Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club)

by Denise Grover Swank

  The hope on his little face hits me deep. I wish I could hunt Glenn down and beat the shit out of him for abandoning his kid.

  “Maybe we could make a dinosaur model,” I offer, then glance back at Mary, who is standing in the doorway. “If that’s okay with your mother.” She’s invited me to her house, let me play a game with her son mostly unsupervised (although I know she had to be listening from the other room), and is letting me check out his room. Surely this means she’s changed her mind about me spending time with him.

  Her eyes widen slightly. “Uh…yeah. That would be great.”

  “Great,” I say, holding her gaze.

  “Great,” she says, not looking away.

  “You guys said great three times.” Aidan walks past me and slips through the crack between his mother and the doorframe. “That’s too many.”

  I grin at Mary. “Noted.”

  “Come on, Jace,” Aidan says impatiently.

  Mary cringes and starts to say something that I assume will be some sort of apology, but then her head jerks over her shoulder. “Where are you going, Aidan?”

  “To your room.”

  Her room. The thought of seeing where Mary sleeps heats up my blood.

  “Coming,” I call out, and God help me, I hold her gaze as I say it, knowing full well that she’ll remember our conversation only minutes ago.

  Her eyes widen in a panicked look.

  “Come on, Mary,” I say, my voice low and deep. “Aidan’s giving me the tour.”

  She backs up, and I walk past her into the hallway and through the open doorway at the end.

  Aidan is standing next to his mother’s bed with his hands by his sides. “This Mom’s room.”

  I stand just inside the threshold and take in the beige walls, the dark wood king-sized headboard, the plain beige comforter and pillows. There’s no artwork on the walls, and only a photo of Aidan on her nightstand next to a thick book and a large bottle of moisturizer with a pump. The room completely lacks personality and warmth.

  “Okay,” Mary says behind me, her voice tight. “That’s the tour.”

  As if his mom hadn’t spoken, Aidan walks over to the dresser and opens a drawer.

  “Aidan,” Mary calls out in a panic.

  He pulls out a pair of beige granny panties and holds them up. “Mom doesn’t have dinosaurs on her underwear. See?”

  “Oh, dear God,” Mary murmurs, holding her fingers up to her lips.

  “I don’t have dinosaurs on mine either,” I say, trying hard not to burst out laughing.

  “But she does have some with flowers.” He pulls out a pair with magenta roses. These aren’t quite granny panties, but they were designed to cover quite a bit of skin.

  “That’s enough, Aidan,” Mary pleads, trying to push past me, but I spread my feet apart and stand firm.

  Aidan riffles through the drawer and pulls out a pair of Spanx, which he holds up in front of him. The high-waisted underwear with a few inches of fabric for her legs covers most of his body. “Mom wears these when she goes out to a party. But she hasn’t worn them for a long time.”

  “No parties to go to?”

  “Nope,” he says, putting them back and pulling out another pair, this time bikini-like panties. “She has cartoons on this pair.” They’re pale pink and covered with images of Hello Kitty.

  “See?” I say in a lighthearted tone. “Cartoons aren’t just for babies.”

  Aidan looks them over, shrugs, then puts them back in the drawer.

  “Okay,” Mary says, still trying to get past me. “That’s enough.”

  Aidan closes the drawer, only to immediately open another. “She has this cartoon shirt too.”

  He pulls out a black tank top with a large eggplant emoji.

  To be honest, I’m shocked. This doesn’t seem like Mary on so many levels.

  She shoves me to the side and slips past me, snatching the shirt from her son. “That was a joke gift from Aunt Molly. How did you even know it was in my drawer?”

  “I saw it when I put the laundry in the basket.”

  This portion of the tour is apparently complete, because Aidan heads into her attached bathroom.

  I start to follow but pause next to Mary. She’s gripping the shirt so tightly, it looks like she’s about to rip it in two.

  “You look good clutching an eggplant,” I tease, gesturing to the shirt in her hand.

  Her gaze drops, and she realizes her right hand is squeezing the middle of the image. Panicking, she shoves it back into the drawer. “Molly gave it to me.”

