My phone buzzes against the granite countertop. I glance at the screen.Mom. Tabby’s chattering happily to her stuffed walrus at the kitchen table, oblivious, her small hands carefully arranging sprinkles on a piece of toast she’s deemed his ‘snack plate’.
“Daddy! Wally loves blueberries!” she announces, holding up a single, plump berry.
“One sec, Tabby Cat,” I murmur, already bracing myself as I swipe to answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“Denton, sweetheart!” Mom’s voice is full of exaggerated cheer, a stark contrast to the quiet of my kitchen. “Just checking in! How’s my favorite defenseman? And myabsolutefavorite granddaughter?”
I lean a hip against the counter, watching Tabby ‘feed’ Wally a blueberry. “We’re good. Just… gearing up.”For Operation Chaos, Round Two.
“Gearing up? For practice?” Her tone is gently admonishing, layered with the unspokenyou work too hard, you need to live a littlethat’s been her refrain for the past three years.
“Not practice,” I clarify, the words feeling like gravel in my mouth. “The… baking lesson. At Sugar Rush. With Holly.”Saying her name feels strangely loaded now, after that moment in the bakery when she looked like a kicked puppy and I’d…reacted.
“Oh! The bakery!” Mom’s voice brightens considerably. “Sugar Rush! Such adarlinglittle place. And Holly James… she’s justlovely, isn’t she? So warm. So talented. I can tell Tabby absolutely adores her.”
Here it comes.I take a large sip of too hot coffee, scalding my tongue. “Tabby enjoys the baking,” I state, keeping my voice neutral.
“Well, of course she does! It’s magical for a child! But you know…” Her voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s wonderful foryoutoo, Denton. Getting out. Trying something new. Meeting…people.”
The emphasis on ‘people’ is so heavy it could sink a battleship. I can picture her perfectly: perched on her elegant sofa, probably wearing something festive, her eyes sparkling with matchmaking fervor.
Since Tabby started kindergarten, Mom’s ‘casual’ mentions of ‘nice women’ at her book club, her bridge group, her damn gardening society, have become relentless. This feels similar. Like a direct shot on goal using Holly James as the puck.
“Mom,” I warn, the word clipped. “It’s a baking lesson. For Tabby. That’s all.” I keep my gaze fixed on the precise alignment of the salt and pepper shakers on the counter. “Holly is… good at baking.” The word feels inadequate, a lie by omission.
“Good?” Mom laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “Denton, be serious. That bakery is a marvel! The atmosphere! The creativity! And Holly… she radiates such joy. Such… life.”
She pauses, letting the word hang, loaded. “Exactly the kind of energy you and Tabby could use more of, don’t you think? Especially now. It’s been three years, sweetheart. Sarah wouldn’t want you to…”
“Don’t.” The word cracks out, sharper than I intended. Tabby looks up, her small brow furrowed. I force my expression to soften, giving her a tight nod.
She beams and goes back to Wally’s blueberry snack. I turn my back, lowering my voice. “Don’t bring Sarah into this, Mom. This isn’t about that. This is about Tabby wanting to bake a gingerbread castle. End of story.”
The silence on the other end is heavy. I hear her sigh, a soft, defeated sound. “Alright, Denton. Alright. I just… I worry. I see how hard you try to hold yourself together at all times. Life is messy and beautiful and… short. Too short to spend it alone, honey.”
I rub a hand over my face. “We’re not alone. We have each other. We have you. We’re… fine.”
“Fine isn’t happy, Denton,” she says softly, gently. “And Tabby… she deserves to see her father happy. Truly happy. Not just… existing.”
“Just… keep an open mind, okay? You might surprise yourself.” Her voice brightens again, a forced reset. “Give Tabby a huge hug from Grandma! And tell Holly I said her gingerbread reindeer in the window are so cute!”
I stare at the phone in my hand, the sleek black surface reflecting the overly bright overhead lights. Mom’s meddling is nothing new. Her relentless optimism, her belief in fresh starts and holiday magic… it’s as much a part of her as her perfectly coiffed silver hair.
But this time, she’s aimed it squarely at Holly James. And she’s not entirely wrong. Hollydoesradiate a kind of vibrant life that feels… strange. And undeniably attractive.
Attractive.The word slips past my defenses. I shove it down immediately. No. It’s proximity. Forced interaction. The novelty of stepping so far outside my comfort zone it feels like another planet. That’s all. I drain the last of the coffee.
“Tabby cat,” I say, turning back to her, my voice deliberately light. “Are you ready to build a gingerbread castle?”
Tabby jumps up immediately. “Yes! Let’s go!” She grabs her coat and slips it on.
The drive is short, through streets draped in holiday lights and plastic Santas that feel garish under the gray afternoon sky. I park a block away, grateful for the walk to center myself. The cold air bites my cheeks. Focus. This is for Tabby. Maintain distance. Don’t engage. Stick to the game plan: one more session, fulfill the castle objective, then we’re done.
Inside Sugar Rush, the holiday frenzy is dialed up to eleven. Christmas music jingles relentlessly. Customers hang out at the counter, chatting loudly over steaming mugs. And in the center of it all, behind the counter, is Holly.
She’s a whirlwind in a bright red apron with candy canes. She’s laughing at something a customer said, her head thrown back. The sound is warm and bright, cutting through the din like a bell.
She spots us, and her smile widens, genuine and welcoming, directed straight at Tabby. Then her eyes flick to me. The warmth doesn’t vanish, but it… shifts. Her cheeks flush slightly, visible even from here.
