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“No, hey, I didn’t think that. Look, I get it. Sometimes people see a couple and make whatever kinds of rash judgments about them.”
“Like you and Tarcy?” I asked, hoping to steer this away from me. I wasn’t sure who to talk to about things or when or how or why or…yeah, I wasn’t sure about anything other than I wanted to be able to claim Marcus as my boyfriend in the future.
“Well, yeah, totally. People see an older guy with a younger guy and they’re all whispery about things as if me loving him is some taboo thing. It’s stupid. It’s not like our problems are due to our age differences.”
I glanced to the side. “You and Tarcy are having trouble?” I enquired, knowing that things between them had been tense of late.
“No, nothing serious,” he quickly answered and began rolling his cup between his hands. “It’s just…hard. It sucks being away from each other for so long. I don’t do distance well it seems. I see Bean coming home to Criswell, and DJ to Pastor Gabe, and now even Greck to Henri and they’re so happy. And there I am, coming home to you.”
“Dude, I am crushed.” I elbowed him playfully.
“Oh, hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” He chuckled softly. “I just…I’m ready for more. I need more, but more is hard when he’s racing. But things are going to get better now. He’s done for the season. I just wish we were on the same track. Ha, ugh, stupid racing pun.” He exhaled. “Okay, enough of that. Let’s get shit packed up and get downstairs for the free breakfast buffet before Fossie gets to the bacon.”
I nodded, downed my coffee, and gathered my scattered belongings, eager to get moving away from this morning yet dreading the long gap that would take place until I saw Marcus again. Liam was 100 percent right. Distance sucked.
Chapter Twelve
Marcus
“Daddy, if I ask Santa for a pony, is he ob-gu-gated to bring me one?”
I glanced up from the book I was reading to see my daughter standing before me, paper and pencil in hand, thick winter jammies on, staring at me as if I held all the answers to the universe. Which I so did not. I didn’t even know how to tell my friends, teammates, and the head honchos of the Comets that I was in a serious relationship with Baskoro.
“Okay, that is a lot to unpack. Why don’t you come on up here?” I put my spy novel aside, patted my lap, and waited for her to scramble up over the sofa and her sire like I was a jungle gym. The girl had no care where her tiny little feet went, so I blocked my man bits with my hand and settled her on my lap. “Where are your slippers?”
“Aunty Zada is looking for them,” she informed me as the smell of sunshine wafted off her freshly scrubbed skin. “So, Daddy, the letter?” She shook the page of yellow legal pad under my nose. “I have a deadline.”
“Right, sorry.” Christmas was now a week away. The child had procrastinated big time due to the worry of how to decide between a pony and a dollhouse for her dolls. She simply couldn’t seem to make up her mind. “Well, first of all, I don’t think Santa is obligated to bring you anything. What you get depends on how good you’ve been.” Her face scrunched up. “Yeah, that’s the deal, right? So, have you been good enough to get a pony? Second, if Santa would bring a pony, where would we keep it?”
“In my bedroom,” she was quick to reply. Ah, I see she had put some thought into this.
“Nope, you cannot keep a horse in the house. They poop all over.”
She pursed her lips, then blew out a dramatic breath. The lights from the pine tree in the corner flashed red, blue, green, and yellow on her damp curls.
“Is they big poops or little poops?”
“Big poops.”
“Can the pony use Goldberry’s litter box?” she asked. The cat lifted its head at the mention of its name, yawned, and then tucked its pink nose back under its tail.
“I doubt it,” I replied as the cat went back to sleep, the tip of her tail twitching as she napped on the back of the sofa. “They’re too big. Also, we’re not allowed to have farm animals in town.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, because they make lots of noise and they take up lots of room, and they make all those big poops we talked about.” I heard my aunt coming down the stairs.
“I seen Mrs. Pepperman’s dog make a poop in the park that was as big as a horny dino poop like in the movie where the lady digs in the poop. Daddy, if I don’t get a pony, can I get a dinosaur instead?”
“They’re even bigger, baby. Also, the mayor would not be happy if we had a dinosaur in the backyard.” I tapped the end of her nose as Aunt Zada appeared with the missing slippers. “Mr. Minkman would be mad if the dino ate all their begonias. Remember last summer when you helped him garden by watering his flowers with bubble soap?”
Her little nose crinkled. I held up a little foot and my aunt slid a slipper onto it, then we repeated the action so both sets of tiny toes were warm and dry.
“Mr. Minkman was mad,” Kyleen whispered, ducking her head into my shoulder, her list lying on her lap. Lord knows where the crayon had gotten to. Between the sofa cushions, I would imagine.
“Mr. Minkman is a crusty old turd,” Aunt Zada commented as she lowered herself into her rocker and picked up her knitting. “You’d think he shipped them flowers over from the deepest, darkest rainforests in Tasmania the way he carried on. I bought him a new flat for ten dollars at Wal-Mart to replace them.”
The click-clack of her needles flowed over us, the soft sound a lullaby not only for Kyleen but for me. I’d not been sleeping all that well lately.
