“No shit?” Joel asks, looking up at me, dark brows raised.
“Uncle Joel, you’re not supposed to swear,” Chloe calls over to him from her spot on the countertop. I should be chastising her and my mother for allowing her to sit up there, but she looks so damn happy, I don’t have the heart to tell her to get down.
“You’re right, munchkin. Hey, tell you what, when your dad stops swearing, I will, too.”
“Psht, that’ll be never,” Abigail mutters from her station at the sink.
Then she looks over at us and grins, and the sight of it nearly caves in my chest.
Shit. When was the last time I saw my kid smile like that? It’s been too damn long.
I lean over and ruffle her hair, which earns me a halfhearted glare and a giggle. I’ll fucking take it.
“You both should be cleaning up your mouths when you’re around these girls,” Mom grumbles, pointing a finger at the both of us. We nod abashedly, though I know neither one of us is going to quit. She harrumphs, like she knows it, too. But then her face breaks out into a smile, and she says, “I didn’t tell you yet, but Xander is bringing Teddy and the kids to come visit next month. For a whole week! I cannot wait to love on those grandbabies!”
Well, I’ll be damned. My big brother is actually coming home for a visit? That’s practically unheard of.
Mom continues, “I can’t believe I’m going to have all three of my boys home at the same time, finally. It’s been way too long.”
“I know, Mom,” I agree. Shit, I don’t remember the last time Xander was home. At least five years ago, possibly longer? Mom deserves better from us. That guilt gnaws at me, like always.
Lydia Macomb has been one of those pillars of strength in my life that I don’t know what I would have done had I not had her in my corner this whole time. At nearly sixty-five, she’s spent the last thirty-five years as a single woman. She never dated aftermy dad left, despite our insistence that she should. She made her kids her life, and when my kids came along, they seemed to breathe new life into her existence. The woman was made to be a Nonna.
Currently, her once dark hair that’s now heavily streaked through with silver is piled into a topknot on her head, tortoise shell rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Without them, she’s blind as a bat and has always refused to wear contacts, unlike Joel who switches back and forth depending on his mood or necessity. Xander and I inherited her piercing light blue eyes, and all three of my girls inherited them from me.
A dark green Michigan State University sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows camouflages the lithe yoga instructor body beneath it, as does the loose linen pants she’s wearing. Her feet are bare, toenails painted red, as always. Honestly, I’ve never seen her wear any other color on her toes.
“Hand me the paring knife in the block, would you, Zach?” she asks, motioning with her elbow toward the knife block in the corner. Reaching around Bailey and Joel, I slide it out and hand it to her. She starts slicing the rolled-out dough into strips, then latices them together deftly. “Joel, is that crust ready to go in the oven?”
Joel slides the pie pan away from Bails and holds it up for all of us to inspect. The pinches around the edge are far from uniform, but Joel nods appreciatively. “Absolutely.”
Bailey beams at me, and then Joel is sliding the glass dish into the oven to blind bake. At the same time, he removes the grilled chicken and vegetables, setting them on the stove to cool before we dig in.
“Once that’s done, we’ll eat while it cools, and then we can put the filling in and pop it back in the oven,” Mom tells the girls. “Abi, great work on those apples. Why don’t you girls go wash up your hands—and your faces—” she looks pointedly at Chloe, whogiggles again, “—while the adults get these apples chopped right quick?”
Stepping over to Chloe, I hold out my hands to her. I can see the wheels turning in her little head, and then she reaches out and places both of her floured-up hands on either side of my face, leaning in to rub her nose against mine. She laughs shrilly when I swing her off the countertop and down to the floor. I can only imagine the white handprints on my face when she pulls her hands away, more giggles erupting from her as well as Bailey and Abigail.
Dammit, we all needed this, apparently.
The three girls race through the house to the bathroom, and I dust my cheeks off, and by the time I have my hands washed in the kitchen sink, Mom has a handful of the apples Abigail peeled diced into small cubes. I take over dicing, dropping them into a stainless-steel mixing bowl on the counter.
When the girls come back, Joel recruits them to help set the table, carrying the chicken, vegetables, and a salad from the fridge to the table. Chloe goes around the table, setting out paper napkins and meticulously arranging each place setting with silverware.
Mom adds sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, and the final ingredients to the bowl, and when I drop the last of the apple chunks in, she mixes everything together.
I take the pie pan out of the oven, setting it on the stove to cool, and then we’re all sitting down to eat.
A groan leaves me as I sit down for the first time all day, and I take the time to just rest my forearms on the edge of the table as everyone takes their seats at the round wooden table. Chloe is to my left, between myself and Joel. Then Abi, then Mom, and then Bails to my right. My favorite people, right here.
A blonde-haired princess pops into my head then, and I shove the thought away.
Cut that shit out. Focus, asshole.
Andnoton how fucking pretty said blonde-haired princess is.
Absolutely notabout how big and round her ass is or how badly I want to grab it with both hands and squeeze—
“Dad? Hello—” Bailey calls, waving her hand at me to get my attention. Shit. I swallow hard and turn my head to look at her. “Pass the vegetables, please.”
