by Xavier Neal
“Or to the day when our fucking boxers were gonna give out.”
He lightly laughs at the memory. “Exactly. But it didn’t make Pop a bad father for not knowing those things. It just meant he wasn’t the primary parent.” Pushing the plate to the side he continues, “In most relationships involving kids, you aren’t gonna get an equal partnership. Someone is gonna be the primary parent. Someone is gonna be the primary financial stability. Sadly, sometimes those things end up falling on the same person. The point is, when you’re busy bein’ the moneymaker, the one who has the responsibility of gettin’ those bills paid so your children can have food on the table, a roof over their head, and random shit like a bike with a unicorn basket-”
“Will?”
“Wy.”
His twins are hilariously unconventional all the time.
“When you’re so consumed by that obligation, you often just get to be the ‘part-time’ parent. Sometimes you grab ‘em from school and do homework. Sometimes you help with dinner or baths. Sometimes you have a full weekend together. But it’s not the same as being there day in and day out for all the shit that happens.” He leans casually back in the chair. “You’re gonna have to cut yourself some slack durin’ this change. More importantly, you’re gonna have to be ready to learn some new shit about your sons.”
“I feel like I should already know them. There shouldn’t be any goddamn surprises…”
“Part-time shit sees different than full-time,” he reiterates.
“You seem to see both.”
“Also built my business on the same property as my house for that reason.” He slowly shakes his head. “Even if I’m as active and involved in those boys’ lives as much as I possibly can be, I still miss shit, too. Have to deal with surprises. Am late to learnin’ what new shit they’re capable of.”
I offer him a crooked smile of sympathy.
Fuck, if even Big Foot faces this kinda shit with his kids, how could I expect not to? He’s been doing the dad thing much longer than I have. It’s never mattered his oldest three aren’t biologically his. From the moment he walked into their lives, he treated them as though they were. He’s put in all the same work a man would have had he been the one to participate in their creation. He’s never once not claimed them to be his. Most people outside of the family have no idea. And he likes it that way. Hell, we all do. There’s no reason those boys should ever feel like they don’t belong. That’s not how we were raised.
The last thought prompts me to question, “Was it wrong to not let him wear the stupid hat to school?”
“Yeah.”
My frown is immediate.
“You gotta let kids grow into who it is they wanna be, not who you want them to be, jus’ like our parents did.”
I slump further down in my seat.
“That means self-discovery. Making mistakes. Learnin’ the truth of consequences.” He folds his hands together. “You’ve gotta pretty much hang up your cape, Superman, and let them do their thing.”
“But-”
“No buts, little bro. You gotta give your kids the tools to build their own lives and just be there to help guide ‘em during the process, not dictate it.”
My fingers rush to rub the side of my neck, hoping to soothe the emotional sting. “You uh…You ever have one of your boys wanna wear something…girly.”
“Is that a joke?”
Unsure of how to proceed, I don’t.
All of a sudden, he bursts into a fit of laughter. “I’ve got five kids, Eddie. I’ve pretty much seen and dealt with a magnitude of weird shit. Were you not listenin’ to the part about my four-year-old needing…not wanting…but needing a unicorn bike?” He continues to chuckle. “That’s not even the most unusual thing that he requested last week.”
Curiosity chases the remainder of the conversation. “It isn’t?”
“No. He asked could we pour him coffee in a dog bowl, could he sleep in the cage with the rabbits to keep them warm, and could he wear his Wonder Woman headband and wrist bracelets to the grocery store.”
My jaw cracks open.
“Now, obviously, we didn’t give him coffee. That ended in an outbreak of tears, which when one twin cries the other pretty much has to do it too. Sometimes in competition, other times in solidarity. The rabbit situation was given so he had a chance to learn the consequence of how cold it gets at night in the late fall…Needless to say, he stayed out there ten minutes before comin’ in, cuddlin’, and learnin’ all about rabbit hair.”
“And the Wonder Woman thing?”
Big Foot nonchalantly shrugs. “He put that shit on and lassoed the crap out of some cans of applesauce.”
This time I can’t resist joining him in laughter.
Maybe a kid wanting to wear a cat beanie wasn’t nearly as big of a deal as I made it.
Maybe a kid wearing Wonder Woman accessories isn’t something that should even warrant a second thought.
I may not love getting advice all the time, but when it comes to children, Big Foot is a chip off the old parenting block. He gets it. He gets everything our parents taught us. Everything he reinforced in the pursuit of helping raise the rest of us. If there’s anyone I trust to not only tell me the truth but knock me the right direction when I start to drift the wrong way, it’s him. While I didn’t think doing the full-time dad thing was going to be a cakewalk, I damn sure didn’t think just a couple hours would be this hard. I know we’re in for some rough waters in the weeks or months ahead…I just hope I don’t let my boys down.
