Forget the sandwich—I want to grab her hand again. But I need an excuse. “I have another meeting soon.” I reach my arm around her shoulders and try to snake the rest of that sandwich half. “I’m paying anyway. C’mon. You can share a little.”

  But when I do grab it, I’m a little disappointed. Now I don’t have an excuse to keep my arm around her. I didn’t think this through.

  “Just take it.” She shakes my arm off and shifts as far inside the booth as she can.

  Maybe Oliver’s right. Maybe it’s too much too fast.

  The second bite of the sandwich isn’t nearly as good as the first. Maybe it was touching her that really made it taste amazing. “Well, thanks.”

  “I was full anyway,” she says. “Look how big their sandwiches are.”

  “How are the girls?”

  She leans back with a sigh. “I want to keep them.” I can tell that she’s expecting me to be surprised.

  “I know.”

  “What?” Now she stiffens, and then she narrows her eyes. “What do you mean, you know?”

  “I could tell last night.”

  “I’ve never wanted to foster kids,” she says.

  “You haven’t needed to. You’ve always helped Dave and Seren, but Killian’s mostly grown.”

  “You say that like I’m a mother hen who needs chicks or something.”

  “Would that be a bad thing?” I can’t help smiling. “There aren’t enough mother hens in the world. But I’d describe you more like a mother lion, honestly.”

  She’s smiling, now. “Really?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Last night—I’ve never seen you look more glorious.” I pull out my phone. “Look.” I swipe until I reach the photo of her on the phone with Alice, her arms waving wildly, her eyes fiery. “See?”

  Lioness.

  She can see it, too. I can tell. But when she turns toward me, her face looks strange. “Why’d you take this photo, Bentley?”

  Ah, shoot. I didn’t think that part through. “Um. I mean⁠—”

  “You don’t have to keep sending me pictures to show me that I look good. It’s a nice gesture, but it’s not necessary.”

  Thank goodness. I made my own cover—I just forgot about it until she reminded me. As usual, Barbara’s saving me from myself. Even on the date she doesn’t know I only made so I could date her. “I think it is still necessary.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Unless you’re saying that now you believe me?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Then I’ll just have to keep taking and sending them.”

  “Would you like anything else?” The waitress has a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she’s smiling at us. “Or was the rest of hers enough for you, big guy?”

  She thinks we’re a couple.

  I love it.

  “Oh, he’s not my⁠—”

  I wrap my arm around her shoulders again. “I’m good,” I say.

  When the waitress leaves, Barbara shimmies until I move my arm again. “What was that?”

  “I have to do a little practicing,” I say. “When’s the next holiday party?”

  “I can’t keep asking you to come to those,” she says. “So far, these dates have all been a bust, which means I haven’t helped you at all.” She whips out her phone. “Speaking of, I’m about to rip her a new one. Thirty minutes, and nothing?” She’s shaking her head.

  “Wait.” I put my hand on hers, and it happens again. That little zing. I close my fingers around hers slowly.

  Her mouth drops open and her eyes widen and slowly, they rise to mine. “What?”

  Right. I said to wait. “Don’t bother,” I say. “If she doesn’t come back with some kind of great explanation?” I shrug. “Then we’ve learned that she’s unreliable.”

  She frowns. “You’re really zen about all this.”

  I shrug. “Oppenheimer never felt right to me. Plus, I feel like the right person is out there, and I just need to have the right timing.” I stare right at her as I say it, but she seems to have no inkling that I’m talking about her.

  Maybe Oliver’s right. Maybe the timing is still wrong for us.

  Well, I’m not in a rush. It’s been fifteen years already. I can wait a few more months. Or even a year, if that’s what it takes. I’m learning from Lucky what I should have already seen with Dave and Seren’s kids. Lucky’s still a bit of a mess, but she gets better day by day. Barbara may be struggling, but day by day, she’s going to be closer and closer to ready, too.

  Love, real love, takes time to be developed. And to grow.

  “Alright, well, I’m sorry she didn’t come.” She glances at her watch yet again. “Thirty-five minutes?” She shakes her head. “I’m calling it.”

  “Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “I need to go pick some things out for the girls. I want them to have some presents under the tree.”

  “Oh, like what?” I ask.

  “I have no idea,” she says. “But I don’t even have a tree yet, so.” She laughs.

  “Neither do I,” I say. “Maybe I’ll tag along.”

  She blinks. “You said you have a meeting.”

  “Oh.” I glance at my phone. “Oliver says they bumped it back.”

  I worry she might argue with me, or call me on having a fake meeting, but she doesn’t.

  She just bumps me with her hip to push me out of the booth. “Let’s go, then.”

  Again, that bump is like the first bite of cotton candy. Like a quick dip on a roller coaster. And like those things, now that I’ve felt it, I need more.

  “Where’s the closest tree farm?” I ask as we walk out.

  “I have no idea.” Her lip’s twitching. “I was just going to go over there.” She points at the little stand set up in the park.

  “Duh,” I say. “But how will you get it home?”

  “The benefit of having a crappy car is that you can strap a tree to the top of it no problem.” She looks unbearably smug.