  “So you said.”

  “I would have thrown it away, but I know she’ll look for it.”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” I say with a grin. “Maybe you want to keep it, Mary.”

  Her face is scarlet, and I turn and head into the bathroom to give her a moment.

  It’s pristine, of course, with a plain white rug in front of the sink. Nothing on the walls. Fluffy white towels.

  Aidan is holding up a bottle of what looks like shampoo. “Mom didn’t change her shampoo when we moved. But it makes her smell good.”

  Leaning in, I read the label on the bottle, taking note. I’m a little baffled to find myself doing it, but I love the way she smells, and I guess I’d like to confirm the source.

  He puts it back in the shower and picks up a razor. “Mom uses this to shave her legs and her armpits. But Aunt Molly once asked if she used it to shave her mustache.” He makes a face. “Women don’t have mustaches.”

  “Some do,” I say. “But you should put that back. It has a sharp blade that might cut you.”

  “We should go drink that hot chocolate now,” Mary says from the doorway, sounding like she’s choking.

  “Okay.” Aidan puts the pink-handled razor back, then rushes for the door, slipping past Mary.

  “I don’t shave my mustache,” she grumbles, unable to look at me. “That was a stupid joke.”

  “I never thought you did, but if you did…” I grin. “There’s no shame in that either.”

  She gapes at me like I’ve grown another head.

  Closing the gap between us, I stop within arm’s reach of her. “I see parts of Aidan all over his room and bathroom, but where are you in your room, Mary?”

  Her eyes flash with surprise, and if I’m honest, I’m surprised too.

  “I have a photo of Aidan.”

  Aidan is her world, but there’s more to her than that.

  If only she could see it.

  “Come on, Jace,” Aidan calls out, his voice muffled. “Mom put out a snack too!”

  Mary is still blocking the doorway. I gently grab her shoulders and nudge her sideways, then turn sideways myself and start to slip past her through the doorway. Our backs are to the doorjambs, with barely an inch between us. The air feels electrified, and the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  I stare down at her shocked face, and I know she feels this attraction too. She admitted as much at Tea of Fortune. I’m used to women being attracted to me, but there’s something about Mary’s interest that makes my blood run hot. She’s sexy as hell, and the thought that she wants me too only makes me want her more.

  Her breath catches, and I let my hand drift from her shoulder to slowly slide up the side of her neck. I want to see if it’s as soft as it looks. My callused fingertips brush along her silky skin.

  She shivers.

  I wait for her to push my hand away, to tell me to go to hell, but instead she stares up at me with parted lips and slightly hooded eyes.

  Jesus. I need to take my hands off her. I need to walk away, because the need to kiss her is rising and growing more potent. And now that the thought has popped into my head, it’s like there’s a magnetic pull from my lips to hers. I lean over her slightly, and she tilts her head up to look at me.

  She wants me to kiss her, and I want it too, but something stops me. Namely, the little boy in the hall calling out my name.

  “Jace. The h
ot chocolate’s going to get cold.”

  Mary is still watching me like she’s in a trance, but I reluctantly drop my hands to my sides and say, “The hot chocolate’s getting cold.”

  She blinks, and her cheeks flame again. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone flush so much in such a short period of time, and while I think it’s adorable on her, the look of shame in her eyes is painful to behold.

  “Mary.”

  She averts her gaze and forces a smile. “The hot chocolate’s getting cold,” she echoes, then backs up a few steps into her bedroom.

  I can’t stand the fact that she thinks I’ve rejected her. That she doesn’t realize what she does to me. How can I even think with Mary looking so downtrodden? So I don’t. I simply feel, and do, and the words just come flying out of my mouth.

  “You should get a pair of sexy underwear, Mary.”

  She blinks up at me. “What?”

  I should shut the fuck up, but I can’t seem to help myself. “With your creamy skin, you’d look sexy as sin in something black. Maybe lace.” My gaze drops to her chest, then back up to her face. “You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, Mary O’Shea. Glenn is a fucking asshole for ever letting you think otherwise.”