Chapter 3
The bride-to-be hums her approval of the bite in her mouth. “This is so. Amazing.”
I offer her a warm smile of encouragement.
We’re not supposed to rush the potential customer, but we’ve been here over an hour because this woman nibbles like the mouse she resembles. Too bad I’m not sure if the tiny bites are just how she eats everything or an intentional action to prolong this session so that her future dick of a husband will finally join in on it.
Don’t get me wrong.
Eddie’s not anywhere near perfect.
Just this past weekend he grilled us steak and forced us to go chop our own firewood for the coming winter and got pissy when I didn’t treat the whole experience like we were dining at Masa and catching Rent in front row seats on fucking Broadway.
His royal asshole to knight in shining armor ratio tends to favor the former more than the latter, however, he would never make me feel second rate like this.
He would never take what should easily be perceived as a romantic or important moment to me and shit all over it, which is what this man is doing by his inability to stop texting and taking phone calls in the middle of this appointment.
“Honey?” Cora calls to him warmly. “What do you think?”
He waves her off with a hand, eyes still pinned to his phone. “Whatever you want is fine.”
To my surprise, she finally snaps, “It’s whatever we want. It’s our wedding, Garrett. I’m not marrying myself!”
Her outburst doesn’t seem to warrant any sort of reaction.
Kinda, sorta looks like she is marrying herself.
“Garrett!” She shrieks louder. “Could you please-”
His finger flies up in the air to hush her.
I press my lips together and firmly fold my hands on the table to prevent myself from getting involved.
One slap across the face is what this douche needs right now, or for those feeling a little less physically violent, the snatching and demolishing of his cellphone.
Cora’s porcelain complexion cherries as she drops her stare to collect herself.
Eddie and I never had to do this part of wedding planning.
There was no real…planning.
It just…happened.
That’s Eddie, though.
He does what he decides, and that’s fucking that.
It’d be easy to hate if I weren’t often the exact same way.
; And to fucking think we have the gall to wonder why our kids are so stubborn…
Cora straightens her posture, angles her body his direction, and snips, “If you’d like to make me Mrs. Garrison The Third then I suggest you put your phone down long enough to decide on what cake we should serve at our wedding.”
Whether it’s the tone or the word choice that successfully catches his attention is unclear, but the worry in his expression indicates he understands she’s not bluffing.
Maybe this isn’t the first time they’ve had these types of fights.
Garrett tucks his phone into his pocket and turns to me. “Which one did she like?”
I can’t stop the sass that spews from my mouth. “You know you could just ask her. She is sitting directly beside you.”
Damn it, Sienna…Not professional!
“Yes, yet I’m asking you. The woman who wants my business.”
Oh, now it’s his business? Not their business? He is just outlining all the reasons someone should definitely object to their event.
But after they’ve paid for the product and our services.
“As the woman who wants my business, you should be able to tell me which cake my fiancée wants. That is, unless you’re so incompetent you can’t even recall the preferred flavor of your potential client.”
Do not punch him.
Do not punch him.
Violence is not the answer.
Violence is never the answer for smug pricks like this who would simply sue the pants off an individual who decked them rather than take the hit like a real person.
No…
I see his game.
He wants to rile me up. Get me to yell or snap or lose my cool so he can have the righteous upper hand and refuse to give us their business, blaming me rather than himself.
Yeah, I’ve got his number.
And he’s not about to like the voicemail I leave.
A naturally mischievous smile slips onto my face. “Well, Cora really liked that one…” I casually point to the small piece in the middle, “but-”
Garrett doesn’t bother letting me finish just like I knew he wouldn’t. Unlike his mousey significant other, he stabs the fork into it, breaks the piece in two, and shoves a forkful in his mouth. He’s barely chewed before he’s gagging and grumbling, “This is fucking coconut.”
“Yes,” I slowly state while watching him desperately search the table with his eyes for the napkins, “that was going to be what I said after the but.”
“I hate coconut!”
“Again, that was a note I was going to include.”
On the off chance he would’ve actually let me finish speaking.
“What if I would’ve been allergic?!” He snatches the cloth and spits the cake into it.
God, if that were one of my boys, I would red his ass for spitting his food out in public.
“Then I would suggest you either listen to your fiancée or let the person you’re speaking to finish their sentence before just divin’ into the dish in front of you.”