  As we walk to the stand, I’m actually a little impressed. It’s a kids’ park in the middle of Scarsdale, but they’ve done a nice job dressing it up. There are a plethora of blinky lights roping off the area, and they have decorated trees on each of the four corners. To top it all off, “O Holy Night” is playing softly.

  The Santa’s Forest sign is beautiful, and they have several cute reindeer made of pine clippings and lights sprinkled around the area. It looks like they’re for sale, and I’m gripped with an uncharacteristic desire to buy one.

  I actually feel a little bad for not getting a tree myself over the past few years. “Do you always get a tree?” I think I want a tree and a reindeer and, well, everything this year, because I like all the feelings I’m having right now, and I want to keep them around any way I can.

  “Mom and Dad always bought live trees. Last year, I just didn’t have the heart for it, but. . .”

  Because of the girls, she wants to bring back an old family tradition. It’s got to be good for her. After picking the two nicest trees they have, I point at the sign. “Do I get a discount if I have you deliver two?”

  The man smiles. “Five bucks off.”

  “I don’t need mine delivered,” Barbara says. “I have my car.”

  “Relax,” I say, “and let me do things my way, for once.”

  “Do you two really need two trees?” he asks, a sly look on his face.

  “For now we do,” I say. “Next year? Who knows?” I can’t help my wink.

  And if it makes Barbara roll her eyes, well, I’m finding that I like riling her up.

  “Throw in a few strings of lights,” I say, “and we’ve got a deal.”

  “The lights are nine bucks a strand,” he says.

  “Of course they are,” I say. “How many do you think we need? Three or four strands each?”

  I pay for Barbara’s tree and mine, and I destroy the savings from my half-hearted negotiations by way over-tipping him.

  “I better get back,” Barbara says. “I have to meet the guy with the delivery later, right after I pick up the girls.”

  “Do you need me to do that?”

  “But you have a meeting.” She definitely looks suspicious now. “Right?”

  “I do,” I say. “But it’s a call. I can do it from anywhere.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “The girls have tennis after school, so the times work out.”

  “That’s good if you’re looking for stuff to get them for Christmas. Tennis requires lots of equipment and clothing, and with their little twin account, matching gear would be adorable.”

  “Hey, you’re right. Good idea.”

  “If you need something between now and tomorrow night, let me know.”

  “I could set up another date for you tomorrow instead,” she says. “I feel terrible that the first two were so lousy.”

  Because I ruined them both. . . “I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow’s holiday party. We have some reparations to make for bailing on last night.”

  “I do,” she says. “You don’t owe me or my boss anything.”

  “Still. I’m happy to help.”

  “Bentley, seriously.”

  I grab her arm—I can’t help it. Touching her is like sour cream and onion Pringles. “You were amazing last night. You’re doing something incredibly hard that very few people would have done. I care about those little girls too now, and I want to help. Let me.”

  She frowns a bit, and then slowly, she nods. “I’m not great at taking help.”

  “I’m not sure you’ve ever been offered much.”

  She looks at her shoes.

  “That’s going to change,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m just saying, helping you make things right at work is the least I can do.”

  And being around her, helping her help those little girls, is the best feeling I’ve had in a long time. Instead of buying pine bough reindeer, I’m planning to keep the source of the joy at my side as long and as often as possible.

  11

  Barbara

  Decorating the Christmas tree was my single favorite thing to do every year around this time. Mom would put on holiday music, and she’d wear a Christmas sweater. Dad would splurge on fancy cheese and crackers, and he’d always wear this really ugly holiday sweatshirt with reindeer that had bells around their necks.

  He always sounded like one of those bell-ringing Salvation Army guys, klonking around the house with boxes of lights.

  It was my job to take the old, janky strands of lights and change out the broken ones for new lights to get them going. And then Dad and I would wrap the tree while Mom directed from ten feet away. After we got it suitably lit, Mom would pull out the box of decorations, and she’d remind me of the history of each one.

  My first year in the family handprint.

  My kindergarten apple. It was cracked, but I’d written my name on it—badly.

  My graduation hat from high school.

  The bizarre and lopsided stocking I had crocheted. The hot glue holding the hook on it was always coming off, but Mom never complained.

  I have the box sitting next to the mantel, and I’ve ordered a rush job on some stockings that will hopefully kind of match the one Mom knit for me. Would the girls think I’m crazy if I hung Mom and Dad’s, too?

  Only, we don’t even get that far.

  “I hate Christmas trees,” Nikki says.

  “I don’t want it either,” Ricki says.

  It’s my own fault for imagining how nice this evening was going to be. If I’ve learned anything from Dave and Seren, it’s that expectations with foster kids are always a mistake.

  “You hate the tree?” I ask. “Or the lights? Or. . .”

  “All of it,” Nikki says. “It’s at the heart of what’s wrong with Christmas.”

  What’s wrong with Christmas? “Nothing is wrong with Christmas,” I say without thinking.

  “Are you serious?” Nikki holds out her hand and starts throwing up fingers. “The commercialization, the myth of lying to kids about some creepy fat man crawling into their houses, the greed, the two weeks off for one specific holiday that lots of other religions don’t even celebrate.”

