“Um, I wasn’t going to stop, but I saw my dad’s truck. I didn’t realize he’d be here.”
Hearing heavy footsteps, I look toward the kitchen as he steps out . . . wearing an apron. I’m dumbstruck, for multiple reasons. He’s clearly a little uncomfortable to see me, his gaze shifting between me and Alison as he wipes his hands off on the front of him. His flannel shirt is rolled up to his elbows, his sleeves of tattoos on both forearms visible. I’m surprised because even though I would have never pegged them as a couple, no matter how fledging their apparent thing is, they look good together—Alison all soft and blonde and dainty, my dad hardened and inked up but mush on the inside.
Finally, Alison clasps her hands together, the sound startling in the gravid silence. “We’re having a little cooking class today,” she says by way of explanation.
“Weird,” I mutter and look at my dad.
Like he’s resigned to the fact that he’s been caught, his posture eases, he sighs, and he unties the apron strings behind him. “It’s for family dinner tomorrow night,” he grumbles.
“No, please,” I say, taking a step forward. “Don’t stop on my account.” I’m not sure if it’s the awkwardness in the room or joy that my dad is actually learning how to cook, but I bubble out a small laugh. “I think this is great. What are we going to have?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.” He glares at me, his head cocked to the side like he does every time I say or do something inappropriate or embarrassing. Then it hits me that this is a morning-after date of some sort.
“Uh, I should go,” I say, taking a step back. I turn and open the door to step outside.
My dad’s footsteps are quick behind me, and he pokes his head outside. I watch his expression tighten when he sees Colton in the truck. Casey waves enthusiastically with a huge grin that pudges up her cheeks, revealing a single, tiny dimple I’ve noticed a couple times before. Colton, ever the reserved one, gives an abrupt nod.
My dad waves back, his eyes lingering on the truck, before he peers down at me. “You and Colton, huh? I thought you two didn’t really get on all that well.”
I vaguely hear Alison moving away from us, giving us privacy, but there’s no need. I shake my head. “I’m just helping them get a tree.”
With a noncommittal grunt, he straightens in the doorway. Though all he says is, “Be safe,” I know his words are charged with many meanings I don’t need to interpret. I can imagine what he’s thinking.
“I will.” I frown, then peer into the house. “You too.” We have a brief warning-glare standoff before I clomp down the stairs and head back to the truck.
Thirty-Six
Colton
Once we’re in the back forty, we hike up a small hill where I can see the tops of a few sporadic evergreens poking up. Other than filling us in about her dad being there for cooking lessons, which Mac found hilarious, she’s barely talked to me all morning. I don’t have to guess why. She’s upset with me, maybe even confused, and she has every right be. And even if she did decide to come only for Casey’s sake, I’m glad she’s here.
Her cheeks are flushed from the cold air, her green eyes reflecting the bright silvery snow. I can almost imagine her coming up here as a little girl.
“We’re going to where the oldest, best trees are,” she says with an excited lilt and looks down at Casey.
Like it’s second nature, Casey grabs Mac’s hand and beams up at her. “Really?” The tightness in my chest only reiterates what I’ve finally come to realize—I like seeing them together. I tell myself the same thing I did last night: if Casey’s already attached to Mac and I want to be, spending more time with her is the logical next step . . . even if I’m not sure I’m ready.
“What size tree do you want?” Mac asks, slowing her pace so Casey can keep up.
“A giant one that reaches the sky!”
I chuckle, knowing nothing bigger than a five-footer will really work in the apartment.
Mac glances back at me before she faces the small copse of trees. “Why don’t we ask your dad what size he thinks will fit in the living room?”
“Okay,” Casey says, clearly disappointed. “But the one at Mommy’s is big as the ceiling.”
That’s because Mommy has a sugar daddy to buy her a big fancy house. “Mommy’s house is five times bigger than ours, Case. We can’t fit a tree that big, munchkin.”
Mac’s features soften a little, and she crouches down to Casey’s level. “You know what?”
