or how many compliments she gave his prize-winning fiber sweater, Marcus wasn’t going to be reeled back into her matchmaking scheme. He tossed his napkin to his plate and excused himself, which only caused my nephews to laugh harder.

  And as I observed the chaos before me—Lisa stumbling over herself to walk Marcus to the door, my mother shaking her head and shoveling another scoop of green beans onto her plate, my father complaining about his dry slab of turkey breast—I couldn’t help but wonder what a certain dinosaur-loving substitute would have done given the same situation. If a five-year-old girl had reached across the table to pet his much-too-delicate-for-real-life sweater, how would he have responded? I smiled as the answer materialized in my mind.

  He would have let her—but only after he’d roughed up his hair and gotten down on all fours to do a full impression of the chosen animal, of course. But still, he would have let her pet his sweater. And I would have loved watching every minute of it.

  chapter

  eleven

  Skye followed me up the stairs, her favorite bone sticking halfway out of her mouth as she escorted me into my bedroom. I flipped on the light and gave her a brief report on the Thanksgiving shenanigans that occurred at my parents’ house. She lived for dramatic stories, especially ones involving her favorite person in the world, my niece, Iris.

  “But unlike you, Skye, Marcus wasn’t into being petted by a five-year-old. I know, so weird, huh?” Skye brushed her side against my pant leg, leaving a trail of black fur. She was hoping for a rubdown of her own. And, naturally, I obliged.

  After Skye’s love tank was significantly filled by belly rubs, I changed into my flannel pjs and finished up my nightly routine in the bathroom. Skye trotted to the corner of my room, performing her usual circling routine before finally slumping onto her fluffy bed. Though my eyelids felt heavy from exhaustion the way they did every time I was with my family, I was determined to finish at least three chapters of Yours In China, An Adoption Guide for the Single Mother. Penance for my cowardice tonight.

  “Night, sweetie,” I yawned-talked to Skye, picking up my phone to turn off my morning alarm. There would be no Black Friday shopping for me this year. Apart from the annual tree lighting tomorrow night with Jenna and Brian, I’d be staying home to organize my office into a child’s bedroom. My child’s bedroom.

  At my touch, my phone screen brightened with a text box hovering in the center, as if suspended there by a magical force.

  So did your brownies save the day at Thanksgiving like you hoped?

  A local number with no assigned contact, yet I knew without a flicker of doubt who the sender was. I jerked upright and immediately set Skye on high alert. She shot across the room to stand at my bedside, tail wagging at full speed.

  “It’s okay, girl. It’s okay.” Who was I really trying to calm? My dog or myself?

  I edited the contact info to add Joshua to my phone, then texted him back.

  Not exactly. But please tell me yours was wonderful?

  You’ll never hear me complain about buttery mashed potatoes and apple crumble . . . although I can’t say the same for my waistline.

  I laughed, and Skye jumped onto my bed, nudging my elbow with her nose so she could lay her head on my lap.

  Yum. Sounds delicious. My family isn’t exactly known for their culinary skills.

  Or their tact.

  There had to be at least one noteworthy dish at your table . . . ?

  I batted at the pillow behind my back, sliding it up my headboard, a ridiculous smile plastered on my face.

  Not really, but does a noteworthy guest count?

  ?

  My sister showed up to Thanksgiving with a blind date for me. An alpaca farmer.

  Why is there no emoji option for this?

  I bit my bottom lip.

  My thoughts exactly.

  So was Ben there, too?

  I scrunched my face up. Ben? I didn’t know a Ben, other than Benny Cartwright. But Joshua wouldn’t know him; he’d graduated from Brighton Elementary last year and was now in middle school.

  I started a text, deleted it, and then started again, opting for a single question mark.

  ?

  Is there more than one Ben who leaves notes on your Jeep while you’re at work?

  As his words registered, I laughed so loudly I scared an almost-asleep Skye. I’d barely calmed her when Joshua texted again. He was a quick draw.

  I figured he was probably someone you had a past history with . . . maybe part of the whole life complication matter you mentioned before?

  Joshua thought my life complication matter was an ex-boyfriend? I’d never once considered how that note had looked on the hood of my Jeep through his eyes . . . but I suppose that option made sense. In a hilarious kind of way.

  Well, to be fair, Ben and I do have a long history together. Five years, in fact.

  I chuckled to myself as I sent it, letting it hang there for just a second longer than needed.

  But it’s not the kind of history you’re referencing. Benny is a former student of mine. He’s twelve. And his idea of a date would be videoing a round of BeanBoozled until someone tossed their cookies.

  BeanBoozled . . . is that those nasty flavored jelly beans? Like grass and booger and vomit?

  Yes.