  Then, before I can do something I’ll regret, like push her up against the wall and consume her like she’s a lavish meal after a three-day fast, I head to the kitchen, looking for our six-year-old chaperone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mary

  I’m used to things running through my head on repeat. Usually, they’re unpleasant things. This one is different.

  You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, Mary O’Shea.

  Jace has turned an excruciatingly embarrassing afternoon into something different. His words have woven into me, just like the sensation of his fingers brushing along my neck, and I can’t gather myself enough to walk out to the kitchen and act like nothing has changed, like it’s business as usual to sit and have hot chocolate with Aidan and a man who makes me feel like I’m the star on top of a Christmas tree. Glenn never once made me feel that way. No, I realize now that Glenn made me feel competent. That’s what I’d wanted at the time. But now…

  Jace makes me want things I have no business wanting, one of which is to feel like the beautiful, sexy woman he claims to see in me.

  So I watch him leave my bedroom, taking in the muscles moving beneath his shirt and the way his jeans hug his butt like they’re fond of it—Mary, control yourself!

  Taking a steadying breath, I pace in my bedroom, picking out its flaws—(a) the boring beige, (b) the practical panties, and (c) the blank walls—and I wonder if this really is what I look like inside. God, I hope not.

  Then my gaze catches on the corner of the box Maisie gave to me, the one I haven’t been able to bring myself to open. I go to the door, listening, and hear murmurs from the other room. Reassured that no one will catch me—a ludicrous thought! I’m an adult, opening something that belongs to me—I return to the box and tug at the tape. Maisie already opened it, so it gives easily, opening with a puff of dust that makes me cough, but there’s a scent that lingers at the end—vanilla with a hint of lemon and musk—my mother’s scent, and the realization puts tears in my eyes.

  So much of who I’ve become was shaped by her, good and bad.

  Emotion, hot and cold and uncomfortable, wells inside me as I pick up one of the pointe shoes and run my fingertips over it. There’s a neatly folded green leotard underneath and a wrap dance skirt. The wanting I feel in this moment is nearly as powerful as the frankly ridiculous urges I have whenever Jace is around.

  My reasons for giving up dance seemed so convincing at the time. Now, I feel a gaping sense of loss for all those years I could have been soaring and chose to sit in a chair instead. Not that I regret becoming a lawyer—I like what I do—but I could have at least allowed myself to dance for fun. I didn’t need to strip it from my life entirely, as seamlessly as Glenn stripped away his plus-two. Now, though, it’s too late. Or at least it feels too late.

  I use the treadmill in the basement after Aidan goes to bed. I go for walks. I sometimes do yoga at a studio run by Maisie’s sister-in-law. But I don’t dance.

  Aidan calls my name, startling me out of my thoughts, and I stuff the shoe back into the box as forcefully as if it were a second vibrator. Then I push the box back into its corner and head to the kitchen.

  “Mom, we’re finished!” Aidan hollers, his voice much louder than it needs to be. “We finished the hot chocolate and the snack. You were in there for a long time. Did you have a stomachache?”

  My gaze skates to Jace, whose eyes are full of heat. Glenn has blue eyes too, and I always thought there was something cold about the color—that it prevented them from showing emotion—but Jace’s eyes aren’t like that. They’re like the hottest part of a fire.

  “Aidan reminded me that he’ll be at his grandparents’ house this weekend,” he says.

  Something shivers down my spine. Anticipation. Fear. Desire. But he hasn’t finished yet, and he continues, “If you’re willing”—I can hear Nicole’s dark chuckle in my head, as if she’s become my inner demon—“I’d really like to build that model with him. Maybe you can get back to me about a good day?”

  “Uh. Yeah,” I say, wondering if I’m imagining the hint of insinuation or maybe just wanting to hear it. But no. There was no misinterpreting what he said to me, or the way his fingers felt, tracing the line of my jaw. “We can talk about it this weekend.”

  “I’d like that,” he says smoothly, no pause at all. “You can call me anytime.”

  “Can I call you anytime too?” Aidan asks excitedly.