Casey fiddles with the tips of her mitten fingers and looks Mac in the eyes, blinking.
“Smaller trees are better,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.
I peer down at the truck a quarter mile away. Smaller is definitely better. Switching the hatchet from one hand to the other, I step up beside them. Casey’s brow is furrowed in confusion, her cheeks red from exertion. She glances from me to Mac.
“Smaller trees are better because they sparkle and shine ten times as much with all the ornaments and lights so close together.”
Casey stands there, silent.
“Should we find a small one?”
Casey nods absently and stares out at the scattered trees. “Alright, or maybe a medium one so that it’s not toooo small.”
Mac point a few yards ahead of us. “I bet you’ll find the perfect one,” she says, voice filled with awe.
“I already see the one I want!” Casey shouts and she starts running toward them.
“Please be careful, Case,” I call after her. She pauses in the slush, picks up a handful, and throws it weakly at the nearest tree.
Mac’s floral scent, mingling with the breeze, brings me back to the moment. She starts walking toward the small grove.
“Hey, Mac?”
She shoots me a quick glance over her shoulder. She’s close enough I can see the freckles dotting her cheeks. Her nose is rosy red and her gaze more guarded than I’ve ever noticed it before. I stop, mid-step, realizing for the first time that I didn’t just piss her off the other day, I hurt her feelings. I swallow thickly, contemplating what to say first.
“Yes?” She blinks and I notice her chest rise and fall before I answer.
“I know I haven’t really acted very grateful this week for your help with Case and the tree, but it would’ve been a lot harder without you. So, thanks.”
Her gaze softens minutely but she looks away from me, toward Casey drawing in the snow with a stick. “Yeah, of course. I’m glad I was there to help.” The breeze comes up again, and a few strands of her long, loose hair fly into her face. I take a step closer, but she brushes them away before I can do it for her.
She starts to walk away again, and I hate that she won’t even look at me.
“Wait a sec,” I whisper and reach for her hand.
Mac stops and stares down at my fingers wrapped around her smaller, delicate ones. When I look up, she’s watching me, questions filling her eyes.
I take a step closer. The constant, undeniable buzz of emotions I feel when she’s around makes me nervous, and I look down at our hands clasped between us. “I want to apologize for what I said the other day at the shop. I know you meant well and I overreacted.” Hesitant, I look up and scan her flushed face, searching for any indication of what she’s feeling. It’s just puffs of breath and heaving chests for a few moments, and I start to lose faith that she’s willing to forgive me.
“I admit I wasn’t expecting you to be upset,” she finally says. “But you were right. I shouldn’t be making promises to Casey. I’ll be moving out of Nick’s soon, and I won’t be around to hang out with her as much.” She offers me a weak smile. “But I appreciate your apology.” She gently extricates her hands from mine.
I hadn’t anticipated that she might actually agree with me, especially not after I convinced myself that I was in the wrong. And I definitely didn’t expect the burn of rejection as she walks away.
Thirty-Seven
Colton
“Come on, M
ac,” Casey calls as she runs up the stairs toward the apartment. “You can help me decorate it!”
I unlatch the tailgate, watching Mac’s pinched expression as she decides what to do. “Do you mind helping me get this inside?” I release the cinches around the four-and-a-half-foot tree. “It’s going to be awkward getting it up the stairs and through the door.”
I’m not just trying to keep her here for Casey’s sake anymore, I can tell by my relief when she nods in acquiescence. I’m not ready for her to disappear yet, and I feel like if she walks away now, we’re not likely to have another chance to figure out what this is between us.
Together, we pull the Douglas fir out of the truck bed. It’s not a horribly heavy tree, but I still enjoy watching Mac wrangle it up the stairs with me, toward the apartment. Even in her matching ensemble of purples and blues and her fur-lined boots, she’s determined and capable, I’ll give her that.
“Here,” Casey chirps as she helps direct us once we’re inside. “Over here, Mac, in the corner.”
