Fairytale Kisses

by Kim Bailey

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I smile.

  “Can I ask you something before you go?” she asks shyly.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think maybe you could teach me how to skateboard? You know... when I’m better.”

  “It would be my absolute pleasure,” I tell her. I want nothing more than to give her something to look forward to. Something to think about, other than illness and pain. But as the words leave my mouth an unexpected feeling takes hold. Enthusiastic anticipation.

  I guess Abbi’s given me something to look forward to as well.

  “Just one more thing,” she insists. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Choking back my shocked laughter I tell her, “I know a girl. She’s a friend.”

  “Does she like your hair so long? You know, it kind of makes you look like a girl.”

  “Trust me, Abbi, she likes it just fine.”

  ***

  Action de Grâce isn’t a holiday widely celebrated in Montreal. It came and went and I didn’t even notice. American Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is a big deal for my family. My Uncle Bill—Chante’s dad—moved from Maine when he was young, but held onto his traditions. Thanksgiving was his favorite.

  So, even though he passed away when Chante was just a girl, we still celebrate it, in honor of Bill.

  This year, my whole family’s attending. My mother loves to bring people together for any celebration, but this one feels like a convenient excuse for her to check in on me. I’d be insulted by her lack of confidence in my independence, only right now I’m looking forward to seeing everyone. Time without them has helped put some of my feelings into perspective. I’m still happy with my decision to leave home, but it’s not without some sadness. I miss having them in my day to day life.

  Pushing my skateboard a little harder, I plow toward the Coté home. The exertion feels good. My bones and muscles protest only slightly with the effort, my lungs and heart working hard to keep me going. I’m disappointed when I reach busier streets and am forced to the cobble stone sidewalk. I hate leaving the comforting glide of my board, but walking the remaining five blocks gives my body time to cool. It also gives my mind more time to process the hospital and Abbi.

  It’s hard to think of such a sweet girl going through the same kind of trauma I did. Her transplant is different—advancements in medicine amaze me—but she’ll still face the same risks in recovery. The same possibility it won’t work. There’s also the chance that, like me, it’ll save her life but leave her permanently altered. Still, I prefer damaged living over the alternative, and I’ve got faith in Abbi’s bright future.

  I reach my Aunt’s home. I haven’t been here for a few years but it’s exactly as I remember. The curved driveway leads to what most would consider an estate, but my family refers to as a cottage. It’s a beautiful old home, with a small but heavily landscaped yard.

  My steps slow when I realize there’s only two vehicles in the drive. My Aunt’s old Cadillac and Eric’s new family-sized SUV sit side-by-side. My parent’s and my other siblings aren’t here.

  Unease pumps nervous adrenaline through my system, speeding my steps and my breath. My fist slams hard and worried against the old steel door.

  “What took you so fucking long?” Eric asks when he opens the door. His tall, broad shouldered frame fills the narrow doorway. He looks and sounds relaxed, reducing some of my anxiety.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I was starting to wonder the same thing. You’re almost an hour late. And you’re empty handed. Most people show up with food, or flowers, or some shit like that.”

  “I got caught up with something. Where’s Mom and Dad, and everyone else?”

  Crossing his arms over his wide, muscled chest, Eric scowls down at me, blocking me from entering. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look off.”

  “Dude! I’m fucking fine. Will you answer my question?”

  His eyebrows raise in shock at my outburst. Dropping his arms to his sides, he moves back into the foyer, finally letting me step inside.

  “Mom and Celeste both have the flu. Marc canceled a week ago—something about his kids’ choir or some shit—I don’t know. It was a lame excuse if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t know.” How did I not know?

  “Yeah, well, Mom just got sick this morning. No one knew. It might be a good thing, though. You know if she saw you with that, she’d have a meltdown.” He points at my cherished board, still in my hand.

  “Uncy Caleb!” Brooklyn squeals. Rounding the corner, she runs at me full force, crashing solidly into my legs.

  Handing my skateboard to Eric, I lift my niece in a tight hug. She squeals some more as I spin her around. “Hey there, munchkin. Where’s your sister?”