Garrett growls at the same time he shoots to his feet. “I don’t need this bullshit. There are a million other cake places in this goddamn city.”
“Twelve.”
He narrows his vision at me in irritation. “Excuse me?”
“There are twelve other cake companies in the actual city of Highland and seven on the outskirts near the major suburbs. The other eleven in the city may have openings, but it is highly doubtful on your date as they tend to book up a year in advance. While the other seven most likely do have plenty of space on their calendars, only one can handle a wedding larger than seventy-five people. And the one that can does not do three-tier wedding cakes, which Cora has mentioned multiple times is her preference. Also, none of the smaller companies are equipped to handle the additional items which you are requesting. Trifles and Lady Fingers are not exactly common, run of the mill desserts.”
Cora, who didn’t stand despite the fact he did, sends her stare up to him. “You know we have to have Lady Fingers. It’s what Grand wants…They’ll remind her of home.”
Garrett’s exasperated sigh tempts me into smugly smirking, yet I fight the instinct and lock eyes with him. “Also, none of the others served the wedding for one of the world’s biggest billionaires like we did.” My head tilts to the side as I continue, “I’m sure you are well aware of Mr. Wilcox’s high standards since he’s practically American Royalty. We were able to not only meet them, but exceed them, according to the interview he gave.”
The interview that put this company on the map…
Yasmine thought the mention would gain her more publicity, yes. More as in enough to stop her dream of owning her own shop from crumbling into nothing. She wasn’t expecting the sudden amount of people clawing for her product. That’s when she promoted Langston to full time, but even that wasn’t enough. For the months that followed, she cycled through person after person claiming they couldn’t cut the crazy hours and often even crazier requests. Most didn’t last longer than two weeks. A few managed to make it to a whole month. She suffered for over a year of unsteady employees. Grabbing someone who had been away from the culinary world for as long as I had been, undoubtedly, was a Hail Mary decision. On the contrary, being a full-time parent has, objectively, been better training than any academy. I’ve lived and breathed chaos for years. Been hit with unexpected changes and just forced to roll with them. You never know when your kid is going to start puking at three in the afternoon while the other is coloring your walls and howling he needs juice, to then have your best friend knock at the door with her three kids — who happen to be their cousins — wanting to play. There’s no “Now’s not a good time” when they’re already on your doorstep. Nope. You just learn to multitask, multi-clean, and multi-entertain. Same skills are easily applied to a busy fucking kitchen. Thankfully, the cakes don’t cry when you’re busy with something else nor do they wiggle while you dress them making it almost impossible to complete the task. Yasmine promised the crazy hours won’t last forever, but at the moment? I don’t mind them one bit.
“However, Mr. Garrison,” my dramatic pause for effect builds tension like I hoped, “I completely respect your decision in leaving and wish you both the best in finding your dessert needs.” I slowly rise to my feet to put the cherry on the straining situation. “Have a lovely day.”
“Garrett,” Cora whines loudly, “do something!”
Her fiancé unhappily grunts at me. “Sit.”
My expression darkens. “Excuse me?”
“Garrett!”
“Please, have a seat, Miss-”
“Mrs.”
“Mrs. Sienna.”
This time I do flash him a bright, arrogant grin. “You can just call me Sienna.”
“Sienna.” The pain in his tone is thrilling. “We would like to resume the tasting and put our names on the schedule.”
“Perfect.” Parking myself back in the cushioned chair, I motion for him to take his seat. “Why don’t you sit back down, and we can begin to finalize your decisions.”
Garrett grumbles something under his breath, unbuttons his jacket, and returns to his spot beside his fiancée.
It’s moments like this that remind me having two kids has made me completely qualified for this position. Tantrums apparently aren’t something that only children throw. The number of adults who behave as this asshole just did is alarming. Funny thing is, they expect that they can treat me like shit because we want their business. Because they’ve been bred to believe that the customer is indeed always right. Well, they’re not. Sometimes they’re wrong. Really fucking wrong. Sometimes they’re just brats and bullies who need to be reminded that just because Mommy and Daddy gave you everything you wanted your whole life doesn’t mean the rest of the world will. In the week and a half I’ve been here, I’ve learned the bigger pair of balls I show, the more likely the customer is to choose us for their dessert desires. It’s fun having my stubbornness equate to
profit. How many people can say that shit?
After wrapping up the cake tasting and updating the calendar with our latest clients, we shut down the shop. Although I originally planned to head straight home, I’m easily persuaded by my boss and one coworker to join them for a drink. I make sure to text Eddie about the impromptu decision along the short trek across the street.
Me: Grabbing a beer. Be home a bit later than originally planned.