We prop the tree up against the wall in the living room, between the bookshelf and the hallway entrance, both of us amused as we wait for further instruction from our tiny director. We’re at a standstill when Casey just stares as us, waiting.
“This is where you want it?” I ask, crouching down to the trunk.
She nods emphatically and skips a few steps over to Mac and laces their fingers together. My heart warms until I realize Mac is staring down at me. She looks a little uneasy, like she’s not sure if she’s overstepping again. I silently curse myself, and automatically, I flash her a quick smile of reassurance.
After measuring the trunk thickness for the stand, Mac stays in the apartment with Casey while I head outside to make one from some old wood and metal scraps in the garage behind the complex. I might not be ready to pinpoint what it is between Mac and I, but I appreciate the hell out of Casey for sucking Mac back in for “just another minute” every time she tries to leave.
I’m headed back up to the apartment in under ten minutes with a makeshift tree stand and the only box of decorations I have from last year. When I walk into the living room, I set the box down by the door, but I don’t see either of the girls. Giggling tinkles from down the hall, in Casey’s room. I step closer, their voices amplified by the hallway, and listen.
“. . . chewing on your nails?” Mac asks. “They can’t taste that good.”
“I want purple fingernails, like yours.”
Leaning further in, I smile. Casey’s nothing if not determined, but I’m not sure how I feel about this nail polish situation yet.
“You have to stop biting if you want to paint them, like mine. They won’t be pretty if you do that. Besides, nail polish isn’t very good for you to eat, anyway.” After a couple trill little laughs, Mac says, “Alright then, come on. I have an idea.” Then I hear a rustling of clothes and creaking floorboards, and I take a step back.
Mac and Casey stroll out, stopping beside me as I gauge the size of the tree trunk and the opening I allowed in the stand. A perfect fit.
“Colton,” Mac says a bit shyly, even for her singular mood. “Is Casey allowed to chew gum?”
“Why?” I ask, looking down at Casey. “Do you want some gum?”
“Yessss,” she hisses out through tiny teeth, a bubble of pure excitement.
“I was thinking it might help her stop chewing on her fingernails,” Mac explains. “I think it’s a nervous habit. Gum might help.”
I’ve seen Casey chew on her fingernails, but I never thought much about it. “Sure.”
“Alright,” Mac says, turning to Casey. “You help your daddy with the tree and I’ll run next door and get us some gum to keep our mouths busy while we work. Sound good?” Mac’s more animated than before, and by the sounds of it, she plans on staying for a little bit. The pressure in my chest lightens a smidge.
With a wink at Casey, Mac’s out the door, leaving me alone with a tiny person who just stares between me and the tree for a minute.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Casey baby?”
“Where are all the orn-ments?” She reaches out and fingers the fringe of the pine needles.
“The orn-a-ments,” I pronounce for her, “are in that box right over there with the lights.” I point to the medium-sized cardboard box by the door. We don’t have very many decorations, only a handful or so comprised of what she made with her mom last year and a couple fancy ones with photos in them that my mom has sent to me over the years. We only have two strands of white lights at best.
I imagine the ten-foot tree I had during the holidays every year as a kid; the wattage of the lights on it alone cost more than my electricity bill now. “We can go buy more if we need to, okay? But let’s see how we do with these. Your mom will be here in a couple hours, and I don’t want us to be gone when she gets here.”
As I continue securing the tree in its stand, I admire Casey’s adamant effort to pick up the awkward box of forgotten treasure. “Do you need some help?” I ask, not wanting to upset her by stepping in. Without even a glance in my direction, she shakes her head. It’s not a heavy box, just bigger than she is. Finally, she gives up and scoots it toward the tree.
“Smart,” I say, giving her a high-five.
“I know.” She brushes her hair out of her eyes and licks her lips.
I bite back a laugh. “You must get your modesty from your mother,” I muse.
“What?”
“Nothing. How about you pull out all the ornaments you want to use and we’ll put hooks on them?”
“Okay.”
“Do you want some hot chocolate?” I ask, heading toward the kitchen.
