“You play with LEGOs?” Harry asks, interested now.
“I know my way around a LEGO set.” Especially all the Christmas LEGO sets I bring out each holiday season, a collection that grows by a few every year.
Tucker starts the vehicle and I lean against the tailgate as the kids move to clutch the sides, watching the lights pass by. I do love a good theme, and the way they integrate Santa and racing is cute. Even if I’m only personally obsessed with one of those things.
There’s Santa driving a race car, one kicking up his feet next to a camper (Harper was right; it’s the best one), and Frosty being a pit boss for the reindeer, refueling with carrots and giving their horseshoes a polish.
My stomach hurts from laughing so hard at the kids’ shenanigans. They have no filter when they’re talking about the lights, dragging us side to side in the back to see the best views, and they’re hilarious.
And they can surprise me.
“Are you and Uncle Beau married?” Harry asks out of the blue.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The kid gets a direct hit, like the most effective assassin who lulls you into a false sense of security and then slides the blade into the base of your neck when they’re hugging you. Just like Beau’s sister did when we were enjoying ourselves decorating the tree. On ladders way too high in the air for serious questions.
Which is why I almost choke on the water I’m drinking.
“Um.” Kids are curious so this should not have been that much of a surprise. I’m getting soft. “No.” I try to think of what would soften that harsh denial, but words are escaping me.
Because of the blade sticking out of the base of my neck. It’s distracting.
“But you’re adults. And you’re always together.” Harry brings up excellent points.
I look at Beau but the man has forgotten all of his words. Or refuses to use any of them in a badly timed vow of silence.
“They don’t need to be married to be together. We watch TV together and we’re not married.” Older sister Harper drops some logic on her baby brother. She’s going to be all right.
Probably president someday.
“Yes, what she said.” I hope that’ll be the end of it.
“But we’re family. Are they family?” Harry asks, persistently.
“No.” I’m back to one-word denials.
“Then what are you?”
Damn. I thought Southern mothers were a force to be reckoned with, but they have nothing on Southern children.
“We’re friends.” Beau finally decides to dig up some of that Southern gentleman. After I’ve floundered for his amusement, of course.
“But you kissed her. Do you kiss friends?” Harry asks.
How many knives does this little assassin have? I thought his bag was full of half-eaten candy canes and toys. I clamp my mouth shut. I’m not going to explain friends with benefits to this precious pre-fuckboy angel baby face.
“You can kiss anyone, Harry, as long as they agree to it. And kisses can mean different things depending on the type of kiss they are and who they’re for.” Beau plants a loud, exaggerated kiss on Harper’s and Harry’s heads, to their happy, high-pitched giggles.
I hold my breath, waiting for the next attack of the overly curious child assassin. But it doesn’t come. Not because we handled this so well. More because an uneaten candy bar caught his eye and before he could poke more holes in our logic, he’s shoving sugar in his mouth. Or aiming for his mouth and getting it on his cheeks. That’s probably best so he doesn’t get as much of a sugar rush this close to bedtime.
Either way, saved for the however long the candy lasts.
But despite my worry, the rest of the night is surprisingly pleasant. Not having spent much time with kids, I was worried the night was going to be filled with unhappy crying and maybe some throwing up. But we have a lot in common. We all love candy and Christmas and bright lights.
They have such big personalities for their little bodies. Harper, being the oldest, bosses her little brother around with all the confidence of a future leader. She even conned her brother out of some of his hot chocolate.
So a corrupt future leader, to be fair.