  “I missed you,” she says, ignoring my question about Mia.

  “I missed you, too,” I tell her, spinning her in another circle. Her wild giggles make me smile. They make me forget anything that happened before I walked through this door.

  “You make me tired,” Eric says—to me or his daughter, I’m not sure.

  “We’re just getting started,” I warn, bending forward, dipping Brooklyn upside down. “Aren’t we, munchkin?” Her laughter’s the best answer in the world.

  Standing us upright, I stumble with a head rush and the unexpected sight of Zadie. She’s wide-eyed and gorgeous, standing on the other side of the foyer. Mia’s at her side, firmly attached to Zadie’s leg.

  Eric’s hand lands solidly on my back, deftly steadying me. “Come here, Brooks. Give your sister a turn.” As he gently pulls her free from my grasp, he whispers in my ear. “Remember—don’t be a pussy.”

  “You a pussy cat, Uncy Caleb?” Brooklyn giggles wildly.

  Choking down a laugh, I look back to Zadie. Her eyes are sparkling, her mouth quirking in reposed humor. Evidently, my brother isn’t as discreet as he thinks he is.

  “Mia, say hello to your Uncle,” Eric urges.

  She looks up at Zadie, almost reluctantly, before letting go of her leg and toddling toward me. Meeting her halfway, I crouch down and gather her in my arms. She squirms at first. She doesn’t want to be restrained, now that she’s finally learned to walk. But when I start peppering her with noisy kisses, she settles into my hold.

  “Where do you think you’re going, monster?” I tease.

  Clutching my face in her chubby little hands, she laughs and tries to copy me. Returning my love, she covers me with messy smooches of her own.

  “All right, kissy monster Mia,” Eric calls. “Let’s go help Tante Sol set the table.”

  Reluctantly, I let Mia go, smiling as she tries to catch up to her father’s long stride. I somehow miss them even more, now that they’re here.

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” I tell Zadie as I stand to face her.

  She’s wearing a ruby dress, the material’s tight to her breast but flows freely around her waist and legs. The color compliments the highlights of her hair—auburn tresses that hang in ringlets over her bare shoulders. Her brown eyes are rimmed light blue, her lips brushed a pale pink.

  I could stare at her forever.

  “Well, I didn’t know any of you were going to be here. Chante failed to mention her entire family was coming.”

  “Hope it’s not a problem—me being here.”

  She drops her gaze to the floor, hanging her head slightly, her curls tumbling softly forward. “I was worrying I was the odd man out in this scenario.”

  Listening to Eric’s advice, I don’t delay and I don’t hold back. Stepping toward her, I don’t stop when she raises her eyes, shaking her head in protest. I don’t slow down when she takes a single step backward. I don’t let up when a panicked, grief-stricken look crosses her face. I keep walking forward until we’re toe-to-toe, and I have my hands wrapped around her waist. I refuse to pretend I’m unaffected by her. I can’t live in a world of make-believe forever.

  “What are you doing,”
she asks, her breath hitching.

  “Apologizing.”

  “You —”

  I interrupt her planned protest with my lips.

  My mouth fuses with hers, hotly melded like two parts of a whole. The connection sparks a desire within me—so deep, so consuming—I want nothing more than to take her, here and now. It’s an urge so basely instinctual, I’ve no way to discern its origin. It’s just there.

  Growing. Wanting. Needing.

  Despite that urge, I break the kiss, her lips chasing mine briefly before she opens her eyes to meet mine.

  “I needed to apologize in advance,” I smirk. “For kissing you without permission. Again.”

  Laughing, she tells me, “You’ve got a lot of making up to do if you’re going to apologize that way. I foresee a vicious circle.”

  “Guess I should stop while I’m ahead. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m only after one thing.”

  “Cal, if you only wanted sex we’d have finished this dance a long time ago. I know you want more.” Her shoulders rise and fall with her deep sigh. “I know you want commitment. You want the fairy tale, and I... I’m afraid I can’t give you that.”

