Chapter Nineteen
Jaxon
“Jaxon!”
The shriek is ear piercing but at least gives me time to drop my bags and brace myself. Lucy, my eight-year-old sister, is tiny compared to everyone else in this house. But when she comes barreling down the stairs and jumps on you, let’s just say she’s been known to knock a few people over.
Sure enough, as she comes racing down the stairs, jumping and wrapping her limbs around me, the breath is knocked right out of me.
“Hey, Lucy-Goosy!”
She giggles at the nickname I’ve been using since she was a baby. “I’m glad you’re here, Jax. Come up to my room! I need to show you my new Barbies. And I got all the movies now.”
“All of them?” I ask playfully. “Because I think there’s a new one out.”
Her eyes get wide. “There is? Which one? Is it the Swan Lake? Cause I have that one.”
“No, I think it had something to do with being a rock star.”
She shakes her head at me in exasperation. “That’s not a new one. I have it, and I know all the songs.”
“Huh,” I pretend to be thinking hard, not because I actually make a point of keeping up with Barbie, but because I love seeing the delight on her face. “I guess I’m behind on my movie watching. We’ll have to get some popcorn and snuggle on the couch, and you can catch me up sometime this week.”
She wiggles out of my arms then bounces up and down in front of me, her energy taking over. “Really Jaxon? Really? Because I got a new big giant Barbie blanket we can snuggle under. And I even got a new Barbie beauty salon. I can do your hair and I can paint your nails and I can put makeup on you—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down there, Lucy. You can do my hair, but I draw the line at the makeup.”
Her face falls. “Why?”
“Because I don’t trust your brother or your father not to take pictures and use them as blackmail.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Well that would just be mean. Besides, Mommy already has pictures of Daddy in my makeup.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Really. I might need to get a copy of that. I’m sure all of his Instagram followers would love to see it.”
“They already did.” She turns to skip away. “Mommy posted it, and it went viral. Daddy was soooo mad.”
I chuckle as I follow her into the kitchen area to find my mom. “I’m sure he was.”
As I come around the corner, it looks like the kitchen has exploded, which explains why the house smells like cookies. There’s flour all over the counters and sugar, butter, vanilla—all kinds of ingredients are strewn everywhere. Mom looks like a mess with her hair pulled up and specks of dough stuck to her shirt.
“There’s my boy,” Mom says when she looks up and sees us, wrapping her arms around me. “I’m glad you’re home for the week.”
“Me too,” I mumble into her hair as we embrace. “Hey how come I never saw that picture of Dad in makeup that went viral?”
Pulling away from me, she turns back to the batch of cookie dough in front of her. “Because it wasn’t up that long. He made me take it down once Deuce called and started harassing him about it.”
“Deuce harasses him about everything.”
“Yeah, but it got really bad when the lipstick stained his lips a berry color. Took three days for it to finally fade.” We both laugh at the visual image. I can only imagine his scowl when he realized his lips were going to be bright pink until it wore off. “Anyway, it took you awhile to get here. Was traffic bad?”
“It wasn’t horrible, but it was definitely heavier than normal because of Thanksgiving,” I say, sitting on the bar stool at the counter. What I don’t tell her is I also got a late start because of this morning’s make-out session with Annika. Some things a mother doesn’t need to know. I also don’t tell her I took regular breaks on purpose, extending my six-hour drive to eight.
Things still aren’t fantastic with my dad. Sure, he’s helped me out with getting Annika’s hospital bill paid, and he clarified a bunch of information about the affair. But we still haven’t gotten to the crux of the issue—his disappointment. I have a bad feeling it’s going to come to a head this week.
Pushing that all out of my mind, I focus on two of the most important ladies in my life right in front of me.
“So, Lucy-Goosy, when do you go back to school?”
She frowns. “Tomorrow.”
I look at my mom, furrowing my brow. “They’re not out for the whole week?”
Shaking her head, she explains, “They only have half the week off this year. Supposedly, when the calendar vote went out, the majority of the parents voted for half a week at Thanksgiving, which could get us out for summer a couple days early.”
“Supposedly?”
She glances up at me. I know that gleam in her eye. She doesn’t believe the supposedlies. “The school district Facebook page is a wealth of information. It’s been blowing up lately with people who don’t believe the tally was accurate.”
“That’s a bit of a conspiracy theory, don’t you think?”
She shrugs. “The superintendent’s daughter is getting married in the Bahamas and the dates would have overlapped if the other calendar was implemented. The entire affair is non-refundable, and he would have lost out on a lot of money if the other calendar was used. Who knows if it’s true, but it makes for some interesting gossip.”
“Isn’t that what vacation time is for?”
“Like I said, lots of conspiracy theories running around.”
My mom has never been one for drama, but the longer her kids have been in this school district, the more hoity-toity she realizes people can be. Now she sits back and laughs at some of the obnoxiousness. She may have married into a whole bunch of money, but that’s never changed who she is. She couldn’t care less that we have a large house or that my dad can afford to take us all overseas for vacation. She doesn’t give a shit about designer clothes or handbags. She just is who she is.
It never occurred to me when I was young that she went from struggling to make ends meet to starring in a season of in Real Housewives of Dallas practically overnight. But she did. It never changed her, and I like it that way. It keeps us all grounded.
“Mama, can I have a bowl of ice cream?” Lucy climbs up on the school next to mine and scoots as close to me as she can get.
“No, baby. It’s almost bedtime.”
“But Moooom,” she whines. “I’m hungry.”
“Tell ya what.” She puts her mixing bowl down and shakes out her arms. She must have been doing this for hours. “If you’re really that hungry, I’ll let you have a bowl of cereal.”
