My hand stays in his for just a half second too long, and when he doesn’t move to separate us, my stomach becomes so overflowing with butterflies, I feel like I might throw up. His skin on mine feels the way glitter looks; shiny and sparkly and wonderful, and it could stay with me forever. His eyes just lock onto mine, holding me in his gaze until I finally break away from him.
“Thank you,” I breathe, “for the ride.”
“Thank you for breakfast.”
“It was my pleasure.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder, pointing to the house. “I should…”
“Of course. Merry Christmas, Rowan.”
“Merry Christmas, Colt.”
I watch as he saunters past the front of his car and moves for his door. I keep my eyes on him until he drives away, one hand on the steering wheel, the other elbow propped against the window, hand under his chin, just like the last time he brought me home. I let out a shaky breath and force myself to walk up the driveway and into the house.
My dad is on me the second I step into the house, waving around his plastic disposable cup filled with scotch. The smell coming off of him burns the inside of my nostrils, a mix of bottom shelf liquor, vomit and sweat.
“You threw away my fucking food?”
“You almost set the house on fire, so,” I say, trying to weave past him as he blocks my path.
“Disrespectful little shit,” he spits. “How would you feel if I went and destroyed your shit and threw away your food?”
I ignore him, angling my body to slide between him and the wall.
Don’t engage, I tell myself.Just go to your room.
“I’m fuckingtalking to you, Rowan!Helloooooo!” He bellows. I keep walking, reaching for the railing of the stairs to support me. He grabs onto my wrist with a death grip that sears into my skin. “Why did we even fucking have you. Waste of fuckin’ space.”
That one, I can’t ignore. As the words settle into my chest with a piercing, burning pain, I yank my hand away from him and throw my head over my shoulder, my voice breaking as I say, “If you find my dad in there, tell him I miss him.”
In less than a second, that plastic cup is airborne, missing me only by a few millimeters before it smacks into the wall, sending the liquor inside splashing everywhere.
Memories flood my mind as I trudge down the hallway and toward my bed: my dad and I at the park while he pushed me on the swing, giving me as many underdogsas I could possibly ask him for. The year he tried to make my birthday cake, even though Mom wanted to buy it. He just had to make me one, to see if he even could. It was lumpy and way too wet, falling apart in some places, but it was the best birthday cake I’d ever had, because my daddy made it just for me.
Now, I’m faced with a man who hates me and is impossible to please. Who finds fault in every move that I make, everything I try to do. Nothing is good enough for him. I’m stuck grieving for someone who is still alive.
I curl my body around a pillow, hugging it tight to my body as I feed it my tears until the darkness and silence of sleep finally claim me.
NINE
Rowan
Securing the last piece of tape onto the snowman-covered box, I look at the oven clock. It’s after one in the morning, and Santa still has to eat his cookies and drop off presents.
It takes a few trips, but I stack the gifts under the tree, a few with different paper to signify that they’re from me and not from Santa, then I grab a pair of Dad’s old work boots and slap some fake snow onto them. I slide my feet into them and quietly stomp around the living room, leaving a trail of large boot prints along the carpet. When I’m done, I slip the boots off and put them back into the secret Christmas box that we keep in the garage, taking a step back to look at my handiwork.
This is something Dad should be doing for her. These are his boots, this is his tradition. He should be down here setting up the magic of fucking Christmas for his daughter, not me.
It’s okay, I tell myself.Mom would be proud. Mom would smile.
I heft the box in my arms and walk it back to the garage, sliding it back up on a high shelf, then I move back to the living room. I sit on the couch and shove the cookies into my mouth, taking as many bites as I can tolerate fromthem and the various veggies that we set out, before pulling out a sheet of paper and pen. Gripping the pen in my left hand, I scribble a note from Santa – letting him tell Macie all of the things I can’t say to her face without crying.
I roll the note into a tube, wrapped in a red ribbon bow, and stick it into the tree, then make my way upstairs. I only have a few hours before she wakes up. I should at least try to get a nap in.
•
“ROWAN!”
A scream rings out from downstairs, waking me from my half-doze, and I check the time on my phone. Five thirty on the dot. I smile and slide my feet into my slippers then slowly work my way downstairs, where I find Macie jumping up and down in the living room, surrounded by presents she’s already started sorting. They’re all for her, but I’m not about to tell her that and spoil her fun.
