“But he needs to put the lights on the tree,” she says, as if Max wasn’t in the room. “Tell him to get up and do it.”
“I think we’ve asked enough of him for one night,” I tellher right as Max stands. He takes his time stretching, pulling his arms up and letting the bottom of his hoodie rise enough that I catch some skin. It’s skin, one whole inch of skin, and now this room is warmer than I can handle. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I stare a second too long before catching myself.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I am. I will be. He winks at me as he goes around the coffee table to the bin of lights on the floor by the tree. The wink in and of itself is a trivial Casanova move, but the way he lifts the back of his hoodie ever so slightly before he bends over the bin and starts to sift through it is sign enough he caught me ogling him red-handed.
“Anybody else need something to drink?”
“Ha! Got my spot back—you didn’t call savesies!” Emma lauds, pumping her fists in the air and sinking into the cushion before she wraps herself in a blanket.
I walk into the kitchen and grab my ice roller from the freezer, sliding it over my face as I stare at my reflection in the window over the kitchen sink. Max has been nothing but kind and willing to do a lot of work to put up Christmas for us. He’s transformed our living room into a comfy wonderland and he and Emma have gotten along swimmingly in our new arrangement. Plus, there’s no denying he’s nice to look at. I stop myself from walking further down this lane.
Eight years I’ve been single and never once have I entertained the idea of going through that whole process again. Putting myself out there, playing the get-to-know-you game, opening myself up for hurt . . . all things I’m not interested in. Things I don’t have time for. Being in a real relationship means finding time you’re willing to carve out of your life to give to that other person, to give to the two of you as a couple. I barely have enoughintentional parenting time, let alone energy, to offer somebody else. And I’m not offering up feelings and energy for somebody who doesn’t want it and won’t be around for the long haul.
“Can I have some ice cream?” Emma calls from her throne.
Before I answer, Max chimes in. “No, you’re going to help me with the lights.”
“But we have mint chip!” she cries.
I can’t help but smile at their exchange while icing my face, still hiding where they can’t see me in the kitchen.
“You’re ten. What are you doing wanting mint chip?” Max is baffled.
“It’s good.” She digs in her heels.
“No. No, it’s not. Your mother has let you live a very sad life if you think mint chip is good. Go grab me the step stool from the garage. While you assist me by holding this strand and I start at the top, I’m going to tell you why cookies and cream is the best.”
Emma harrumphs. “I don’t know if I can believe you unless we taste test both of them. Mom, can you go to the store and get us cookies and cream, please?”
My daughter, the manipulative diplomat.
Next to beach sunsets,the glowy light of the Christmas tree is my favorite lighting in the world. The hue they give off is cozy and safe and makes anything feel possible. It’s late, and Emma’s finally in bed. I had come into the living room to make sure the door was locked and lights were off butgot sidetracked by the lights. I ended up on the floor, back against the couch, and taking in the tree.
Max strung the white lights with Em while I ran to the grocery store. Afterward, we huddled around the kitchen bar in a taste testing battle between mint chip and cookies and cream. It took Emma seconds of both flavors to realize that Max was right. He quietly bowed his head and pumped his fist in the air at her decision. They are so similar at times it is frightening.
Sitting here now, life feels still for the first time in weeks and I let the quiet wash over me. The fireplace is still on, keeping the room warm despite wooden floors and drafty, older windows.
“Hey.” Max’s low voice is gravelly overhead. “I thought you went to bed.”
I’ve got my legs stretched out straight in front of me, and when he sits on the floor next to me, his leg brushes up against mine. He leaves it there and my brain screams for me to shift myself away from him. To give us both our space. But he’s the one who isn’t moving, and who am I kidding? Human touch, however innocent and basic, is nice. Especially when it happens cloaked in Christmas lighting.
“I was headed there and got lost.”
“Mmm,” is all he says.
“Do you need anything?” This is me, always ready to launch into mom mode.
He shakes his head, and we continue to sit, both lost to our own train of thought. My train, though, is more of only a locomotive, with no extra boxcars or caboose.
Sitting in silence with somebody else in the room has never been one of my better qualities. Chalk it up to a nervoustick, a lack of self-esteem, having a child who is Chatty Cathy. It doesn’t take long before I’m feeling antsy.
I count to fifteen and hit my threshold. “Thanks for everything you did tonight, even if you disrupted the good thing I had going with mint chip.”
“Good thing?”
“For the last eight years, I’ve only had to buy one flavor of ice cream, having successfully convinced my child it was the only good one out there.”
