ONE
Lane
I glare at the crooked brown antlers while Sanders admires himself in the reflection of the microwave door. Glitter dusts the pendant lights overhead, mocking my attempts at motherly competence.
“Seriously, Mom.” He turns his head side to side. “Tell me these don’t have rizz.”
“They have dust mites,” I mutter, tugging the elastic band into place. “Where did you even find these?”
“Guest room closet. Box of random Christmas junk.” He grins, adjusting them with both hands. “Vintage. Drippy.”
A memory clicks. My throat tightens. “That’s from the Reindeer Run your dad and I did when you were a baby. I completely forgot about that.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You took me to a race when I was a baby? What, was I crawling along behind you? Did you have me on a leash?”
“You were in a stroller, knucklehead,” I say, brushing glitter off his shoulder. “We pushed you the whole way.You loved it. Especially those antlers. You wouldn’t take them off for a week.”
He smirks. “Clearly, I’ve always had style.”
“Uh, huh. Okay, if you say so.”
He adjusts the antlers again, striking a mock-serious pose. “Think Dad’ll be there?”
My throat tightens, but I keep my tone bright. “He promised, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. Will you please make sure he knows where I am?" His voice softens for a beat before he covers it with a grin. “Do I have too much glitter on me?”
“There’s no such thing as too much glitter at Christmas.” I pluck a sparkling fleck from his hair and flick it at him. “Correction. There’s no such thing as too much glitter, period.”
I tug the green sweater straight across his narrow shoulders. Despite the chaos, pride wells in my chest. My beautiful boy. The one thing Woody and I got right.
“Ready, Rudolf?” I help him down from the stool. I swear he gets heavier every time, all elbows and legs, like my baby’s being traded in for a lanky kid I’m not ready for.
“Ready.” He plants his fists on his hips and strikes a superhero pose, as the antlers slip crookedly.
I grab my bag, car keys, and Sanders’ backpack in one practiced swoop. Seven years of single-parent mornings have made me efficient if nothing else.
We rush toward the door, my free hand brushing glitter from my sweater.
I jostlethrough the crush of excited parents, my tote bag banging against my hip as I scan the rapidly filling gym for a decent seat.
The place reeks of artificial pine air freshener, unsuccessfully masking years of spilled juice boxes and sweaty dodgeball games. Paper snowflakes dangle from fishing line above the stage, twirling lazily in the current from overworked heating vents.
"Excuse me," I murmur, side-stepping what I'm guessing is a grandfather with a massive camcorder. Do they even make those things anymore?
"Sorry." I squeeze past knees and purses, feeling the clock ticking down.
Twenty minutes early and still barely any seats left. My ankle turns as I shimmy across the aisle, but I recover gracefully.
I finally spot a single chair along the left-hand aisle, dropping into it with relief just as someone's coat spills into my lap from the neighboring seat.
"Oh! I'm so sorry." A harried mom with blonde highlights snatches it back. "I was saving it for my husband, but he just texted that he's running late, so you can take it. He can stand in the back if he even makes it on time."
"Aren't they always late?" The words slip out before I can stop them. God, I sound so bitter.
She laughs, misreading my sarcasm for camaraderie. "Right? Mine's coming straight from the office. For a successful businessman, he's the worst at time management. What about yours?"
"We're divorced," I say matter-of-factly while fishing my phone from my purse. "But yes, he's always late."