Excitement runs across Lucy’s face. “Can I have the Fruity Pebbles?”
Mom sighs in resignation and probably with exhaustion. “Only because Jaxon is here, and it’s a special occasion. Can you grab the cereal for me, Jax?” She gestures over her shoulder. “There should be a new box on the top shelf.”
Standing up to grab Lucy’s snack, I can’t help to poke fun at my mom. “You know with how much sugar is in there, you might as well have given her the ice cream.”
“Please don’t remind me. I’m learning to let go of my failures as a parent,” she jokes.
“What are you doing anyway?” I ask, as she rolls out more dough.
“I’m a football mom again. There’s always a fundraiser happening.”
Cringing, I remember all the times she spent volunteering when I was in middle and high school. Raising money for the football team became almost a full-time job. Bake sales. Donation requests. The list was never ending. “Only a few more years Ma, and you won’t ever have to do it again.”
She chortles. “Not sure what I’ll do with all my free time.”
Before I can toss out any ideas, the backdoor flies open and Matty comes racing in. He’s wearing a grass-stained practice uniform, his face flush from exertion.
“Jaxon!” he yells when he sees me and ambles toward me quickly, like middle schoolers do when their bodies are growing faster than their balance can keep up with.
Despite the fact that he’s almost as big as me, I’m still quicker. Getting him in a headlock, I ruffle his hair while he wraps his arms around my waist and fake punches me in the ribs.
“Boys, quit,” Mom yells. “You’re going to get sweat all over my cookies!” She sounds mad, but we all know she’s thrilled to have everyone home again.
“There’s the man we’ve been waiting for.”
My dad’s voice booms through the room. Releasing Matty, I look up at him, gauging Dad’s reaction to my presence. He looks happy to see me, but still somewhat cautious. Apparently, we both feel the same tension—like there are all these unspoken words, and no one knows where to begin. So I just go in for a hug.
“Hey, Dad.”
He slaps me on the back twice, pulls me back, and gives me the once-over. I roll my eyes, but for the first time, I don’t hide my irritation as I say, “I’m fine, Dad.”
He flinches at my anger. “Oh! No! You look good, son.” It’s the first time he’s said that to me in a very long time, and I’m not sure how to interpret it. Is he pacifying me, or does he finally understand how annoying it is that he can’t let my previous illness go?
Glancing at my mom, I can see her torn between focusing her attentions on my siblings, when all she really wants is to monitor our conversation.
“How’s Annika?”
I can’t hide my pleasant surprise at Dad asking. She’s the one thing I could talk about all day.
Smiling shyly, I answer with, “She’s good. She’s real good. I mean, she’s stressed because she front-loaded all her science classes, but I’m hoping a week off with her dad and brother will do her some good.”
He doesn’t say anything in response. He doesn’t have to. I already know by looking at him that he really wants to poke fun at me for being a pussy-whipped fool. I wait for the banter to start, but Mom chimes in before it happens.
“I’m glad she’s doing well,” she interjects. “With everything she’s gone through, it’s nice to hear she’s handling it well.”
I bristle at the reminder of those first days when Annika wasn’t doing well at all. I don’t want to go there. Don’t want to talk about that. “Yeah, well, she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met in my life.” Deflecting the conversation before it gets too intense, I redirect my attention to my kid brother, who is also binge eating Fruity Pebbles. “How was practice, Matty?”
“It was great!” he says between bites. “They wanna move me to running back.”
“Really?” I chuckle when I hear my dad grunt in frustration.
“Not everyone can be a defensive lineman, honey,” Mom says, wiping her hands on a towel and putting several cookie sheets in the oversized oven.
“Dad was pissed,” Matty exclaims. “He got in the coach’s face, yelling about how I was born to play defense, and he better get his head out of his ass if he wants to have a winning team.”
“That is not what I said,” Dad defends, but none of us believe him. Instead we laugh at what the scene probably looked like when a middle school coach was trying to calm down a stage dad.
Matty points his spoon at him while he chews. “You did too. You said Hart men are destined to be football greats.” Matty looks back at me. “Deuce was standing right behind me. Trace and I were so embarrassed.”
I roar with laughter. “Deuce was in on it too?”
Matty nods, clearly happy at his ability to entertain us with his story.
Catching my dad’s eye, he’s looking at me with a weird expression on his face. “Well, I mean, Hart men can do anything they want to do. There’s no shame in being a doctor instead.”
“Jason,” Mom chides quietly, but it’s too late. The mood in the room has already changed. It went from being happy-go-lucky, to stiff and uncomfortable.
I don’t know what his problem is. I can’t tell if he’s trying to be supportive or if he’s masking his disappointment, but a line in the sand has clearly been drawn. There’s Matty, the one genetically designed to be Dad’s mini-me. And there’s me, who is Hart in name only.
Shaking my head, I glance away, refusing to look at him again, instead focusing on my chattering siblings. When it’s time for them to go to bed, I offer to tuck Lucy in, mostly so I can go upstairs and get away from my parents.
After being coerced into reading three Barbie stories to Lucy, and talking shop with Matty, they’re both finally down for the night. I can hear my parents still talking downstairs, and I’m sure they’re waiting for me to spend some time catching up. But It was a long drive, and if I’m going to deal with this shit for the next several days, I need to pace myself. That’s my excuse for avoiding, anyway.
Flopping back on my bed, I tuck one arm under my head and use the other to pull out my phone and send a text.
Me: I miss you already.
Annika’s response is immediate.
Annika: I miss you too. More than you know.
A smile crosses my face as I doze off, not even bothering to change out of my jeans.