  “You’re wrong,” I tell her. “Fairy tales are just stories. What I want is something more, something real. The only kind of fairy tale I’ll accept is one we make together.”

  “I’m afraid it might not have a happy ending.”

  “Never know until you try, Zadie.”

  She’s unconvinced. I can tell from the way she looks at me. The corners of her mouth are drawn down, and her jaw is pressed tight as she grinds her teeth together.

  “Don’t decide anything now,” I urge. “Just think about it. Have dinner with us, get to know my brother and his family, get to know the other side of me, and just really think about it. Please.”

  Her response is more silence, but her features seem to soften. Her eyes move over my face, hesitating at my mouth. I’m tempted to kiss her again, but suddenly her hand is on my lips, rubbing lightly.

  “You’ve borrowed some of my lipstick,” she explains. “Wouldn’t want you to sit through dinner like that—your nieces might get some ideas about makeovers and dress up.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Okay,” she says when she’s finished fixing me. “Let’s go eat. Solange made her garlic mashed potatoes. Those things are to die for.”

  “She’s a great cook,” I agree.

  “Yes, she is. I just hope I can keep it all down. I don’t want to barf turkey dinner.”

  “Well, if you do, I’ll be around to help clean you up.” I wink as her cheeks heat in embarrassment. “Besides, Tante Sol always cooks enough to feed twenty, I’m sure she’ll be sending us home with leftovers. You can look forward to throwing it up all over again.”

  She stares at me funny for a couple of minutes, the smile growing on her lips gives me hope I’ve maybe won her over. Maybe she’s willing to really do as I’ve asked and think about things. Think about us.

  Because I definitely want there to be an us. All three of us.

  ***

  Zadie

  THIS IS MY SECOND year celebrating Thanksgiving with Chante and her mother. Last year, when Solange heard I was new in town and on my own, she went out of her way to ensure I was included. She tried to recreate what she assumed was my traditional holiday, even though she and Chante observe it on a different day than most Canadians.

  Solange is a talented cook. Assisting her in the kitchen while she whipped up a five-course meal from scratch was amazing. I felt out of place, truthfully. Like a child playing dress up. But after all her hard work, I didn’t want to let on that I’d never cooked a meal like it before. I didn’t want to burst her bubble of Pilgrim pride.

  Reality is, most years, my family couldn’t afford a big meal. The first proper turkey we had was one I bought. I was fifteen and had decided it would be a nice treat to spend some of my new part-time paycheck on a decent meal. That was the year my parents nearly killed each other over the last scoop of instant potatoes. After Jenni’s threat of death by butter knife, both she and my dad stormed off. Leaving me alone with a half-carved bird.

  That was one of the better years.

  But Solange Coté doesn’t need to know any of that. She only needs to know that hers is the best damn turkey dinner I’ve ever had. Morning sickness be damned, this year will be no different than the last.

  Except for the added company, of course.

  Chante came straight from work, making it just in time for dinner to be served. I haven’t seen her since she ditched me for my ultrasound. We spoke only briefly through text. Her apology left a lot to be desired and made me question who my true best friend might be. I still love her, but emotionally she’s been replaced. When I need someone I can trust, someone I can rely on, it’s Cal who comes to mind first.

  Even though I’m angry with Chante, I’d already agreed to be here, so I wouldn’t let Solange down. In fact, I showed up early to give her a hand in the kitchen. I was shocked to find a strange SUV in the driveway and a handsome, dark-haired man answering the door.

  “Welcome to the mad house,” he greeted. The sound of rambunctious children blared in the background. “Is that a pie?” His deep voice and achingly familiar green eyes had rendered me mute.

  I’d never met him, but I’d immediately known he was one of Caleb’s brothers. Sure, he’s taller and broader. His hair’s short and his face unshaven. He’s also a lot older, sounds a lot harder, and is missing Caleb’s enthusiastic glow. But I knew they’re related. The resemblance is unmistakable.

  “They don’t bite, I promise,” he said, referring to the children. “We just got here and they’ve been cooped up in the car for hours. They’ll wear themselves out in a minute. You’re Zadie?”