  “Or what about how they club you over the head with Christmas songs on the radio, Christmas themes in school, and people ringing bells asking you for money on every street corner?” Ricki looks just as upset as her twin.

  “But—”

  “Listen, it’s her house,” Nikki says. “She can do what she wants.” She slings her backpack on the ground and ducks into my guestroom.

  Ricki scowls at me as she follows her sister.

  “Okay,” I say, “but⁠—”

  The door slams, effectively shutting down my attempt to figure out why they’re so mad. Are they really upset about how commercial it is? Or is it something else? I know from my foster training that anger’s a masking emotion, but heck if I know what they’re masking underneath all that regurgitated holiday hate.

  The guy who delivered the poor unliked tree left it in a five-gallon bucket in the middle of my living room after sawing a huge chunk off the bottom to make sure it hadn’t sealed over with sap. He gave me strict instructions to keep the bucket full for more than twenty-four hours before putting it in the pretty base I bought, or rather, that Bentley bought.

  And now I’m staring at a perfectly shaped, slightly leaning tree in an orange bucket, next to a pile of brand new twinkle lights. As I refill the bucket—it’s already drunk a surprising amount of water—I’m thinking about how this is so not the Christmas I had in mind when I took the girls in last night. I had, stupidly, thought that we might sing, open presents, drink cocoa, and gather around a roaring fire in the fireplace I never use.

  I’ve never been Santa before.

  But apparently I wasn’t missing much. He’s just a creepy, fat man who breaks-and-enters anyway. Geez. My hand is itching to call Seren, but I feel like if I call her now, I’ll never be able to figure anything out on my own. So instead, I sit down at the table and try to think.

  I know very little about the girls, except that their mother got cancer—pancreatic—and she was very sick for a while, and then she was just gone. The girls were afraid of where they’d go. Dad has never been involved. They say they can’t even reach him. And after living alone—paying their bills from their relatively meager influencer checks—they were caught, by the very person paying those checks.

  They must not like me much at a base line.

  And they clearly don’t trust me at all. Any trust we had evaporated when I shoved Bentley through their door with a pizza and summoned Alice to evict them from the only home they cared about. I sigh and collapse back against the hard wooden chair.

  I’m not winning them over with my brilliant cooking or festive holiday spirit, either. I need to figure out whether they really hate Christmas, or whether they just hate me, and by extension, anything I suggest.

  “Alright, girls. It’s almost dinner time,” I call. “How about Chinese food?”

  “We hate Chinese,” one of them says. “Too greasy.”

  “Yeah, we don’t want to have a heart attack,” the other says.

  At some point, I’m hoping I can tell them apart more easily, and hopefully I’ll know which is speaking without looking at their hairstyle or eye color. Probably something their real mom just knew innately.

  But now they’re stuck with remedial mom.

  “Alright, what about Italian? We can go out or order in.”

  “We just had pizza last night.”

  That was definitely said with a sneer.

  “Okay, maybe burgers?” If they hate this too, they’re definitely turning down everything that comes from me.

  “Fine.”

  Great. So which is it?

  Are they really picky and they just got tired of turning every single thing down? Or do they plan to make every single thing hard now that I’m the one running the show?

  And most importantly, how can I fix this?

  “Wanna come out and help me pick a place?”

  “Anything’s fine.”

  That’s clearly not true. “Two double cheeseburgers with fries?”

  “Sure.”

  “Girls, can you please come out?”

  The door opens, and they step out, Nikki first, and then Ricki. They line up in front of the door with smiles plastered on their faces.

  “I know you’re mad at me.”

  “We aren’t upset. We’re very grateful to you.” Ricki’s still smiling her terrifying faux-grin.

  “Do you really hate Chinese?”

  Nikki nods slowly, still smiling.

  “And you aren’t upset that I hauled you here, to my house?”

  “It’s a lovely apartment with way less rats.” Nikki’s smile slips a little, but I’m not making much progress. Maybe there’s a reason people use bright lights and big buckets of water for their interrogations.

  “Look, I know the last few days haven’t been perfect, and I know I’m easy to be angry with.”

  “We’re grateful, Mrs. McDougal. We really are.” Only, Ricki doesn’t sound at all grateful. She sounds like she’s smiling like a robot and ignoring any attempt I make at a real interaction.

  I’m sick of it. All of it. And I’m tired. This isn’t what I had in mind for this week, either. “Actually, I’m not Mrs. McDougal anymore,” I say, with more bitterness than I probably ought to use with two tiny girls. “After my parents passed away, I got pretty depressed, and I ate a lot. Then I got fat, as you can see, and my husband didn’t love that. So he divorced me. I’ve gone back to my maiden name, Champion.”

  The smiles slide off the girls’ faces.

  “You can be mad at me, and that’s alright. I can take it, but I might get a little frustrated too, from time to time.” I sigh. “I’m sorry that I snapped. I promise that I’ll be honest with you, no matter what, and I know it’ll be hard, but I hope that someday, you can be a little more honest with me. I can’t help you unless I know what you need, and I’ll keep doing things wrong unless you tell me how to do them right.”

 

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