  Jace’s eyes flick to me before settling on him. “If you have your mom’s permission. It’s always important to ask for permission before calling another adult.”

  It’s a perfect answer, or at least I think so. Aidan is scowling a little.

  Jace must see it too, because he says, “I’m looking forward to building a model together, buddy.”

  Aidan claps and jumps out of his chair. “This was a good visit, Jace. I’m glad you came, even if you’re not very good at Race to the Treasure. I had to explain the rules a lot.”

  Jace doesn’t seem remotely offended. In fact, he’s grinning as he stands from his chair, the height and heft of him so big it makes our “cozy” kitchen feel like an Amazon box with a door. Not in a bad way, though. For a man who takes up so much space, he does it in a way that doesn’t make you feel claustrophobic or small.

  “Yes, it was a good visit,” he says, looking at me, and I find myself wondering if I will call him.

  Can I work up the nerve?

  Aidan and I walk him to the door, trailing him like a couple of groupies.

  “Goodbye, Aidan,” Jace says, and to my surprise, Aidan darts forward and hugs him. It’s not that Aidan avoids touch—in fact, he loves being tickled—but it usually takes him a while to get there with someone.

  Emotion clogs my throat, and I see something flash in Jace’s eyes too. This means something to him.

  “Mary,” he says with a nod, the sound of my name in his voice projecting everywhere, like the roots of a weed.

  And then he turns, and he’s gone.

  I don’t need to look at Aidan to know he feels it too—something bright has been snatched from us.

  His face falls. “Mom, I forgot to ask him about decorating our tree.”

  “If we ask him, I think he’ll do it,” I say.

  Because I’m starting to believe that.

  It takes me a long time to get to sleep that night. The empty walls seem to be staring at me with accusation. So I grab my laptop and start Googling for underwear and bra sets (the ones I have looked incredibly sad in Aidan’s tiny hands, like they belonged to someone’s great-grandmother), and after I buy a few—okay, five—I move on to looking for a new duvet cover. The leotard in the box was a deep emerald green, and I find myself drawn to a duvet cover that’s a similar shade. On impulse, I
buy it. Then, remembering my depressing gray phone case, I order one that’s a bright, deep blue.

  It still doesn’t seem like enough.

  It’s the walls in this room. The emptiness of them felt almost like a blank slate when we first moved in, but we’ve been here for over a month, and they’re still as blank and white as the day we arrived. I could put up a few of the framed prints from our house in Charlotte, or even the inappropriate needlepoint Molly gave me (“make today your bitch”). But none of those choices feel right. I have the weirdest urge to buy a painting. Not a print, but a legitimate, paint-on-canvas painting.

  As part of Maisie’s wedding weekend, a group of us went on an Art Walk. Glenn stayed behind at the hotel to work, but Dottie offered to babysit, and on a whim, I let her. (When I picked Aidan up, he’d acquired a cat sweater—we’ve never had a cat, but according to Dottie we will someday—and a copy of I Am a Rainbow: A Children’s Guide to the Chakras.) I didn’t go on that Art Walk with the intention of buying anything. And I didn’t, other than a small gift for my sister. But being there, seeing so much talent on display…I felt a spark kindle inside me. I was so stirred by it that I asked Glenn to go back with me before we left and, shockingly, he did. Through his eyes everything had looked smaller. Amateurish. Gaudy. Cheap. The spark had been doused. But what would it be like now that I was free?

  My life is falling apart—no, it fell apart months ago—and I want to buy a painting.

  The strange thing is that once that revelation lands and settles, I fall asleep quickly.

  The itch still hasn’t faded the next day, so I take myself to the River Arts District during my lunch break. It’s unlike me to take a long lunch twice in one week, but when I tell Hilde what I’m after, she grins. “You might want to pop into the glass store. They have some lovely ornaments.”

  As she says it, her gaze lands on the naked tree beside my desk. At least I’ve remembered to water it. That’s something, right?

  I get a fizzy sense of anticipation as I drive to the River Arts District, the buildings painted with murals that remind me of Jace’s hidden tattoos. The sensation only builds as I park my car and approach a building that houses several studios.