“Yes, please!” she chirps just as Mac comes in through the door. I notice her camera is hanging around her neck, and I wonder if photography is a hobby she’s really serious about.
“Mac, Daddy is making me some hot chocolate. Do you want some?”
Mac glances at me and I hold up a mug. “There’s plenty.”
“Um . . . sure.” She glances at me. “Thanks.” Then, tearing a stick of gum in half, she leans toward Casey. “Here’s half for now,” she says and unwraps it for her. “You know not to swallow gum, right? You just chew on it for a little while and get all of the yummy fresh flavor out, and then you spit it out in the garbage.”
Casey’s head bounces as she sticks the gum in her mouth. “I know.”
Reaching for a pot in the cupboard, I decide on a midsize one, then snag the cocoa mix from the cupboard beside it and set it all on the stove. When I turn around to grab the milk from the fridge, Mac’s at the edge of the counter, holding a piece of gum outstretched to me. And if I’m not imagining things, she blushes a little the moment our eyes meet.
“Here,” she says. “I only gave her half, and it’s sugarless, so hopefully it won’t rot her teeth too badly.”
“Great. I’m not sure I could handle that right now on top of fingernail polish and lipstick.” I wink at her and set the gum on the edge of the counter.
Mac moves to turn away and the red strap around her neck catches my attention. “Oh, hey,” I say and this time she turns around without hesitation. “Thanks for the pictures. I love them.” If I’m not mistaken, she blushes again.
She lifts up her camera, analyzing it. “I’ve been trying to get back in the habit again—practicing when I think about it. I hope you don’t mind—”
“I don’t, not at all. I appreciate it, actually.” I gaze around the apartment. Save for a canvas print of San Francisco, there are no pictures on the walls to speak of. “As you can see, the place is lacking in the family photos department. Thanks for the gum, too, I never would’ve thought of it.”
She holds up her delicate hands, perfectly manicured as always. “I used to bite my fingernails all the time,” she says, but her easiness wavers for a few breaths, and I can tell she’s somewhere else. I want to know what faraway memories darken her eyes. Are they the same memories I’ve seen l
eave her cheeks damp with tears? She draws her lip between her teeth, and my body reacts in a way it never has before—a pooling of warmth in my very core. Whether it’s a protective instinct to reassure her or a need I can barely comprehend, I step closer.
“Anyway,” she says, looking out at Casey. “Gum worked for me.”
“Mac, I—”
“Mac! Look!”
Mac’s gaze lingers on me a moment longer, and I see a play of emotions hiding behind her eyes—curiosity and anger and uncertainty. She shoves her hands in her back pockets and wanders back out to Casey.
I’ve made all of this too complicated. Mac’s too hard to read; I can’t tell where I stand with her. With the bitter taste of disappointment, I turn back to the hot chocolate.
I watch the two of them in the living room as I finish—they’re so natural, sitting there in their jeans and sweaters, their shoes off and sock-covered feet folded under them. Mac puts hooks on the ornaments and Casey finds the perfect placement for them. There are a few times we have to tell Casey to keep her gum in her mouth, but she doesn’t swallow it, which is what I was afraid would happen.
“Do you think your dad will let us play some Christmas music while we work?” Mac asks, glancing over her shoulder at me. It’s not supposed to be enticing, but God help me, it is. After setting their hot chocolate on the coffee table, I start my list of chores that Casey assigns to me. I easily find a holiday music station, then start to test the strands of lights. We shift the tree to the side with “the most character,” but mostly, I try to stay out of their way.
Mac snaps pictures every once in a while, and Casey brings out her teddy bear, Mr. Snuggles, who she’s had since she was born, to help them. After they’ve finished adorning the tree with soft, glowing white lights, Casey steps back and stares at it, not very enthused.
“It needs more decorations, doesn’t it?” Mac says, sensing Casey’s dissatisfaction. “Let’s fix that, shall we?” They start off with making more ornaments out of pipe cleaners from Casey’s room and then move to garlands.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 55