  “Yes, hi,” I’d answered, snapping out of my shock. “Are you Eric or Marc?”

  “Eric, and if that’s lemon meringue you’ve got there, you and I are going to get along just fine.”

  “Actually, it’s apple.”

  “That’ll do.”

  He welcomed me into Solange’s home where his two adorable little girls had taken over. Like crazy wild-things, they raced back and forth from the kitchen to the front door. But their antics were only a backdrop to the gorgeous woman who chased after them. Her mane of silky blond perfection, sparkling ice blue eyes, healthy, glowing complexion... and her large, perfectly rounded, pregnant belly—shocked me to my core.

  Was the universe rubbing her flawlessness in my face? All my imperfections and fears of ineptitude seemed magnified as I watched a pregnant goddess float around Solange Coté’s living room.

  Now, I’m sitting across the dinner table from her and Eric. With Caleb beside me, I’m questioning a lot more than my capacity for motherhood. Despite the friendly dinner conversation. Or the cuteness of Mia, shoveling handfuls of corn and peas into her mouth. My head’s stuck back in the front hall, replaying Caleb’s plea for me to give him a chance.

  Just think about it, he’d asked.

  Wish fucking granted—it’s the only thing I can think about. Well, that and his kiss—another earth-shattering scorcher that ended far too soon. Why is it, every time he kisses me, my world lights up and I want to forgo all reason? And how does a sweet and simple kiss—he didn’t even use tongue—make my panties damp?

  “Is Hunter sick too?” Caleb asks before taking a giant bite of turkey. I watch his mouth as he chews. His throat as he swallows. His hands holding the knife and fork. Everything about him is turning me on, even the simple task of eating.

  “No,” Jamie answers. “He’s with his dad.”

  “Who’s Hunter?” I ask, trying to clear my mind of all its lustful thoughts.

  “He’s my son,” she tells me.

  “Our son,” Eric corrects.

  A look passes between them, something so complex I’m not certain what it is. Jamie drops her fork, moving her hand to cover her husband’s. They stare at
each other briefly, before he leans forward and kisses her head.

  “Yes, our son,” she agrees softly.

  Then it hits me—that look, those gestures, the strange feeling that I’m intruding on something private... this is a couple, deeply in love.

  Real love. True fucking love.

  “Hunter is technically Jamie’s son,” Caleb explains. “But Eric sort of adopted him when they got together.”

  “I wish I could adopt him for real,” Eric grumbles. “Unfortunately, Dylan—his father—is still in the picture and won’t allow it.”

  “Hunter’s sixteen, so it won’t make much of a difference in a couple of years from now,” Jamie soothes. “Besides, you’re the one he lives with—the reliable one who’s been there when it’s counted. Dylan’s just got a title, nothing more.”

  Silverware clatters loudly on china as Chante pushes abruptly away from the table. “Excuse me,” she apologizes. Her tone, anything but sorry. “I’m suddenly feeling ill.”

  Throwing her napkin down on the table she turns to leave.

  “Chantal,” Solange calls after her.

  They speak in heated French, too fast and heavily accented for me to understand. However, it’s clear from their tone they’re not happy with each other.

  “I need some air,” Chante states blandly, before walking away.

  “Maybe I should go check on her,” I suggest.

  Caleb’s hand lands on my knee. “I think she just needs some time alone. She’s been working a lot of long hours lately,” he offers in explanation for her rude behavior.

  Other than Solange’s masked concern, everyone seems unaffected by Chante’s outburst. Jamie and Eric are still staring longingly at each other and their daughters are both fixated with their food. Mia looks like she might succumb to turkey coma at any minute.

  And Caleb...

  His hand is still attached to my knee, his thumb sweeping softly back and forth. His expression is wary. The slight shake of his head and the cut of his eyes toward his brother, warns me not question it further.

  “So, Caleb,” Solange cuts in, her voice tight. “Chante told me you’re volunteering at the hospital.”

  With his head still turned toward me, Solange can’t see his reaction. But I can. His eyes close tightly, as though in pain, his breath drawing in sharp and fast.